TENNESSEE 
 ROMANCE 
 
 JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE
 
 
 XV
 
 A SUMMER HYMNAL. 
 
 UM f. Of CALIF. UBKA.U. UW
 
 ,
 
 "I'm gvvine co'rt Little Miss Fiddle to-night."
 
 A Romance of Tennessee 
 
 By John Trotwood Moore 
 
 Author of Ole Mistisletc 
 
 JOHN C. WINSTON 
 COMPANY 
 
 PHILADELPHIA
 
 COPYBIGHT, 1901, Bv HENRY T. COATES & COMPANY 
 
 AU. KIGHT9 KISnVBD.
 
 Thesis. 
 
 2131488
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAFTH 
 
 I. The Cat-Bird, . . r ^ " ^ . . 5 
 
 II. The Blind Man 17 
 
 III. Two Preachers, 29 
 
 IV. Art in Nature, . . . . .43 
 V. The Thrasher, 57 
 
 VI. Thesis, . 69 
 
 VII. A Bird Biographer, .... 91 
 
 VHI. The Jewel that Lives, .... 103 
 
 IX. The Battle in Her Eyes, . . . 121 
 
 X. The Victory of Fire, . . . .137 
 
 XI. A Smile in the Dark 161 
 
 XII. The Sorrowing Stars, . . . .173 
 
 XIII. The Recompense, ..... 193 
 
 XIV. The Dream of a Melody, . . 209 
 XV. The Secret of the Hills 215 
 
 (v)
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER r\..f 
 
 XVI. Little Miss Fiddle 227 
 
 XVII. The Light Reflected 243 
 
 XVIII. The Blind Detective 251 
 
 XIX. The Picture of a Rose 271 
 
 XX. The Unpaced Race, . . . .287 
 
 XXI. A Pike of Battles, 299 
 
 XXII. My Love has Coma as a Lily, . . 531
 
 THE CAT-BIRD. 
 
 POET, when he wants to be 
 A blue song-wave of melody 
 Wood-thrush, thrasher, oriole, 
 Poet notes that upward roll 
 A lullaby of trick and trill, 
 The robin's call across the hill. 
 
 Poet, when he wants to be 
 
 Ay, more than poet, singer he 
 Singer for now the mocking-bird 
 From honeysuckle vine is heard, 
 
 Trilling, trilling alas, the fall 
 
 Ending in a harsh cat-call. 
 
 Poet, when he wants to be 
 Alas, the lesson we may see 
 
 The life-songs that around us float, 
 
 Ending in a broken note.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IF people would only study birds, they would 
 learn a great deal more about how to get 
 along in life. 
 
 The two cat-birds which annually make 
 their nest in a beautiful white-rose bush that 
 climbs and blossoms over my front gallery, 
 arrived on schedule-time about three weeks 
 ago. Spring has come late in Tennessee this 
 year, later than I have known it for years, and 
 the blue-grass is shorter this May than it gener- 
 ally is in June. 
 
 I did not see the cat-birds for several days 
 after they arrived. They were so busy build- 
 ing their nest. 1 wanted to ask them where 
 they had been all the winter, and what the 
 news was where they came from, and how 
 they liked it down South where they wintered, 
 and many other questions. But I saw they
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 were very busy preparing to go to housekeep- 
 ing and didn't want to be bothered just then. 
 
 It's with birds as it is with people if you 
 want to retain their respect and friendship 
 don't bother them with visits and questions 
 when they are busy. 
 
 For home building is half of life. Give two 
 sensible young people a home, paid for and 
 their very own, and their future is half made, 
 their destiny is half solved. If you strike 
 the home idea from the life of the Anglo-Saxon 
 race, in a few generations they will be tribes 
 of Arabs. Those who have no homes have no 
 anchor in life no fixed purpose and hence 
 not very much to live for. 
 
 Now these two birds are very sensible little 
 people, and when I see them building their 
 home every year in the rose-bush I confess 
 they taught me something I had not thought of 
 before ; the prettier the home they build the 
 more elevating is the life purpose. 
 
 These two little birds had a thousand and 
 one places in which they might have built 
 their home. There were the cherry trees, the 
 big oaks white, black and chincapin the
 
 The Cat-Bird 
 
 elms, the close-tangled shrubbery, and even 
 the honeysuckle vine in the garden. 
 
 But no, they must have the prettiest home 
 they can find, just under the eaves of my gal- 
 lery, carpeted in bright colors, windowed with 
 deep niches of light, with stained-glass rose- 
 leaves to catch it and make it as soft as any 
 cathedral's, and the roof all painted with green 
 and shingled with roses that tower above like 
 the parapets of a mosque and all so conve- 
 nient to crumbs from my dining-room table ! 
 
 "Miss Cynthia," 1 said 
 
 Miss Cynthia is my housekeeper. She 
 was my mother's sister's husband's niece. 
 Now it would have been just as easy to say 
 she was my uncle's niece, but that is the way 
 Miss Cynthia always put it, as if she was 
 proud of the mathematical differentiation in- 
 volved, and so I state it that way, too. Miss 
 Cynthia was also proud of the fact that she 
 was fifty-two and had never been any more 
 interested in a man than she had been in the 
 rise and fall of the Roman Empire. 
 
 ' ' Miss Cynthia, ' ' I said, " it is the surround- 
 ings of life that elevate us or pull us down, and 
 7
 
 they do it so gradually that we are up or down 
 before we know it. Nay, so gradually that 
 sometimes it is several generations before the 
 world discovers a family to be up or down. 1 
 know of families which culminated, no other 
 word will suit, Miss Cynthia, generations 
 ago, in some statesman, soldier, poet, some 
 big brain of some kind. I know them to-day," 
 1 added, with emphasis, "when the bright 
 reflection from the shadow of that star is all 
 they have to penetrate the twilight of their 
 own mediocrity. 
 
 "There was a gift from God and an uplifting 
 environment in the life of the star of the 
 family ; there was the holding back from God 
 and the down-drawing tendency in the life of 
 the descendants " 
 
 " I have thought of something I have wanted 
 to ask you," said Miss Cynthia, breaking in 
 on my peroration. 
 
 " You know you can ask me anything you 
 wish, you always do," I said, " but I hope it 
 will suggest other thoughts on this interesting 
 subject." 
 
 " No, but your speaking of twilight and the
 
 The Cat-Bird 
 
 down-drawing environments of life make me 
 think of grasshoppers. Do they feed at night 
 as well as in the day ?" 
 
 "Miss Cynthia," I replied, "will you par- 
 don me for telling you for the one-hundredth 
 time that such a question is entirely irrele- 
 vant to the subject we were discussing ? And 
 now may I ask you a question ?" 
 
 Miss Cynthia nodded. 
 
 " Is supper ready ?" 
 
 She did not reply, but went in and rang the 
 bell. 
 
 After supper I went out again on the porch 
 and sat near the rose-vine that held the cat- 
 birds' nest. There was one egg in it, and 
 both birds were trying to keep it warm, as is 
 their custom. Miss Cynthia had seen to the 
 putting away of the tea things, and was sit- 
 ting near me embroidering a bust of Andrew 
 Jackson on a screen to go into the fireplace in 
 the company-room, in the Summer. . 
 
 " I was telling you before supper about the 
 
 environments of life as illustrated by birds, 
 
 Miss Cynthia," I said after a while, "and I 
 
 will tell you where I learned it. These birds 
 
 9
 
 told me the whole story the other day in their 
 own bird language. The cat-bird, you know, 
 Miss Cynthia, is about the same size and 
 shape as the mocking-bird and of a deep slate- 
 blue. They belong to the same family of 
 mockers, only the cat-bird is lower down in 
 the scale. They are not much at singing, ex- 
 cept during the mating season ; then the 
 male sometimes gets so full of melody he 
 mounts the twig of a neighboring bough and 
 sings, for a while, with the splendor imitative of 
 the mocking-bird. By the way, Miss Cyn- 
 thia, that proves that only people with the 
 mating instinct in their hearts ever make true 
 singers. Only good lovers make good poets." 
 
 Miss Cynthia grunted rather cynically, I 
 thought. 
 
 "However," I continued, "he is only a 
 quarter-horse compared to the mocking-bird 
 he cannot carry his clip a full mile. And 
 worse than that, he can only run his bars in 
 short, parallel lines he cannot connect them 
 with the rich, ful) notes that make his cousin 
 master of all sounds. The cat-bird can strike 
 
 chords, but the mocking-bird can blend them 
 10
 
 The Cat-Bird 
 
 into lines of harmony and trill them into waves 
 of melody. - 
 
 " Now, at first, these little housekeepers 
 were very shy of me, and if 1 gathered a rose 
 from off their house, or peered too closely into 
 their nest, they were greatly affronted, and, 
 perched on a neighboring limb, made the air 
 discordant with their angry cat-calls. That is 
 the sad thing about cat-birds, that they can 
 sing so sweetly and yet make those discordant, 
 spiteful notes. We have many singers among 
 men like them, Miss Cynthia, mocking- 
 birds in company, cat-birds at home. 
 
 "But a few crumbs placed on the railing 
 every day has convinced them I am their 
 friend, and now I can almost touch the female 
 as she sits upon her eggs. This proves, Miss 
 Cynthia, that a little kindness and patience is 
 the greatest thing in the world for making 
 friends of birds, as well as of other people. 
 
 " But 1 was repaid for all of it the other day 
 while listening to the male bird sing. He was 
 perched in a cherry tree, just across from the 
 rose-bush, and was entertaining his mate with 
 
 his imitative song. Presently he struck a few 
 ii
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 bars I had not heard him utter before. He 
 soared just a little higher in his flight than he 
 was wont to do when he first came to visit me 
 in the early housekeeping days. And that 
 song said to me as plainly as ever language 
 spoke : ' Do you see the influence of a beau- 
 tiful home and that little wife over there in 
 the nest ? Surprised that I went up that high, 
 are you ? Well, it is funny, and I am a little 
 surprised myself. I didn't know I could do it. 
 By the great Spread Eagle, but is it not smart 
 of me to do that note all by myself, and not a 
 cat-bird that ever lived has done it before ? 
 How did I do it ? Why, easy enough. I was 
 singing along in the same old way, like we 
 cat-birds have done all our lives, feeling 
 pretty good, you know, and full of song. I 
 can't tell you how it happened, except that a 
 gleam of joy from our pretty home got into 
 my song and a love-bar or two at thought of 
 the beautiful creature that was keeping house 
 for me. Then, all at once, I felt a great up- 
 lifting greater than any cat-bird ever felt 
 before, and there you are; I have set a 
 
 mark for cat-birds, by the great Spread Eagle 
 12
 
 The Cat-Bird 
 
 I have ! and I tell you right now, if we have 
 good luck and raise our little fellows in this 
 pretty home, and under that eave of roses and 
 amid the softened light of the rose-leaves, and 
 the sweet, quiet air of all this peaceful nest, 
 who doubts but one of them may yet sit upon 
 this twig and sing as sweetly as any mocking- 
 bird that ever lived. What makes song? 
 Character, heart, brain. What makes char- 
 acter ? The influence of that which is good 
 and the exercise of that influence. Now if we 
 keep a healthy heart and brain, and year after 
 year and. generation after generation keep on 
 adding loftiness to loftiness, and strength to 
 strength character-breeding and all under 
 the influence of peace and truth and happi- 
 ness and virtue, what's the reason a cat-bird 
 won't be hatched some day who will have all 
 of these in him so strongly that he will burst 
 out in song and tell the world all about it, as 
 sweetly as any mocking-bird ever did ?' " 
 
 Miss Cynthia embroidered along in silence 
 for a while. Then she said: "I wanted to 
 ask you another question, but 1 have forgot- 
 ten it."
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 "Now in the case of these birds," I went 
 on. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I remember now," chirped in 
 Miss Cynthia. "The Jersey cow has not 
 been eating well of late, and old Wash says 
 she has lost her cud. Do you really think a 
 cow can lose her cud ?" 
 
 " Much easier than a woman can lose her 
 tongue," I grunted savagely, for I hated to be 
 interrupted in that way. That was mean of 
 me, I know, for when I thought of it after- 
 wards, man-like, I had done all the talking. 
 
 Miss Cynthia jabbed her needle in Andrew 
 Jackson's eye and went in.
 
 THE BLIND MAN. 
 
 WHEN I wake up in the mornin', in the 
 laughin', smilin' mornin', 
 With my soul keyed liked a fiddle an' my 
 
 heart keyed like a lute, 
 An* memory-maids come trippin', an' a slidin* 
 
 an' a slippin', 
 An* floodin' all my heart house with the faint 
 
 notes of their flute 
 Then my lips jus' longs to utter little songs 
 
 that kind o' flutter 
 'Round the earthly cage that coops them, an' 
 
 would fly up in the light, 
 An' to my soul all yearnin', little fire-fly 
 
 thoughts come burnin' 
 An* bringin' spirit-lanterns that would lead 
 
 it out of night 
 
 When I wake up in the mornin'. 
 When I wake up in the mornin', in that solemn, 
 silent mornin', 
 
 is
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 After long, long years of slumber, an' long, 
 
 long years of sleep, 
 
 When my spirit's bird has rested in the heav- 
 enly air it breasted 
 An' its golden pinions tested for their flight 
 
 across the Deep 
 Lord, I know my soul will flutter up to heaven, 
 
 an' will utter 
 In a clearer note the songs it only tried to 
 
 sing below ; 
 An' these fitful, fiery flashes from the pale 
 
 hope of my ashes 
 Will be altars of star incense in the glory 
 
 of Thy glow 
 When I wake up in the mornin'.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ALL trees to me are beautiful I love them 
 all but none appeal to me so strongly 
 as the yellow locust, that silent and unselfish 
 coverer and protector of barren places, who lifts 
 his garlanded head above the neglected spots 
 which other trees, having exhausted, lover- 
 like, now shun, spangling the seared and 
 blistered earth with his cream-bell clusters, 
 moistening it with his tears, soothing and 
 shading it with the shadow of his own sweet 
 grief. Ah ! what a Samaritan, among trees, 
 he is, giving his life to the stricken places of 
 earth, his heart's perfume to those that know 
 no other sweetness. 
 
 And so I love this tree, because of all the 
 
 trees of the forest, this rugged worker is one 
 
 of the few which sends up to his Maker the 
 
 incense of his soul a tree-prayer, wafted 
 
 2 17
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 from the heart of a blossom to the soul of a 
 star. 
 
 And why is this ? Why should this wrest- 
 ler with a stunted soil, this farmer-tree, good 
 anywhere from the fence-post of poverty to 
 the flag-staff of sentiment, alone be the one 
 to pay back in sweetness the tribute of his 
 heart for the beneficence of life ? The oak, 
 the elm, the ash, the beech these and many 
 others are stronger, more prosperous, hand- 
 somer, better-bred, more aristocratic, so to 
 speak. They require a richer surface, a 
 deeper soil. Their palates, forsooth, are finer, 
 and they need a daintier morsel to crush be- 
 neath their tongues. But where is their per- 
 fume ? Where is their tribute ? 
 
 To the careless passer-by, who judges 
 trees as he does men, the homely locust would 
 scarcely be noticed. It is only when the 
 Silent Questioner of Hearts points his finger 
 at each and asks for their talent that the 
 rugged locust, with his bell-shaped blossom, 
 stands out, the poet among them all the 
 tribute-bearer of a struggling world to the 
 
 silent stars. 
 
 18
 
 The Blind Man 
 
 Aye, and I have wondered at this that flint 
 and clay should bring the strength, toil and 
 trials the blossoms ; that worth should be 
 the perfume the crucible of pain extracts 
 from the lilies of labor ; that sorrow alone 
 should be able to gather up the soul-cells 
 of sweetness and toss them back to a yearning 
 world. 
 
 I do not know why I should associate the 
 yellow locust with the Blind Man, but for 
 some reason I always do. Now the Blind Man 
 is a friend of mine from whom I have learned 
 more than from many people who claim to see. 
 For I consider that man truly remarkable who, 
 having not eyes, yet sees all things. Ruskin 
 puts it prettily : " The more I think of it, I 
 find the conclusion more impressed upon me 
 that the greatest thing a human soul ever does 
 in this world is to see something. Hundreds 
 of people can talk to one who can think, but 
 thousands can think for one who can see. To 
 see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion all 
 in one." 
 
 It is so unusal to see a blind man in a small 
 town, that people do not often call Mr. Emer- 
 19
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 son by his real name. He is known gener- 
 ally as the Blind Man. 
 
 It came upon him, a bolt from a clear sky. 
 It is not so sad, so hard to bear, if one becomes 
 blind gradually, if one sickens gradually dies 
 gradually. There is a wonderful faculty of 
 adjustment to circumstances and environ- 
 ments in the weakest and timidest and most 
 shrinking of souls. God is kind even in death ; 
 and Nature, like a gentle mother, always 
 soothes us, holds us sweetly to her breast ere 
 she puts us to sleep. 
 
 But oh, these sudden things that crush and 
 annihilate before the soul can brace itself for 
 the shock ! 
 
 He was a prosperous business man, the 
 livest, most active, most far-seeing in the town. 
 Planning, doing, working bubbling with life 
 and ambition a hundred interests in his 
 hands. A man who saw, and, seeing, enjoyed 
 life as few men do. For he did the rare thing 
 of taking time, even in his business, to enjoy 
 life. A great mixer, so to speak a great 
 knower of men. A lover of fields and woods, 
 
 and therefore a poet. To this he would de- 
 20
 
 The Blind Man 
 
 mur, tut I always thought so. And every- 
 thing is poetry to the man who thinks they 
 are poems. A marksman, an angler, a horse- 
 man open-hearted, jolly a full-blooded man 
 in everything. 
 
 But one day the bank failed, and before 
 sunset he was a bankrupt. 
 
 He was full of wise saws, too. As I never 
 could find them in books, I always believed he 
 made them himself. And so that evening 
 when I wrung his hand in sympathy, to my 
 surprise he laughed as jollily as ever he did, 
 and said : " Cowards quit in the back-stretch, 
 Ned ; good blood never gives up." 
 
 I think he got that from his love of good 
 horses. 
 
 The next week as he walked down the 
 streets of the town he was seen to fall. It 
 was apoplexy. For two days he was uncon- 
 scious. When he awoke he tried to see, 
 but it was dark. It has remained dark with 
 him ever since. I was with him when he 
 waked. 
 
 "Ned," he said, "light a lamp, my boy; it 
 
 should be nearly day." 
 21
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 1 went over, took his hand and sat on the 
 bedside. 
 
 " It is four o'clock in the afternoon and the 
 sun is shining through the west window. I 
 was just going to draw the shade and shut it 
 from your eyes," I said as gently as I could. 
 
 It was only a moment that I saw his cheek 
 blanch, his hands clinch. Then he smiled in 
 his cheery old way, and said: "Well, but I'm 
 glad I'm alive, even if I can't see. No, I 
 don't think I'll need any more shades, Ned ; 
 it is midnight with me." 
 
 It was an hour before he spoke again. I had 
 busied myself about the room, but when I 
 looked at him he was trying to find a hand- 
 kerchief under his pillow. He gave it up and 
 had to ask me to find it for him. When I 
 handed it to him he smiled through his tears 
 and repeated Milton's sonnet to his blindness. 
 I shall never forget his interpretation of the 
 last line : 
 
 " They also serve who only stand and wait." 
 But that was all ; and even the next week, 
 when a friend forgot himself and sympathized 
 with him, he laughed and added another saw 
 
 22
 
 The Blind Man 
 
 to his sayings : " Don't weep over your own 
 misfortunes until you fail to find some one 
 who has greater ones." 
 
 Before he was able to be up he seemed to 
 have planned it all out, and with a negro boy 
 to lead him he was soon as busy a man as 
 ever and more cheerful. "For cheerful- 
 ness," he would always say, "is the smile 
 the soul owes to its Maker." 
 
 It was positive sunlight to be near him, an 
 inspiration to be with him. 
 
 To-day, as I have often done, I drove by his 
 place to give him an airing and take him to 
 my farm in the outskirts of town. I am will- 
 ing to admit that I am selfish enough to wish 
 to garner up his wisdom. I need this blind 
 man to help me to see. 
 
 As we drove a merry clip down the pike he 
 said, "Let me feel of her mouth, Ned; I 
 used to love to pull the ribbons over a good 
 horse myself. Just keep us in the road, and 
 I won't need help until I go to pass some one. 
 Did you ever think of it, my boy, that it's so 
 in life ? It's dealing with other people that 
 
 brings in the rub of life. We always get along 
 23
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 smoothly enough by ourselves. It's the pass 
 ings of life, the obligations we owe to others, 
 that we must be careful of." 
 
 We had driven a mile when he handed me 
 back the lines and said, "There are some 
 very light clouds in the west. They are mak- 
 ing the sun just hazy enough to be soothing 
 and good not too hot. What a lovely day to 
 look at Nature ! Do you see the blue in that 
 patch of clouds in the west, Ned ?" 
 
 "Yes," I smiled ; "but how did you see it ? 
 How did you know there were clouds in the 
 west?" 
 
 "We blind people see more than you other 
 people know. There is compensation in every- 
 thing. We don't lose anything in life, unless 
 we throw it away ourselves. I can see the skies 
 and clouds more distinctly than ever, because 
 the spirit eye is truer than the physical eye. 
 As for the clouds, that's easy enough. It 
 doesn't take a blind man long to become very 
 sensitive to outside influences. He soon feels 
 the difference when the sun is shining through 
 a cloud or a mist and when it shines through 
 the unclouded skies." 
 
 24.
 
 The Blind Man 
 
 At the farm I left him in the buggy while I 
 went around to give orders for the morning's 
 work. The mare was given her head and 
 was quietly cropping the blue grass beneath 
 when I came back an hour afterwards, flushed 
 and tired. 
 
 " You people that can see and must walk 
 around," he laughed, "worry a great deal 
 about life. You really lose a great deal of real 
 life. Now, while you were away on your 
 business I have had a delightful sunbath and 
 heard an orchestra that beats anything you 
 pay a dollar for in a theatre. How many 
 birds do you suppose I have counted since you 
 left?" 
 
 "Why, I don't know," I said. " I don't see 
 how you have counted any. I don't see any." 
 
 "Sixteen. Now, don't take my word for 
 it, because I'm blind, you know ; but just look 
 and see for yourself as I point them out to 
 you."
 
 TWO PREACHERS. 
 
 TWO preachers were preachin* the other 
 day, 
 
 An' both of their sermons I heard; 
 One preached like a preacher the same old 
 
 way, 
 But the other one preached like a bird. 
 
 " You must join my church or be lost lost 
 lost," 
 
 The one in the pulpit did say, 
 But he in the tree his little head toss'd 
 
 An* kept on a singin' away. 
 
 " An' my creed is this, an' my creed is that," 
 
 Said he of the pulpit that day, 
 But he of the tree stood firm an* pat 
 
 An* sang on in his sweet little way. 
 
 Then he of the pulpit he talked of fire 
 An' spoke of a wrath above, 
 27
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 But the song from the tree rose higher an* 
 
 higher, 
 An' the soul of that song was love. 
 
 An' it lifted me up on the wings of the song, 
 
 Up up to my Maker above, 
 Till my heart it repented of every wrong 
 
 An' my soul it jus' bubbled with love ! 
 
 Two preachers were preachin' Yes, that is 
 the rule, 
 
 An* those were the sermons I heard 
 An' the one in the pulpit he was a fool 
 
 But the one in the tree was a bird t
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I GOT into the buggy with him. It was one 
 of those evenings Spring so often gives us, 
 in which the day seems verily to live and 
 breathe. One of those which, if you tickle it, 
 it will laugh, if you scold it, it will weep make 
 love to it and it will cling, Juliet-like, around 
 your neck. 
 
 The Blind Man was very much interested. 
 His whole countenance changes when he be- 
 comes interested. His soul, like some fiery 
 star, shone in the blue vaults of his earnest 
 eyes. It is true it is night there, but it only 
 makes the stars shine the brighter. 
 
 "Ned," he said, "it is a grand, a glorious 
 thing to love the things that God made to 
 love them, and through them Him that made 
 them. But it is also sweet to be loved by 
 
 them. And He is so much better to us than 
 29
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 we deserve. He has made things so beautiful 
 and pure and wholesome around us ; so abund- 
 ant and varied, so simple, so fitted for our 
 needs, so appropriate and altogether good. 
 And, Ned, sometimes I think we don't appre- 
 ciate them. 
 
 " He has made everything so fitting for us, 
 and if we be but truthful and pure, we fit 
 them. For a truth fits every other truth in 
 the world, but a lie fits nothing but some other 
 lie made especially for it. 
 
 " Take the material things He has given us, 
 Ned, and consider them all the way from the 
 fruit of the fields to the ripened fruit of the 
 vine. And things ornamental, from the jewels 
 of the hills to those of our hearthstone. And 
 things beautiful, from the dew-drop in the 
 bosom of the flower to the star in the bosom of 
 the sky. And loving things, things that make 
 life holy and lovely and all to be desired from 
 the love that comes up from our cradles and 
 friends, even unto that surpassing love that 
 comes from the heart of God Himself. Take 
 them all, from the plenty of the earth and the 
 plenty of the sea, and the plenty of the air
 
 Two Preachers 
 
 Oh, how I love the birds ! and the glorious 
 prodigality of the heavens which declare His 
 glory. And all so beautiful, wholesome and 
 pure. 
 
 " And the beauty of it, Ned, He is so gen- 
 erous. He's giving us so much and we need 
 so little. And we are so foolish, Ned, such 
 children. He has laid down so few laws for 
 our happiness, and we have made them so 
 many, and even these have failed to attain 
 their ends. And so few for our health, and, 
 behold, our doctors and our drugs ! 
 
 " ' Love one another,' He says ; ' be truth- 
 ful; do not covet, lie, steal, murder, nor 
 be impure in thought or deed.' That's all. 
 Isn't it simple enough ? And yet, see the 
 changes and ramifications of man, until society 
 has more laws than Rome under Caligula, and 
 fashion is a greater tyrant than Nero ; and the 
 churches, Ned they are all right and the best 
 things we have to direct us here, but they 
 seem to need more forms and creeds and by- 
 laws than God did when he made the world. 
 
 " Hello, but that's preaching ; isn't it, Ned ? 
 Pshaw ! a man mustn't do that. It's so easy 
 31
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 to do it. The hard thing, Ned, is to live 
 a sermon. Now, birds live sermons they 
 do, old fellow ! sermons with a choir attach- 
 ment. And where will you find anything bet- 
 ter than the hymnal of their songs ? More 
 than all that, they are everything that people 
 are, and more. They are nearer human than 
 anything lower than man. Birds alone come 
 nearer to ideal married life in the rearing of 
 their young and the care and protection both 
 parents give to their offspring than anything 
 else. All the others of the lower world leave 
 the care of the children to the mother alone 
 not so with the birds. They are the tender- 
 est and most loving of husbands, the most 
 affectionate and thoughtful of fathers. Sing- 
 ing to, caressing, feeding his wife as she sits 
 upon the eggs. Helping her feed and rear the 
 little ones when they are born yes, Ned, 
 born for I've seen many humans whom you 
 could not honor with the assertion that they 
 were even hatched ! 
 
 " Human ! Why, Ned, they are poets and 
 artists, philosophers, statesmen, warriors, 
 mathematicians, everything. They know
 
 Two Preachers 
 
 more about the weather, the tides, the winds 
 and the stars than we do. More about Nature 
 than man ever conceived in his selfishness. 
 More about God than all the priests. Every 
 bird-life is an ideal love-life. Each little one 
 that lives and breathes fills a predestined niche 
 in the great temple of Time, is a tiny link in 
 the chain of the great That Is. The ruthless 
 destruction of any one, for whatever cause, 
 whether for sport or to adorn the upper ex- 
 tremity of some less beautiful and lovely creat- 
 ure, throws the rules of truth, the laws of the 
 universe, that much out of balance. 
 
 "After you left me," he said, after a pause, 
 " I sat here in the mellow sunlight and just 
 began to listen to see how many of them I 
 could see. An early cardinal sprang first 
 from a thicket, mounted the topmost twig of 
 that sugar maple, and slyly and quietly fired 
 his first rapid-fire love-notes in the face of 
 the world for the pure fun of the thing, and 
 darted back into the thicket. How did I 
 know it was a sugar maple ? Because I 
 knew it was in full leafage, that it is always 
 among the first to leaf in the spring, and the 
 3 33
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 cardinal is too shy to expose himself in a naked 
 tree. 
 
 "It was some time before another came on 
 the boards this time it was the king of all 
 wrens the Carolina wren. He gave me a 
 pretty little solo, with a flirting tail accompani- 
 ment, from the hedge yonder. Then a crow 
 flew over me, and the way he was burning the 
 air was a lesson. I knew what was the mat- 
 ter the thieving rascal had been caught plun- 
 dering by the king bird, and that game little 
 fellow, that will fight a buzz-saw or an army 
 in Flanders, was scurrying him through the 
 air with a chastisement he'll not soon forget. 
 A blue-jay lit in that oak there, and bobbed 
 around a while, imitating the call of a chicken 
 hawk. He is a beautiful fellow I wish he 
 were half as good. In the distance I caught 
 the notes of a butcher-bird the formidable 
 shrike. Talk about human why, that fellow 
 is the finest example of original sin, in origi- 
 nal man, in the world. Like his prototype, 
 he butchers for the pure love of it, and unable 
 to consume all he kills, he hangs the rest in 
 the smoke-house to sell, perhaps, to his less 
 34
 
 Two Preachers 
 
 fortunate brother, and cheat him, if he can, in 
 the transaction. If his name isn't Cain I'd 
 like to know why. A crested fly-catcher 
 dashed out from the top of that telegraph-pole, 
 took in some luckless moth, wheeled suddenly 
 in the air, uttered his quick, triumphant note, 
 and settled down in the same place, waiting 
 for another one. Two mating doves flew up 
 from the stubble-field near the road when a 
 vehicle passed. I knew them, of course, by 
 the peculiar whistle of their wings when they 
 flew over me. Then, as the hour went by, 
 one by one I counted the notes of the pewee, 
 the pretty song of the vesper sparrow, the 
 chirps of the white-crowned and the white- 
 throated sparrow, the chicadee, purple martin, 
 cat-bird, and the detestable, wheezing chirp of 
 the cow-bird. By the way, Ned, who ever 
 saw anything more human than the cow-bird, 
 laying its big eggs in the nest of some other 
 bird, to starve out and crowd out a gentler 
 brood, and transmit the selfish lesson of its 
 heredity down the line of its life. 
 
 " That's what I've counted, Ned, in one 
 hour sixteen! Isn't it glorious? Give 
 35
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 me another hour and I'll count that many 
 more." 
 
 We both bowed our heads and listened. A 
 mocking-bird, which I had observed for ten 
 minutes sitting on the topmost twig of a wild 
 cherry tree near us, with that calm quietness 
 and serene look of faith in his powers and in 
 himself with which a prima donna would sur- 
 vey a gallery of expectant listeners, suddenly 
 broke the pent-up emotions of his soul with a 
 few nervous, rapid-fire, but soft and sweet 
 notes. These leaped quickly upward and 
 abroad, ablaze and aglow, as a spark runs 
 through a sedge-field. In a moment ne had 
 fired the very air-waves with the touch of his 
 genius had burned the wind with melody. 
 For a half hour we spoke not, only listened. 
 And then the great musician flew away, sing- 
 ing as he went. 
 
 I looked up. There were tears in the Blind 
 Man's eyes. 
 
 " Ned, the other day I went to church and 
 had the misfortune to hear a little bigot 
 preach. There are glorious men in the pulpit, 
 
 Ned, but there are lots of little bigots there, 
 36
 
 Two Preachers 
 
 who would burn a man at the stake yet for 
 not believing in their own peculiar doctrines. 
 It is strange, too, they will let these little fel- 
 lows preach. Every other man must be edu- 
 cated for his profession, but all that one needs 
 is an abiding faith that he has been called. 
 Well, it was my misfortune to hear one of 
 them. But the windows were up, fortunately, 
 and one of those glorious singers shall I say 
 preachers ? from a near-by tree began the 
 sermon of his song. Do you wonder I heard 
 only it?" 
 
 The sun was setting when we started back 
 to town. Down behind a bank of clouds he 
 sank, throwing a hundred fan-like radiations 
 half way across the heavens. I did not say 
 anything about the beauty of it because I did 
 not wish to remind the Blind Man of his loss. 
 He himself broke the silence by saying, 
 
 "Yes, I should love to see the sunset you 
 are looking at. But I can see one as plainly 
 as yours. It was in Montana once I was 
 on a hunting trip. It was in that clear pure 
 atmosphere, and I can see it to-day as plainly 
 as then. To me,, now, when I can see no 
 37
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 longer, it looks like the vestibule of heaven 
 in the twilight hours when the Angels pray 
 lit with lamps of every colored star, reflected 
 back from walls of jasper and pearl." 
 
 Presently we swept into an avenue of 
 stately trees along the pike. A brick resi- 
 dence, with four pillars fitting under a simple 
 frieze and flanked with two wings, sat in a 
 grove on a gentle slope. 
 
 "Why, it is Fairview," said the Blind 
 Man. "I wonder if the Philips girls have 
 got back home. They graduated last month 
 and have been in Washington since," he said. 
 
 There was a turn in the road, I saw a phae- 
 ton and a horse, my heart jumped quickly, 
 and a merry laugh rang out as 1 pulled up the 
 mare. 
 
 "Oh, it's old Tem bless his heart!" 
 There was a quick scrambling from the phae- 
 ton and a gliding in among my wheels. 
 
 "And Ned, too, isn't this sudden, Ber- 
 nice?" she laughed to her companion, who 
 sat in the phaeton holding the lines and nod- 
 ding smilingly at us. 
 
 She had shaken my hand with scarce a 
 38
 
 Two Preachers 
 
 glance, I thought, then hurried on and held 
 the Blind Man's in both of hers. 
 
 " Tem, you old owl, how are you ? And 
 why didn't you answer my last letter ?" 
 
 The Blind Man's face broke into a radiant 
 smile. 
 
 " Thesis ! " he laughed and shouted 
 "Speak of angels, you know." And, reaching 
 out, he drew her into the buggy with us. 
 
 "This will crowd me out," I said, "so I'll 
 exchange with her, Bernice," and I went over 
 to the phaeton. Thesis gave me a half-re- 
 proachful glance and then nestled by the Blind 
 Man's side in her old way, and they were 
 soon telling each other all they knew the 
 wonderful happenings in the town since she 
 had seen him nearly a year ago. 
 
 I was never fully at home with Bernice I 
 do not think anybody was. There are char- 
 acters and characters, but now and then there 
 comes along a beautiful, flawless being whom 
 we may worship but never know. She was 
 more beautiful than ever more reserved too, 
 this evening, I thought. This made it scarcely 
 possible for me to pass the little frivolities of 
 39
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 local happenings with her. But she told me 
 in her sweet, dignified way, of their school 
 triumphs and graduation. She was describ- 
 ing the Corcoran Art Gallery when I heard 
 Thesis laugh out and exclaim, 
 
 " Ned, what do you think Tem is saying 
 about you ?" 
 
 "That I am in love with something, but 
 don't know myself what," 1 replied. 
 
 They both gave a laugh in unison. 
 
 " My exact words," cried the Blind Man. 
 
 After leaving the Blind Man at his home, 
 Miss Cynthia met me with a note at my own 
 gate. I had not told the Blind Man that I had 
 sent a basket of all kinds of flowers gathered 
 from Miss Cynthia's collection in the flower 
 garden to Blythewood that afternoon. I had 
 sent the huge basket to both of them, and 
 another of strawberries old Wash's best 
 pickings. 1 had hoped Thesis would answer 
 the note. Instead it was from Bernice. 
 
 "Women are queer creatures, Miss Cyn- 
 thia," 1 said. 
 
 "Yes, they are daughters of men," she re- 
 marked. 
 
 40
 
 ART IN NATURE 
 
 trees are but the brushes of the sky 
 1 Dipped deep in green. Above, a canopy 
 No mortal yet hath painted. From hill below 
 To where the purp'ling rivers flow, 
 From thousand-tinted sky and cloud, 
 Where light and shadows laugh aloud, 
 From shifting shade o'er sea and land 
 O painting from the Master's hand !
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HPHAT man but half lives who does not live 
 1 on a farm. He may see more things in 
 a city, perhaps ; that is, see more superficial 
 things, superficially. But if he grow, he must 
 grow from the ground up. There is a Greek 
 myth about a man who gathered renewed 
 strength every time he fell on his mother 
 earth. The Greek myths were the concen- 
 trated wisdom of the Greek ages. 
 
 You may figure it out, but nothing good or 
 great ever came out of those places where men 
 wall out the sunlight and air and call them 
 cities. Many of the good and great are there. 
 1 am not denying that, but they did not grow 
 there they went there after they had their 
 growth. And they got their growth from the 
 soil. For the principal element of soil-growth 
 is strength, earnestness and honesty, and the 
 soil-children who have them always succeed. 
 43
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 It takes a splendid combination of good 
 parts to make a complete success, but I have 
 never known a dead earnest and honest man 
 or woman yet to be a dead failure. There is 
 something so God-like in it that even if mis- 
 directed they half succeed by sheer weight of 
 their moral force. Prayer is the ripened fruit 
 of faith of earnestness. A man believing 
 there is a God, and earnestly praying to Him 
 to be better and greater, will be better and 
 greater whether there be a God or not. I do 
 not mean great in the ordinary accepted sense 
 intellectually, brilliantly great for that de- 
 pends more on the honesty and earnestness of 
 one's ancestors than on oneself ; but in the 
 true sense honestly, nobly great. Neither 
 do 1 mean to intimate that there is no God ; 
 for I was not born in a cocoanut shell, but 
 under the studded canopy of His own home, 
 where I have only to look up and see Him. 
 And 1 thank Him daily that, like Sallust of my 
 school days, He has placed my head where I 
 would not, like the ox, have to look down- 
 ward to the grass, but where 1 might always 
 look upward to Him. 
 
 44
 
 Art in Nature 
 
 And so, as I was saying, a man but half 
 lives who does not live on a farm. There he 
 may always look up, and his view will be un- 
 clouded by smoke and unobscured by walls. 
 O, the glory and beauty of it ! 
 
 And a farm is but half , a farm which has not 
 its bunch of Jersey cows. There is a locust 
 thicket in my blue-grass pasture where, in the 
 heat of the day, the cows love to lie down and 
 assimilate the garnered herbage for which 
 they have labored all the morning. If brain- 
 workers would only do like cows : gather up 
 their material as they walk around in the 
 fields and the woods and assimilate it while 
 resting do their best work, their assimilative 
 work, as they rested, they well, they would 
 have more brains ! For no man has ever 
 done really good work until he has lain down 
 in the grass with some of God's creatures and 
 learned of himself by watching them. It is 
 thought that makes brain, and no great brain- 
 worker was ever a great reader of others. 
 
 This locust thicket with the cows scattered 
 through and in it, lying amid the flowers and 
 grasses like fawn-colored nymphs in a sea of 
 45
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 blue and emerald, is an exquisite picture from 
 nature's brush. The Southdowns are there, 
 too, in a flock ; and lying in the further end 
 of it, viewed as I see them from my resting- 
 place in the grass, they are not unlike that 
 stream of white light which painters some- 
 times throw into their pictures to set off the 
 darker shades. 
 
 The tangled and brambled wood is the back- 
 ground, the blue and still more faintly blue 
 hills, beyond, the softened and subdued per- 
 spective ; while on the living canvas the faint- 
 er shadows flit about like sweet, sad smiles 
 dropped from the lips of the passing night, 
 and, Naiad like, await in their dark, cool 
 caves, till she pass, to rejoin her again. 
 
 A picture on canvas once painted is for- 
 ever fixed. Not so with the one which nature 
 paints. 1 have been there at all times of the 
 day, and, though always beautiful, it is never 
 the same. It is darker and fuller of shadows 
 in the morning and evening. At noon it is 
 lit up with the softened splendor of a light 
 which, falling through feathery leaf and clus- 
 ters of locust blossoms, is more a refined glory, 
 46
 
 Art in Nature 
 
 a soft radiance, the halo of heaven's smile 
 passed through sieves of crystal, than it is 
 light. The perspective of a painted picture 
 stares one in the face day after day, with a 
 fixed sameness. But O, the ever-changing 
 tints in the distant hills around this one ! 
 
 In the morning, tint after tint or varying 
 blue from deepest blue in the gloaming of 
 sunrise, and the brown-blue of the fuller light 
 of morn, to the purpling-blue of sunset 
 changing from blue to blue-brown and from 
 blue-brown to blue, measuring their moods 
 with the progress of the sun, changing their 
 gowns, like a queenly woman, morning, noon 
 and night, to catch the eye of him, their lover 
 lord, until, as night comes on, they throw over 
 their head and shoulders a silvery sheen laces 
 of starlight and in a bodice of red and a gown 
 of purple they meet and kiss him in the twi- 
 light. And above shine the stars, the stars 
 of locust blossoms ; and beneath, the never- 
 dying, never-changing splendor of that grass 
 which is the emblem of immortality. 
 
 And the cows I love to lie down with them, 
 right in their midst and right down on the 
 47
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 grass for, as I said, if one really wishes to 
 learn something, one must lie down with 
 nature. And so when I really wish to think, 
 to solve the problems that confront me daily, 
 I go out to that cool and shady spot and talk 
 it over with the cows. 
 
 I love to talk to the cows and to Miss 
 Cynthia. But I believe I'd rather talk to the 
 cows than to Miss Cynthia, because they 
 never ask any questions. 
 
 Besides, though I love a horse and all others 
 of our domestic animals, still it is my deliber- 
 ate opinion that the Jersey cow is the most 
 perfect animal that lives. From the big, ten- 
 der and thoughtful eyes, which give so much 
 character to her clean-cut, dished and bony 
 face, to the dainty switch that graces her 
 tapering tail, there is not another animal that 
 walks the earth with more grace and beauty, 
 and combining it all with so much usefulness. 
 
 Men may gamble on horses, but there is no 
 temptation about a Jersey cow. All her 
 paths lead to sweetness, contentment, honest 
 living and broader thinking. The sight of the 
 
 clean, white dairy, pungent with the odor o* 
 48
 
 Art in Nature 
 
 ripening milk and cooling cream in the dark- 
 ling waters, is itself a sermon on holy living ; 
 while the tinkling of the tiny streams that 
 purl around the gold-stamped tray of butter is 
 the music that accompanies it. 
 
 Follow her into the fields, and unless your 
 ancestors have thrown off on you terribly in 
 the formation of your head, you will see life 
 in all its beauty and truth, you will grow 
 better and broader each day as you learn 
 that the universe is infinitely immense, God 
 infinitely great, and you infinitely small. 
 But the greatest lesson she teaches is the 
 lesson Americans especially most need to-day. 
 I mean the wisdom of growing slow but sure ; 
 the unexcelled policy of declaring small but 
 regular dividends the triumphant business 
 sense of basing your business on the honest 
 needs of mankind. True, you do not win 
 forty dollars by her to-day and lose it to-mor- 
 row, but she gives you daily a pound of butter 
 worth that many cents, and while you are 
 gathering in the many " mickles that make the 
 muckle," she and the grass-roots are making 
 your land rich. 
 
 4 49
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 The oldest of my cows is Content, Content 
 of Lynwood ; that's the name of my farm. In 
 talking I always address my remarks to Con- 
 tent chiefly, because she is a fine listener. 
 
 " Content," I said, "this is a more beauti- 
 ful picture than one sees on canvas, isn't it ? 
 And let me tell you another thing : you living 
 cows are more beautiful than all the dead 
 statues in the world. 
 
 " It makes me smile, Content, to see people 
 going across the ocean to see works of art 
 when they might walk out into a meadow and 
 see such a picture as this. Going across the 
 sea to rave over broken-armed and broken- 
 hearted Venuses, dug out of Pompeii, copied 
 after Greek Aphrodites, dug out of heaven 
 knows where, when all they would have to do 
 is to tap one of you with a cluster of locust 
 blossoms and make you stand up, straighten 
 your beautiful and silver-golden sheen, to see 
 the most perfect statue in the world. 
 
 "Stand up, Content! There now, let's 
 compare you with the Venus. 
 
 " Broad hips (they say that's a strong point 
 
 with the Venus) why 'twould take a yard- 
 50
 
 Art in Nature 
 
 stick to measure yours. And ankles (that's 
 another boast of the Venus) well, I can span 
 yours with my thumb and middle finger. Now 
 I am told these are the two strong points about 
 the Venuses, Content. If so, they are not in 
 it with you. 
 
 " And in looks that sinewy health and lack 
 of surplus flesh why no Spartan maid is your 
 equal. Your eyes ? They are great, still, 
 calm lakes of poetry. Not a line about you 
 that is not a line of beauty. And from the 
 tapering turn of your little curving horns to 
 the big golden quarters of an udder tucked 
 well up behind and well out in front, I am 
 willing again to declare that no Venus hi 
 ho but where was I at ? 
 
 " Ah, yes, on the subject of art. And that 
 reminds me, Content, of the great amount of 
 sham and fraud that is practiced under that 
 name. It is with art as it is with incompre- 
 hensible poetry people rave over it who have 
 no conception of what they are raving about. 
 They go on about the Milos and Apollos and 
 the other naked things they happen to see, 
 when their artistic calibre is about large 
 Si
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 enough to comprehend the flaming posters in 
 the village blacksmith shop, announcing the 
 coming of a company of soubrettes in a melo- 
 drama of faded hosiery. 
 
 " And it is the same way about music. It 
 is fashionable and quite the proper thing for 
 us to applaud all the vague, visionary and 
 uncertain notes dished into one piece and 
 passed off on a suffering audience as classical 
 music. But when they would touch the human 
 heart they must go back to the sweet old heart- 
 music the tunes of our childhood. 
 
 " It is life that I love, Content life, not 
 death. And so a Jersey cow is more beauti- 
 ful to me than a Venus, a graceful brood mare 
 than Diana, and 1 would not exchange my 
 saddle-horse for all the Apollos that ever were 
 mounted on a pedestal. 
 
 " It is life that I love, Content life, not 
 death. And suppose these statues have per- 
 fect limbs and straight noses and beautiful 
 faces. Suppose they do look as if they were 
 about to speak or about to move ; whenever I 
 look up into their eyes and see the big sunken 
 holes in the marble there, I am shocked and 
 52
 
 Art in Nature 
 
 disappointed. Throughout all the ages no one 
 has ever been able to put a single spark in the 
 only place the light was needed 'the window 
 of the soul.' 
 
 "Ah, Content, turn again your big, calm 
 eyes on me ; they make me satisfied with life."
 
 THE THRASHER. 
 
 of brown through the shadowy 
 wood, 
 
 Flash of wing where the shadows stood, 
 Opening notes which upward rise, 
 Burst of song to the smiling skies.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HPHERE was a burst of flute- notes from the 
 1 thickest of the locust trees near me. It 
 was a brown thrasher, the first I had seen. But 
 I was not surprised, for I knew his way of ar- 
 riving suddenly from the South in the early 
 Spring days and beginning housekeeping as 
 soon as he could unpack his things. One day 
 there would not be a thrasher anywhere. 
 The next day they would all be there. They 
 seem to come in the night and in flocks. 
 
 To-day he was celebrating his arrival with 
 a song which, though not varied or so splen- 
 did as that of his cousin, the mocking-bird, or 
 even of the wood-thrush, yet it was full of 
 sweetness and homely melody. 
 
 Beginning it on the lowest branches of the 
 trees, he went up from limb to limb, slipping 
 through branches and emerald-sheen leaves
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 like a brown song-shaft from a locust bow. 
 Then, as his spirit arose to its highest joy- 
 mark, he sat on the topmost twig of a blossom- 
 ing branch, and, with his head thrown up and 
 back, as if to catch inspiration from above, 
 he poured out his one triumphant, bursting 
 strain to the unseen stars. 
 
 It was music and incense the music of the 
 bird, the wild incense of the locust blossom. 
 
 O, Nature is all right. She knows the 
 sweet things of life. And those who serve 
 her, whose mistress she is, and whose making 
 she is mother to, these always bring to her 
 their sweetest tributes. 
 
 I watched the bird in a dreamy sort of 
 pleasure. His bright, yellow eyes were ablaze 
 with inspiration. His long, graceful tail, that 
 had before stood out indifferently, now hung 
 artistically down. With his head thrown 
 back, he was oblivious to all surroundings, 
 singing, not in arias and in operas, as his more 
 gifted cousins might have done, but a sweet, 
 soothing tune which, to me, was not unlike an 
 old-time negro melody. 
 
 The arrow-shaped dots on his breast, cor- 
 58
 
 The Thrasher 
 
 responding to the heart-shaped ones on the 
 breast of the wood-thrush, shone very dis- 
 tinctly in the sunlight. The two white bands 
 on his partially-extended wings, mingled with 
 the rufous and red-brown above, encircled 
 him with a halo of light, and clasped him as a 
 rainbow girdles the waist of a russet-red cloud 
 at sunset. 
 
 It was the first love-song of Spring. 
 
 " The operas of the mocking-bird are sweet, 
 old fellow." 1 thought aloud, " but these child- 
 hood melodies, these simple songs of other 
 days, they get into our hearts." When he 
 ceased, there was that silence on Nature's 
 boards which follow when one of her chil- 
 dren has soothed all the others with the 
 glory of his genius. No demonstration, no 
 wild applause, no flowers save those already 
 around him, no encores. Everything seemed 
 to wish to be quiet and think to take on life 
 inwardly, and to grow. 
 
 The fragrance of the rich perfume from the 
 
 heavily-scented blossoms has lost its strength, 
 
 as it reaches me, and floats in a delicately 
 
 sweet odor along with the waves that ripple 
 
 59
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 across the foot-high wheat in the adjoining 
 field. These same waves have tossed a 
 shower of blossoms down and scattered them 
 over the broad, silvery backs of the resting 
 herd. Resting in one sense, but if Miss Cyn- 
 thia were here now she would not think that 
 any of them had lost her cud. 
 
 "This is an ideal day to talk to cows," I 
 went on. " My walk across the pasture has 
 made me tired, and this grass is most delight- 
 fully cool and restful. And that reminds me, 
 Content, and you other cows, Kalita and Lass 
 o' Lowrie's, and Belle Williamson, and Lady 
 Feronia, and others," I said apologetically, 
 with a broad sweep of my hand, because I 
 thought they had begun to eye me suspiciously 
 for listening more to the thrasher than to 
 them, " 1 am peculiarly discontented to-day. 
 A young man in love, or who imagines he is, 
 and it's all the same, Content, always is. 
 
 "But tell me, did you ever see a queenlier 
 woman than Bernice Philips ? Now, I don't 
 mean a prettier woman nor a lovelier one (for 
 I know ef one lovelier one, ladies), but I 
 
 mean a handsomer, queenlier one. Tall and 
 60
 
 The Thrasher 
 
 straight and graceful as that young walnut 
 flirting there with that stout yellow locust. 
 Queenlier than the feathery elm that stands 
 in the rich meadow bottom, and haughtier, 
 aye, Content that's the word and prouder 
 than the white oak that looks down on the 
 rest of the forest. And colder it is true, 
 Content than the frost-painted sides of the 
 silvery sycamore, when Winter has stripped 
 her of her leaves and left her to match in 
 garishness the snow beneath. But queenly 
 Content, queenly that's the name. 
 
 " ' Infatuated,' did you say ? Well, perhaps 
 that's what 1 am. That's what I want you 
 cows to help me decide. Tell me which you 
 think it is infatuation or love ? For there's 
 a big difference in the two. Ah ! I see you 
 understand. One is passion, the other is prin- 
 ciple. One is body, the other is soul. One is 
 fire, leaping through the eyes to set the heart 
 aglow ; the other is sunshine, flooding the 
 windows of the soul with sweet and whole- 
 some light. Like the fire, one will quickly 
 burn up all within its reach, even the home of 
 
 sunshine, the home of love, and leave only 
 61
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 the ashes of regret behind. Like the sunshine, 
 the other will come day after day, always 
 fresh and sweet, always pure and strengthen- 
 ing and wholesome. It makes a great differ- 
 ence, Content, which one we marry on. 
 
 " It came about in this way, Content. I 
 don't mind telling you cows, because I know 
 you will not tell anybody. 
 
 " She is Colonel Philips's daughter, you 
 know ; the same that is my neighbor and has 
 that handsome home and farm. Don't you 
 remember the day when you cows acted so 
 badly and broke over into his pasture where 
 the rich orchard grass grew with the clover ? 
 Not that 1 am throwing up past manners to 
 you all I don't believe any of us should do 
 that, it tends to harden us so but 1 just wish 
 to fix it in your mind. Because I've known 
 some people to think that farms and houses 
 and orchards had a good deal to do in deciding 
 whether the thing was infatuation or love. 
 
 " Bernice, of course, you all know her, 
 ever since I can remember, ever since I could 
 toss her on her pony and pace her up the pike, 
 
 she was haughty and queenly even then. 
 63
 
 The Thrasher 
 
 "I never tossed her but once. I remember 
 it distinctly. She was ten and I was twelve. 
 Do you remember the Tom Hal pacing pony 
 her father gave her ? That evening I had 
 burned the sedge-grass on the hill of the white 
 locust fields, shooting rabbits as they ran out. 
 I had killed two and was trudging home im- 
 mensely proud. Her saddle had slipped at 
 the lane, and she was standing on the ground 
 holding her pony and looking most queenlily 
 perplexed as I came by. It was nearly dark 
 and she was two miles from home, yet she 
 showed no signs of gladness that I had come 
 just in time to help her out of her trouble. 
 
 " ' Hello, Bernice ! you are in a pretty fix. 
 How did it happen ?' and I went to work to 
 unbuckle the big double girth and adjust the 
 saddle to the round back of the little fat pacer. 
 
 4< ' O, it's not so bad,' she said, a little less 
 humbly than I thought she might under the 
 circumstances. ' I knew somebody would 
 come along and fix it.' 
 
 " ' Well it's lucky 1 came along when I did, 
 for it's nearly dark already. Now give me 
 your foot an' I'll toss you in the saddle.' 
 63
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 "'You are very kind and I thank you so 
 much. But I'll get into the saddle myself, 
 and ' haughtily ' I don't give my foot to 
 gentlemen.' 
 
 " ' O, ho ! Miss Haughty, when did you get 
 so grown ?' 
 
 "I laughed teasingly, and I caught her by 
 the waist as she was climbing in, and pulled 
 her provokingly back. 
 
 '"I'll take a kiss to pay me for all I've 
 done,' I laughed, as I tried to kiss her. 
 
 " She turned on me indignantly. 
 
 " ' No you won't ; and let me tell you, Ned 
 Ballington, if ever you put your hands on me 
 again, I'll I'll ' 
 
 '"Well give me your hand, then, Miss 
 Philips, and if you don't do that, then just get 
 on your pacing pony any way you can. I 
 wish now I'd let you fix your saddle, too.' 
 
 " She laughed gayly, sprang into the saddle, 
 adjusted the stirrup to her foot and looked 
 down at me with a triumphant smile in her 
 dark blue eyes. 
 
 " 'Always want folks runnin' after you an' 
 bowin' down to you like you was a queen,' I 
 64
 
 The Thrasher 
 
 went on, bitterly, 'an' when they do you a 
 favor you seem to think it's just your natural 
 dues an' you don't thank 'em a bit.' 
 
 "She smiled provokingly and tossed her 
 curls. 
 
 " ' The meanes' folks in the world,' I went 
 on, 'is them that ain't thankful for what they 
 get.' 
 
 " ' Now all this, Mister Ballington,' she said, 
 with an ironical emphasis on the Mister, ' all 
 this is because I wouldn't let you kiss me.' 
 
 " 1 flushed hotly under the truth of this. 
 
 " ' You ain't a bit better than Thesis,' I ex- 
 claimed, 'and not half so good.' 
 
 " By that I saw that I had stepped on dan- 
 gerous ground. I had touched the one weak 
 spot in her character. 
 
 "'Well, do me the kindness to go and 
 waste Miss Thesis's time discussing it,' she ex- 
 claimed, freezingly. ' Mine is valuable, and 
 Sappho and I are going home.' 
 
 "She started off, leaving me utterly un- 
 horsed and miserable. 
 
 " It is one of the queer things in our make- 
 up, Content, that the unattainable has only 
 5 65
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 to put on the helmet of Diana of the Ephesians 
 to make us fall down in worship. And yet if 
 the stars really fell to the earth, and we might 
 gather them as we do 'daisies, it would not 
 be long ere we'd be classing them with fire- 
 flies. 
 
 " When she rode off in her haughty and 
 queenly way, I thought she was never more 
 beautiful. 
 
 " ' Bernice !' I called, shamedly. ' Please 
 stop.' 
 
 " She drew up her pony with a little gesture 
 of impatient non-compliance. 
 
 " ' Bernice,' I said softly, walking up to the 
 side of her pony, ' I was meaner than a dog. 
 Please take one of my rabbits. You are so 
 pretty.' 
 
 " She flushed in a pleased way and said, 
 4 O, well, since it'll please you, Ned, just tie 
 the thing to my saddle. But I'm not particu- 
 larly fond of rabbits.' 
 
 " In a few minutes she had cantered off in 
 the twilight, while I I had laid my first 
 tribute on the altar of infatuation." 
 
 66
 
 THESIS. 
 
 A SOUTHERN woman ay, what worth 
 implied, 
 
 What loyal lines of true nobility ! 
 Product of pride and sweet humility. 
 Grace that hath flowered and long defied 
 The red-rude hands when other graces died. 
 Modesty born of higher laws and free, 
 Spirit as placid as the unruffled sea 
 From coarser winds its destiny denied. 
 
 From cultured acres of ancestral worth 
 There springest now the lily of their soil, 
 
 The blossom of the land that gave thee birth, 
 The alabaster box of precious oil. 
 
 Live, that the beauty of your bloom may grow, 
 
 Till all the world a sweeter fragrance know.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 N TOW, there is her cousin, Thesis, Con- 
 1 N tent the Colonel's niece whose 
 parents died when she was an infant. Unlike 
 his brother, her father had no farms and herds 
 and orchards, and when he died Thesis was 
 taken to her uncle's home to live. I am telling 
 you this that you may know all the facts, Con- 
 tent, and why no blue-grass farm will come 
 with Thesis's dower. 
 
 " You have seen her a hundred times, Con- 
 tent, with her sweet, dimpled face, and great, 
 sad, thoughtful eyes, and her quiet, unselfish 
 ways. And her eyes such wonderful eyes, 
 Content. 
 
 " Thesis; you have seen her, Content; she 
 who shuns where Bernice seeks ; who waits 
 where Bernice walks ; who gives where Ber- 
 nice gets." 
 
 69
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 Uoli a-e-oli-noli-nol-a-e-oli-lee ! 
 
 I sprang from the grass in joyful excitement 
 when the opening notes of this well-known 
 flute-song floated like clear music-bubbles 
 across my sea of air. I had heard it too often 
 not to know the luscious, liquid, ripened 
 melody that came in the early Spring with the 
 penetrating force of clarion-notes from a silver 
 bugle at the lips of Fame. 
 
 "The wood-thrush, cows! Two weeks 
 ahead of time. Hurrah for an early Spring 
 and a sweet Summer !" 
 
 I looked cautiously around me to see whence 
 came the music, for 1 knew the modest, dainty 
 and aristocratic ways of this graceful, retiring 
 bird, and I did not wish to play the groundling 
 in the pit to the classic utterances of this 
 sweet singer. 
 
 Of all the thrush family, except the hermit 
 thrush, 1 knew this fellow was the shyest and 
 least often seen. Unlike his cousins, the 
 robin, thrasher and mocking-bird, he is heard 
 more than he Is seen. And unlike the thrasher, 
 who but a half hour ago entertained us from 
 
 the loftiest top of a locust branch, I knew 1 
 70
 
 Thesis 
 
 must look for this poet of the woods under 
 the lowest limbs, where the green leaves 
 close over him in the thick splendor of an 
 emerald sky, making a solitude of sweetness 
 for this rare singer, before he would give us 
 his heart-song. 
 
 It took me ten minutes to locate him, so 
 securely had he selected his bower, and so 
 nearly the color of his brown back was that 
 of his retreat. He was sitting on a lower 
 limb, close to the body of a black-gum, around 
 and above which a wild grapevine had twisted 
 and twined, and though its leaves had not 
 yet put out, it made a bower almost impene- 
 trable. 
 
 There was not the least effort in his sing- 
 ing. Unlike the thrasher's, it seemed to pour 
 from his golden, reedy beak, as a silver stream 
 leaps from the bronzed lip of a statue of Pan, 
 above a fountain. And, indeed, the entire 
 bird seemed a fountain of music. His white 
 throat and breast, dotted with heart-shaped 
 spots, was the silvery fountain of the pool, 
 over which darker bubbles floated. His little 
 bronzed body was the statue above it; his 
 7
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 bright eyes gleamed like sunbeams in the 
 pool, and from his yellow, golden beak there 
 poured a stream of music with the distinctive, 
 bell-like chimes of a pure, cold stream tumb- 
 ling into a deep pool of resting water. Listen- 
 ing, I scarcely knew whether to call it a chime 
 of silver bells, the notes of a rare stringed in- 
 strument, or the tinkling of a mountain spring 
 over the face of a bluff of brown Tennessee 
 marble. 
 
 He ceased as suddenly as he began. Then, 
 like the modest creature he was, he slipped off 
 into the darker forest without waiting for any 
 applause. 
 
 It was some time before I wanted to talk 
 again. After such music one wishes to com- 
 mune with one's own soul. But presently I 
 was aroused by Content ceasing to chew her 
 cud and looking at me fixedly. I started be- 
 cause she had assumed the exact attitude of 
 Miss Cynthia just before she asks me a ques- 
 tion. Fearing she might, 1 went on. 
 
 "Oh, yes, as I was saying, Content, there 
 is her cousin, Thesis. It was the occasion of 
 my fifteenth birthday, and my mother had 
 72
 
 Thesis 
 
 given me a birthday party. I was just at that 
 age when, like a newly-fledged insect, I was 
 quite a bit larger than I would ever be again. I 
 had got mad with Bernice for some of her slights 
 and haughtiness peculiarly exasperating this 
 time and so had asked Thesis to go with me. 
 She was ten then, and such a sweet, unselfish 
 being as one might only meet in paradise. 
 
 " How delighted she was! How her eyes 
 shone, and how gladly she consented ! But 
 the next day I remember it so well she 
 walked across the field to Lynwood, and when 
 I saw her she was wearing a little sunbonnet, 
 and beckoning to me with berry-stained 
 fingers to come out to our playground under 
 the grapevine arbor. 
 
 "'Hello, Thesis! what have you come so 
 early for, before I was dressed for the party ? 
 I was goin' to come after you, in the after- 
 noon, you know.' 
 
 "'Oh, Ned, don't don't tease me to-day 
 when I've come so far to do right. I'm in 
 earnest, Ned.' 
 
 " ' Of course you are you are always in 
 earnest the earnestest thing I ever saw,' 
 73
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 " 'But very, very earnest this time, Ned.' 
 
 "Here she shook her head in that funny lit- 
 tle way she had when she was very positive 
 about anything. 
 
 " 'Ned, I'mI'm I'm too little to go you 
 must go with Bernice to the party.' 
 
 " ' Too little ! Stand up by my side, Thesis 
 Philips. Just to my shoulders. You're just 
 right. All married people, that's married 
 right, fit just about that way. The bride 
 always comes up to the groom's shoulder.' 
 
 " ' Oh, Ned, how can you talk so ! I I I 
 b'leeve I'll go home. Oh, Ned, I can't go 
 with you. I'm in earnest.' 
 
 " ' Thesis, let me tell you something. I'm 
 in earnest, too. Ned Ballington will no longer 
 be tampered with. His manly feelings will no 
 longer be lacerated.' 
 
 " I had got that speech out of my first novel 
 a cheap one I'd read up in the hay -loft and 
 hid in the cracks of the barn when not read- 
 ing. The occasion was where the hero swore 
 he'd die before he'd further submit to the 
 slights of the heartless heroine. 
 
 " ' No,' I continued pompously, ' they will 
 74
 
 Thesis 
 
 no longer be lacerated. He ain't built that 
 way. He's made up his mind to quit lovin' 
 that proud, mean cousin of yours, an' an* 
 Thesis, I'm goin' to ' 
 
 " She looked tantalizingly sweet in her white 
 apron, her sunbonnet awry, and her curls 
 peeping out from under it. She looked at me 
 so innocently and yet so sadly that 1 stopped, 
 blushed and hung my head. 
 
 "'Ned, ain't you ashamed of yourself not 
 to love Bernice ?' and her big eyes brought 
 me to scorn. Then she stooped, plucked a 
 daisy and began to pull it, petal by petal, 
 apart. She was shyly looking at me from the 
 corner of her eyes, and 1 saw a half-concealed 
 laugh on her lips as she began to tell her for- 
 tune in the flower. ' He loves me little, he 
 loves me he loves me not,' she said. 
 
 " ' But 1 do love you,' 1 said, ' 1 am goin' 
 to love you instead of Bernice, Thesis, daisy 
 or no daisy.' 
 
 "'Oh, Ned, you mustn't you mustn't 
 you mustn't think of that. Oh, no no no ! 
 Ned, how can you ? ' And she shook her head 
 again in that funny, solemn way she had. 
 75
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 "'But I am, an' I'm goin' to marry you 
 jus' as soon as you get big enough see if I 
 don't ! I'll spite that mean Bernice, if I die 
 for it.' 
 
 "She put her berry-stained fingers over my 
 mouth. 
 
 "'Ned! Ned! Hush!' 
 
 " 'An' you shall live in my big house with 
 me, an* it will be yours an' mine,' I said. 
 
 " ' Ned ! Ned ! Hush h-u-s-h !' 
 
 " 'An' we'll not even invite Bernice to see 
 us jus' let her die, the mean old maid that 
 she is. An' nobody'U live here, Thesis, but 
 jus' you an' me nobody !' 
 
 "She shook her head very solemnly and 
 quietly. 
 
 " ' Oh, yes, Thesis, an' we'll play around all 
 day, an' love nobody but jus' each other, an' 
 drink cream clabber all day long, if we want to, 
 an' have pancake fritters every night; Thesis, 
 just think of it, every night, for supper !' 
 
 "She still continued to shake her head and 
 to look away. 
 
 '"Oh, Ned, how sweet of you, how 
 lovely !' 
 
 76
 
 Thesis 
 
 "'An'an', Thesis, I'll ride you on the 
 wheelbarrow all the time when we ain't eatin' 
 pancakes, an' when we ain't doin* that, we'll 
 hunt for guinea-nests an' jacky-worms.' 
 
 "But she only shook her head the more 
 positively and sadly, though she murmured, 
 ' How sweet, how lovely !' 
 
 "'I tell you, Thesis,' I said, getting quite 
 positive myself, 'jus' since we've been talkin' 
 I've found it all out. I've found out I love 
 you, an' I don't love her, an' I love you 
 harder'n harder'n well harder'n anything 
 in the worl', an' I love you right now 
 Charley-on-the-spot, red leather, bargain done 
 forever, now an' forever. Amen ! Thesis, be 
 my sweetheart till we get big enough to 
 marry.' 
 
 " ' Oh, Ned, how lovely of you ! But I 
 I can't ! An' I've come 'way over here to 
 tell you 1 can't. An* I can't even go with 
 you this evenin'.' 
 
 " ' Look here, Thesis Philips, are you gettin' 
 
 stuck up, too ? Is the whole Philips family 
 
 goin' back on Ned Ballington ? Well, Miss 
 
 Thesis, let me tell you right now, the nex' 
 
 77
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 time Edward G. Ballington offers his company 
 to one of the Philips family, also his hand, an' 
 his heart an' home, an' his pancakes an' clab- 
 ber an' e-v-e-r-y-thing he's got, you'll be 
 catchin' jacky-worms in January there 
 now !' 
 
 " And I turned on my heels indignantly. 
 
 " 'Oh, Ned, you don't understan'. Please 
 don't. Oh, don't get mad at me !' and she 
 clung to my coat-sleeve. 
 
 "This was what I wanted. I struck an 
 offended, stage attitude, such as I'd read about 
 in my novel, and said, freezingly: 
 
 " ' Edward G. Ballington, Miss Philips, don't 
 have to run all over the country for girls to 
 go with him to his own party. A gentleman, 
 madam, never gives his word but once, neither 
 does he take but one refusal. Therefore, be 
 cautious how thou speakest the word that may 
 blight thy life forever.' 
 
 " She looked at me with positive admiration 
 in her eyes. I could see I was playing a win- 
 ning hand, and I rummaged around for some 
 other scenes from my novel. 
 
 " ' But tell me, Miss Philips hist, madam 
 73
 
 Thesis 
 
 tell me, is there another man in it ? Is it Joe 
 Forde ? If so, just show him to me. Let me 
 but get a glimpse of his craven countenance,' 
 and I felt in an imaginary hip-pocket for the 
 weapon a Tennessee gentleman always car- 
 ries for such an emergency. 
 
 " She held on to my arm. ' Oh, Ned, don't 
 shoot anybody that'll be murder !' 
 
 " 'Well I won't, Thesis, if if if you say 
 not. But let not the craven that would ruth- 
 lessly destroy my happiness cross my path ! 
 Let him keep the wide ocean between us ! 
 The man don't live that can steal the jewel of 
 Edward G. Ballington's life an' go unwhipped 
 of justice!' 
 
 " 'Oh, Ned, how beautiful, how beautiful 
 you talk ! Oh, I wish I could but I can't. 
 You must say all that to Bernice.' 
 
 "'Miss Philips' freezingly 'allow Ed- 
 ward G. Ballington to bid you good evenin', 
 an' to politely inform you that the stars will 
 turn backward ere he speak these words to 
 your fair cousin. Allow me to bid you ' 
 
 " ' Oh, Ned, don't go that way. I can't go 
 with you. It'll be selfish and wrong, Ned.' 
 79
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 " You won't go with me, Miss Philips ? An* 
 when did you get so grown, pray ? Ain't we 
 been raised together, an' played together all 
 our lives ? Why when you was three years old 
 an' jus' could toddle, you was running around 
 after me all over the place. Zounds ! madam, 
 I couldn't seek a cloistered nook to engage in 
 silent meditation but you'd be there, climbing 
 all over my lap and cryin' if I didn't let you 
 pull all the buttons out of my shirt-front.' 
 
 " ' Oh, Ned, don't please don't ! 1 was so 
 little then !' 
 
 " 'Nor could I retire to the restful quietude 
 of my chamber, nor follow the chase in the 
 deep, dark woods, nor lead my warriors to 
 battle, without accountin' to you first, or else 
 have your screams and female lamentations 
 arouse the whole neighborhood.' 
 
 '"Oh, Ned, don't!' 
 
 " 'Yes, Madam Growny, an' have you for- 
 gotten the day you was three years old an' 
 they brought you to spend the day with me ?' 
 
 " 'Oh, Ned, please don't ; I was so little 
 then, and I didn't know no better. Oh, Ned, 
 please don't tell that !' 
 80
 
 Thesis 
 
 " ' An' 1 broke myself down swingin* you all 
 day, an* climbin* the barn-loft to get you 
 pigeon-eggs, an* rollin* you in the wheelbar- 
 row all day, like you was some queen and I 
 was a was a ah a houri, yes, a houri, 
 that waits on a queen.' 
 
 " 4 Ah, you were glad enough to go with me 
 then. Well, when I'd broke myself down 
 trundlin' you aroun' 1 went to sleep in my 
 trundle-bed, while they was washin' the smut 
 off your face you got by tryin' to look at the 
 sun through a smoked glass an' looking through 
 the wrong side of it. An' I went to sleep in 
 the trundle-bed, as 1 was sayin' ' 
 
 " 'Oh, Ned, don't don't,' and she tried to 
 put her hand over my mouth again. 
 
 44 'Yes, 1 will remind you of it, Miss Philips ; 
 you were not ashamed of Edward G. Balling- 
 ton then.' 
 
 44 ' Oh, Ned, how can you ?' 
 
 " 4 An' when I woke up, who was in that lit- 
 tle bed with me but the dainty Miss Philips, 
 that is, in her clean bib, an' sound asleep with 
 both arms around my neck, an' 1 was so 
 
 mad 1 ' 
 
 6 Si
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 " ' Oh, Ned, yes, you did ; you bit me you 
 know you did.' 
 
 " ' Yes, I did bite you. I couldn't get rid of 
 you any other way.' 
 
 " ' I was so little I didn't know no better, 
 Ned.' 
 
 " ' You know better now know so much 
 better that you won't even go with me to my 
 own party,' and I jerked indignantly away 
 from her. And then I saw I had overdone it 
 overacted my part. When I looked at her 
 again she was sitting on the grass, sobbing 
 bitterly. 
 
 " I went up and sat down by her. I had 
 never felt that way before. Now I know a 
 man is never so young and never so old that 
 he does not stand subdued and awed before a 
 woman's tears. 
 
 " To him they are a mystery the mystery 
 of a birth. An unsolved problem -the problem 
 of a death. For they come with the sorrowing 
 pain of a birth and the silent wonder of death. 
 
 " Unfathomed lakes that sleep in the mysteri- 
 ous mountains of the mind until some strange 
 
 upheaval of the soul forces them to burst their 
 82
 
 Thesis 
 
 channels and roll down its sides, refreshing, 
 moistening, renewing that life that lives 
 within. 
 
 "And they are always new to hinS he never 
 gets used to them. Beings from another world, 
 a world that is not a part of his world and which 
 he cannot understand. Stars, strange, wan- 
 dering stars, that have fallen from their sky. 
 Outcast angels, upon whose robes some spot 
 has been found, and so forced over the jasper 
 walls and out of the temple of light in their 
 nakedness and penitence. Forced from the 
 realms of the Invisible, to be seen and scorned 
 and to suffer in the kingdom of the Visible. 
 Culprits of light, crowned yet with the rain- 
 bow of their hope, and in the garments of their 
 immortality, driven by an angel with a flam- 
 ing sword from the garden of their Eden to 
 wander as outcasts in the world. Salt tear 
 waves from a Spirit sea, breaking on the desert 
 beach, where only Sorrow sits enthroned, and 
 bringing on their crests the wrecked pleasure 
 crafts of every joy, the shattered galleons of 
 every hope. 
 
 "And woe is that man who is not touched by 
 83
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 them ! Let him know that he is no longer a 
 man and has no right to wear man's mantle 
 that ' he should be sent back to the mint of 
 nature, and there reissued out of baser metal 
 as a counterfeit on humanity.' 
 
 "They should touch him as nothing earthly 
 may. They should take him away from him- 
 self and the world of himself, and in a moment 
 he should stand at the threshold of another 
 world an invisible world where the spirit is 
 supreme and the body unknown. That world 
 of tenderness and light ; of seeing things alto- 
 gether, plainly, clearly, sweetly; where the 
 air is the breath of God, and its light but the 
 light of His eye, the stars but his poems writ 
 in the sky, and its water but His own tears, 
 where those who drink shall not perish, 
 neither shall they thirst any more. 
 
 "All all of that is in the rounded sphere of 
 one tear from a holy woman's eye. 
 
 " I sat down beside her. Something funny 
 rose in my throat as she continued to sob. 
 
 "'Thesis, I'm so sorry. If you'll hush, 
 you may have my new pony and I'll send 
 you a valentine. 
 
 84
 
 Thesis 
 
 " 'An* the new white kitten I found yester- 
 day in the hayloft, Thesis. Oh, for mercy 
 sake, h-u-s-h. It nearly kills us men to see 
 you women cry.' 
 
 "The sobbing hushed, indeed it was 
 changed to a flood of tears. 
 
 "'Thesis! Thesis! Please hush. They'll 
 think I've bit you again, an' jus' think of the 
 whippin' I'll get. Think of me, Thesis ; not 
 for heaven's sake, but for my sake. Hush !' 
 
 " This appeal to her unselfishness was too 
 much. The tears ceased. She wiped her eyes 
 .on her apron, but continued to sob. 
 
 "'Ned, you you don't understand. You 
 must go with Bernice. Pro prom promise 
 me, Ned, you'll go. That you'll love her an' 
 not me, an' an' an' I'll quit cryin'. Oh 
 hoo oo ! ' 
 
 "'Jimminy, Thesis! I'll promise you any- 
 thing if you'll only hush. It makes me nerv- 
 ous. I feel like I've swallowed a wiggling min- 
 now an' that somebody has has touched a 
 funny-bone in my gizzard. Oh, lordy, do 
 hush !' 
 
 " She wiped her eyes on her apron. I drew 
 85
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 a great sigh of relief. * Oh my, Thesis ! I'd 
 rather dream I was fallin* off a housetop. I'd 
 rather wake up o' nights a-seein' things. I'd 
 rather a cat would suck my breath. I'd I'd 
 rather anything than to see you cry !' 
 
 " This brought a rippling, little, sunshiny 
 smile into her eyes. 
 
 "Then she said solemnly, ' Ned, it's right. 
 We must give up what we love to others.' 
 
 " ' Phew ! Well, that's a corker, sure. But 
 what put that into your head ?' 
 
 " 'Nothin', Ned ; it was already there.' 
 
 "'Look here, Thesis, that's nonsense. 1 
 love you best. I've just found it out. You 
 are so lovable how can I help it ? An' 1 won't 
 give you up.' 
 
 "She shook her head. 'We must give up 
 our things to others give up to others, Ned. 
 It makes them happy.' 
 
 "'Oh, no, Thesis, not when it comes to 
 sweethearts. We don't give up our sweet- 
 hearts to others. That don't work worth a 
 shuck.' 
 
 "'But it will, Ned, yes, it will even in 
 
 sweethearts because because we love 'em, 
 86
 
 Thesis 
 
 you know, an' the more we give up the better 
 it makes us ; because because we love 'em, 
 you know.' 
 
 " 1 saw two tears start into her eyes again. 
 She jumped up quickly. 
 
 " ' Good-by, Ned, good-by. I must go. Kiss 
 me good-by, Ned, and don't be mad at me, but 
 1 can't it's right I can't, you know.' 
 
 " It was an innocent, sweet little face that 
 was turned up to me, and there were tears in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "'Kiss me good-by, Ned. Oh, don't be 
 mad at me. I'm only doing right.' 
 
 "Then I discovered something else about 
 man's nature. A kiss stolen is a star ; given, 
 it becomes only a puny meteor of iron and clay 
 that has fallen to the earth. 
 
 " I turned on my heel, fool that 1 was, and 
 threw a rock at a jay-bird instead. 
 
 " When 1 looked again I saw a little white, 
 sorrowful and subdued sunbonnet crawling 
 under the pasture-bars and then flying across 
 the fields. 
 
 " I don't know how it was, but that evening 
 1 went with Bernice to the party." 
 87
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 Thesis! Thesis! Thesis! Thesis! 
 
 Don't you love her ? Don't you love her? Don't 
 
 you love her ? 
 
 Angelic/ Angelic/ Angelic! Angelic! 
 S-we-e-t one ! S-w-e-e-t one! S-w-e-e-t one! 
 S-w-e-e-t one! 
 
 I jumped up from the grass with a laugh. 
 " Good heavens, cows ! Did you ever hear a 
 bird speak more plainly than that mocking- 
 bird did?"
 
 A BIRD BIOGRAPHER. 
 
 FOR her the hills with blue emboss'd, 
 And kerchief'd fields cross country 
 
 toss'd, 
 
 And baby clouds that languid lie 
 Amid the drapery of the sky ; 
 And lanes that lead where lovers meet 
 To lips that laugh and, laughing greet 
 Fair lover lips with kisses sweet 
 The girl that loves a horse. 
 
 For her the sunset's trailing tress 
 Fair laid on neck of loveliness ; 
 And new-moon pearl'd amid the trees 
 Diana gemmed for such as these. 
 And lisp of night-winds prattling low 
 Where roses bloom and lilies blow, 
 Sweet mem'ries of a maid I know 
 The girl that loves a horse. 
 
 And health lies in her dimpled cheek 
 So plump and pink it seems to speak, 
 While joy within her eyes doth make 
 
 Reflected rainbows in a lake. 
 89
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 And sweet contentment, shepherdess 
 Of all her flocks of happiness, 
 Shall guide her and forever bless 
 The girl that loves a horse.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FOR a while I forgot everything else, listen- 
 ing to this prince of singers. It is so easy 
 to set the music of a mocking-bird to words. 
 Only let him sing, and it is a barren imagina- 
 tion, indeed, that does not at once b/ossom and 
 ripen into a harvest of words sheaves of song 
 and sentiment, granaries of golden thought. 
 For his music touches the very fountains of 
 life and starts all its springs anew. And that 
 is where the mocking-bird is a great poet, for 
 only great poets can do that. 
 
 To-day he seemed verily to sing a biography 
 of Thesis. And what a biography it was! 
 Lucky Thesis ! Who among earth's greatest 
 can say that his life has been told in an opera 
 where the singer was the soul of a bird, and 
 the music the flute-notes of heaven ? 
 
 " Thesis ! Thesis ! Thesis ! don't you 
 91
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 love her ? Don't you love her ?" he went on, 
 and, having caught my attention with his start- 
 ling prelude, he began in a gentle narrative to 
 tell me all about her. And he sang it as plainly 
 as if he had preached it in words her innocent 
 beauty, her sweet unselfishness, her great 
 conceptions of right, her lofty idea of sacrific- 
 ing even love for another's happiness, her 
 nature as open as the full, red rose that blooms 
 and knows not why, her soul as transparent 
 as the tiny drop in the heart of it. 
 
 As he sang 1 followed, and the words were 
 woven around his song as easily as star-sparks 
 troop after the sun, and as naturally as the 
 wreaths of the milky-way twine their great, 
 golden tendrils around the pillars of the sky. 
 
 Ah ! but a mocking-bird is an artist. And 
 so he began in baby prattling to paint her, the 
 wee, toddling bundle of unselfishness I knew 
 in the long ago. So little and helpless an 
 orphan on the world and yet so strong al- 
 ready in character and soul. 1 followed him 
 as he carried her through her school-days, 
 with me a silent worshipper, to her college- 
 days, when she and Bernice were away at 
 92
 
 A Bird Biographer 
 
 college, and my funny, overdrawn, romantic 
 letters would come to her now and then. On, 
 on, down to the present, a quiet little woman 
 in her uncle's house, cheering all, helping all, 
 loving all, the soul of truth and gentleness 
 and sweetness until it seemed to me, as he 
 painted in lines of melody the picture of her 
 loveliness, his very song caught a climax of 
 splendor. 
 
 "Thesis ! Thesis ! Thesis ! Thesis 1" he 
 thundered in a grand finale, "don't you love 
 her ? don't you love her ? don't you love 
 
 " Go to, you necromancer !" I jumped up 
 and shouted laughingly. "Go to, you con- 
 juring idiot ! Haven't 1 loved her all these 
 years ? Didn't I sing her praises before you 
 were born ? You are a fresh one, to be tell- 
 ing me whom to love." 
 
 He gave me a quick, startled look, as if he 
 remembered what Shakespeare had said about 
 a poet, a lunatic and a lover, and the next 
 instant he had placed himself on the safe side 
 of the pasture. 
 
 It was nearly sundown when I started for 
 93
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 the house. The cows had gone an hour ago. 
 1 had seen old Wash let down the bars for 
 them. I had reached the pike and climbed 
 the rail fence. For a moment I sat there, rest- 
 ing. A yellow-breasted wheat-bird, almost a 
 miniature field lark, swung on a tall wheat- 
 stalk and eyed me as he sang his monotonous 
 chee chee che-e-e. He was a beautiful little 
 fellow, and, from the answering echoes further 
 on in the wheat-field, I knew there would soon 
 be many a little yellow breast hid beneath the 
 sheltering green of the wheat canopy. 
 
 One has only to be silent and quiet to get 
 acquainted with birds. They like not noise 
 and the turmoils of life. Step out into the fields 
 and be quiet. Imitate nature in stillness and 
 her peaceful ways, and see how quickly they 
 will come to seek an introduction to you. How 
 soon they learn to know you, and that you 
 mean them no harm. But fret in the least, 
 stir around as if you were working for pay, 
 and see how they will vanish before you like 
 the fairest of childhood dreams before the 
 daylight of after-life. 
 
 And so, as I sat upon the fence, almost at 
 94
 
 A Bird Biographer 
 
 my feet two robust, buxom partridges slipped 
 from under the rails, and, with many a quaint 
 flutter and happy, rollicking look, started as 
 two gay school-girls would run across a lawn, 
 hand in hand, for the next field. Half-way 
 across the pike they saw me, and dropped to 
 the earth as quickly as two brown bullets to 
 the breech of a gun. Had I moved, had I raised 
 a finger, had 1 frowned even, they had been 
 gone as a bullet before a charge of powder. 
 For a moment they scanned with quick, cun- 
 ning eyes my face, my posture, the very cut, 
 I thought, of my coat, and the turn of my col- 
 lar. It must have been satisfactory, for soon 
 one, then the other, slipped away, shyly and 
 slowly at first, then romped it down the road 
 and disappeared in the neighboring field. 
 They had scarcely gotten out of sight before 
 a splendid Baltimore oriole flew over me close 
 down and darted into a spot of ground be- 
 tween me and the shadows of the trees. As 
 it lingered a moment against the sky it looked 
 not unlike a miniature rainbow with wings, or 
 a ray of sunlight shot through glass of old gold 
 and orange. 
 
 95
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 I was still watching the bird when I heard a 
 clatter of feet coming down the pike, which, 
 from the poetical intonations of the hoof-beats, 
 I had learned to know before, and, knowing 
 it, I instinctively experienced the same pleas- 
 ure as one who knows the sunshine has burst 
 from a cloud behind him, and the next instant 
 will stream across his path. It was Bernice, 
 taking her evening ride ; and, fearless rider 
 that she was, she was exercising her father's 
 saddle sire. 
 
 It was a perfect picture this glorious girl 
 and this glorious horse pride and pedigree, 
 grace and beauty. 
 
 And if there is an animal under heaven 
 more perfect than this horse as he reels his 
 fancy gaits down a sunshiny pike, under the 
 guiding hand of a rider who knows how to ride, 
 I have never seen it. There is something 
 about the proud sire of the graceful single- 
 footer that may not be seen in any other 
 monarch of the paddock. To one who sees 
 beyond the perfected mechanism of flesh and 
 bone, who would read a horse's character from 
 
 his form and movements as he would read 
 96
 
 A Bird Biographer 
 
 human characteristics from voice and expres- 
 sion in other words, to one who really knows 
 the difference between horse and horses the 
 superb, graceful, intelligent, almost human, 
 saddle-horse is totally different from them all. 
 The moment I see him 1 feel that there is an 
 indescribable something about him, from the 
 turn of his neat foot and graceful leg to bony 
 head and finely-moulded muscle, that tells me 
 1 am looking neither at the sire of runners nor 
 of trotters, nor of pacers. And as for such 
 a creature siring a draught horse, I'd sooner 
 expect to see Hyperion sire a Satyr. 
 
 And what is more beautiful than a beautiful 
 woman on a superb horse ? And who rides 
 with more grace than the women of Kentucky 
 and Tennessee, in these homes of the saddle- 
 horse ? 
 
 If I were the parent of a homely girl, I'd 
 start her to ridin^ in her infancy. If that 
 doesn't save her, she is past-grand mistress of 
 homeliness. 
 
 Listen ! The intonation deepens as it ap- 
 proaches, and the regular measure of the steel- 
 forged cymbals on the smooth pike carried me 
 7 97
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 back to a school-room, where I first heard the 
 old professor scan, with low, regular cadence, 
 my first line of Virgil. Like a sunbeam she 
 bursts by, gracefully throwing me a smile and 
 a tip from her riding-whip. High up on the 
 horse's withers she sat, quiet, easy and natu- 
 ral, and not a muscle moves, save the slightly 
 undulating sway of a faultless bust, in a blue 
 tailor-made riding-habit, as it imperceptibly 
 maintains its centre of gravity under the rap- 
 idly moving horse. The animal's mane flut- 
 ters in front and ripples like a bright silken 
 banner in the wind, and so high is the crest of 
 the flag-staff and so lofty the arch of the neck 
 that bears it, that in its backward flutters it 
 dallies fondly with the flushed cheeks of the 
 rider as if to screen them from rougher winds. 
 A fore-top that a Circassian maid might envy 
 is divided over a pair of mirthful, luminous and 
 almost human eyes, and coquettes through a 
 silken head-stall with a pair of sensitive ears 
 in delightful and wavy negligee. Away they 
 go rider and ridden yet do they appear as 
 one. 
 
 The motion of the feet of all other horses is 
 98
 
 A Bird Biographer 
 
 easily described when we say the runner runs, 
 the trotter trots, and the pacer paces. These 
 are the alphabets of gaits, compared to which 
 the movements of the saddle-horse are the 
 Odes of Anacreon. His forefeet, almost too 
 proud to touch the sordid earth, advance with 
 the disdain, the freedom, the assurance and 
 haughtiness of a splendid young brigade in a 
 double-quick charge at a fort full of cowards, 
 while the quick patter of their hind com- 
 panions follows with a less erratic stride in 
 military time, and while not so full of youth- 
 ful hilarity and earth-spurning impatience, 
 appear not unlike the. sedate movements of a 
 veteran reserve. 
 
 But while you admire, the vision is gone. 
 Adown the pike their heads are on a line, and 
 a little further on, by a slight twist of a firm 
 hand, the graceful machinery is seen suddenly 
 to wheel with military precision for a sharp 
 bend in the road, and for an instant you see a 
 statue against the sky a statue of Athene 
 riding Pegasus. 
 
 At the house I came barely in time to miss 
 Thesis. She had dropped in for a chat with 
 99
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 Miss Cynthia. Now she had slipped away 
 across the same meadow, and under the same 
 bars she had gone through long ago. I had 
 tried to cut across the field to intercept her, 
 but she was too quick for me. That was 
 twice I had tried to see her since she had come 
 home from school, and failed. I had called on 
 them, but only to see Bernice both times. I 
 watched her as she went across the field. 
 Twice I thought I would call to her to come 
 back, but in the little demure way she walked, 
 in the sweet unselfish poise, the unconscious 
 grace of rectitude and right, I could only look 
 and be silent. It was sunset, and the glint of 
 it got into her hair. And then, as she slipped 
 through the bars, there came to me the recol- 
 lection of other years the sunset of a memory. 
 She paused to put up the bars, and then, for 
 the first time, she saw me. I took off my hat 
 in a mock heroic way. She threw me a saucy 
 little kiss and ran into the house. 
 
 100
 
 T 
 
 THE JEWEL THAT LIVES. 
 
 IS rings for the ears of the ladies 
 
 As it was in the days of old, 
 But give me the ring in the soul to sing 
 
 A pedigree of gold. 
 For there's more in blood than in money, 
 
 And there's more in brains than in gold, 
 And jewels are fair in a maiden's hair, 
 
 But the jewel that lives is the soul. 
 
 Then deck the body in beauty, 
 
 With damask and lace of old, 
 But give me the grace that says on its face 
 
 The pedigree is gold. 
 For there's more in sire than in satin, 
 
 And there's more in dam than in gold. 
 And jewels will do for a year or two, 
 
 But the jewel that lives is the soul. 
 
 Would you strut in a cheap endeavor, 
 
 In trappings of brass and bold ? 
 toi
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 You'll quit in the race when they set the 
 
 pace 
 
 If your pedigree is not gold. 
 For there's more in grit than in grooming, 
 
 And there's more in gait than in gold, 
 And whatever you do you may hold this 
 
 true : 
 The jewel that lives is the soul I 
 
 \02
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 OLD Wash and I have a way of sitting out 
 on the veranda, moonlight nights, and 
 talking horse while we smoke. This talking 
 horse habit is dreadful if it once gets a hold 
 on a man there is no cure for it. I am con- 
 vinced it is born in some men and never can 
 be got out of them. It is harmless, though, 
 and gives its victims no end of pleasure. It is 
 more soothing than pipes, more comrade-mak- 
 ing than war and the tented field, and it draws 
 men into closer bonds than mystic societies 
 and the midnight riding of imaginary goats. 
 Old Wash and I both have a good inheritance 
 of it. 
 
 Miss Cynthia dislikes horses she says they 
 make her nervous ; and she accounts for it on a 
 rule of heredity she has. Miss Cynthia dotes 
 very strongly on heredity. She read it to me 
 once out of a book on that subject, and it was 
 
 something like this : " A nervous shock expert- 
 103
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 enced by an ancestor will be transmitted, more 
 or less, to the descendants." " That's a true 
 rule, Miss Cynthia," 1 said, "and I suppose it 
 explains why all women are afraid of mice." 
 
 The nervous shock Miss Cynthia experi- 
 enced was quite severe. I thought anybody, 
 even a woman, could drive old Tom the 
 surrey horse so 1 let Miss Cynthia drive him 
 to Ashwood one afternoon. In two hours she 
 was back again, excited, hysterical, and call- 
 ing for her smelling-salts. 
 
 f The brute !" she exclaimed. " Why, do 
 you know he drove along beautifully for five 
 miles. He had but one mile further to go, and 
 I was just congratulating myself that he would 
 go the whole distance, when all at once he 
 decided he had gone far enough, and despite 
 my cries and beseechings my frantic, frantic 
 expostulations even he deliberately turned 
 the phaeton around and brought me back 
 home ! Oh, 1 shall never drive again ! I know 
 I have experienced a shock that will bring me 
 under that rule I mean oh oh !" 
 
 1 never before saw Miss Cynthia so con- 
 fused and excited. I laughed at her then, but 
 104
 
 The Jewel that Lives 
 
 my triumph was short lived. That very after- 
 noon I took my drive as was my wont. It 
 was eight o'clock before I got back. I came 
 very near not getting back at all. Miss 
 Cynthia had recovered from her fright and 
 was busy on her bust of Andrew Jackson. 
 
 " What is the matter?" she said, as I threw 
 myself down in a chair and heaved a deep 
 sigh. 
 
 " I went driving this afternoon," I said. 
 
 Miss Cynthia put two little interrogatory 
 looking stitches in to make the corners of 
 Andrew Jackson's mouth. I anticipated her 
 and went on : 
 
 "Talk about smelling-salts but if ever a 
 man needed them, I do now. Talk about 
 women drivers, Miss Cynthia " here I choked 
 up with emotion. 
 
 "Let me " said Miss Cynthia, hastily 
 arising. 
 
 " No, no ; let me, this time, Miss Cynthia 
 let me relieve my overburdened feelings on this 
 painful subject before I die or burst with in- 
 dignation." 
 
 Miss Cynthia sat down again. 
 105
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 It was some time before 1 could proceed, so 
 great was my agitation. Miss Cynthia's 
 curiosity was greatly aroused, she promised 
 she would not interrupt me until I finished. 
 This gave me the chance I wanted. " If only 
 you will not, Miss Cynthia," I said, " you will 
 be as good a listener as Content." Then I 
 launched recklessly forth : 
 
 " Woman God bless her, Miss Cynthia 
 what would the world be without her ? And 
 yet I had rather meet an avalanche of mill- 
 stones, or even a traction engine, any day, 
 than one of these dear creatures when she is 
 doing her own driving. And if there be two 
 of her the risk is just doubled." 
 
 Miss Cynthia did not look up. 
 
 "I am willing to go on record by saying 
 that no man can truthfully say he ever knew a 
 woman driver to give an inch of the road when 
 she could take it all. Or turn to the right 
 when she could turn to the left and tangle up 
 things. I am even willing to go on record by 
 asserting that no man ever saw one drive who 
 did not drive squarely down the middle of the 
 
 road, regardless of consequences, with the 
 106
 
 The Jewel that Lives 
 
 full assurance of a pre-empted right to the 
 whole thing and several acres on both sides of 
 it. And if there be two of her, as I said before, 
 Miss Cynthia, and they be talking straight 
 into each other's mouths at the same time as 
 is their custom, when driving, telling each 
 other all about the naughtiness of their neigh- 
 bor's sister's husband's wife, oblivious of 
 everything else around them even of their 
 horse but every now and then flopping him 
 up and down the back, with a kind of a double- 
 shuffling jerk of both arms up and down for no 
 man ever knew a woman to use a whip if she 
 could only flop the lines, Miss Cynthia, it 
 is then that these sweet and blessed creatures 
 whom God created for nobler purposes, before 
 they took to doing their own driving, become 
 the most dangerous infernal machines a mortal 
 man ever tried to pass on a public highway." 
 
 Miss Cynthia kept on embroidering. 
 
 " Before you can turn out into a gutter or 
 ditch and give them the earth, they are into 
 you ! Before you can pass them, back out, 
 pull out, turn out, fall out, or roll out, they 
 
 have got you ! There is a crash, a jar, two 
 107
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 female shrieks, and then a chorus of 'Sir, 
 how could you be so stupid ? ' accompanied by 
 a look that would freeze a goat, and many little 
 side antics and gesticulations that remind one 
 of the excitement in a group of female puddle 
 ducks when the red calf has stepped on the 
 tail of one of them. You apologize, of course, 
 until you feel as mean as a wet dog that the 
 band-wagon has run over, and while you get 
 out to patch up your splintered wagon, and 
 soothe the feelings of your sensitive little 
 mare, this precious pair of female drivers con- 
 tinue straight on down the middle of the pike, 
 hunting for another victim, in the innocent 
 sweetness of conscious rectitude and sense of 
 duty nobly done, and with the air that nothing 
 particular has happened except that a brute 
 has run into two ladies who had given him all 
 the road !" 
 
 Miss Cynthia winced, made two misstitches, 
 but worked on. 
 
 " Injure their vehicle ? Not on your life ! 
 No living man can show me, Miss Cynthia, 
 where one of them was ever injured. And 
 
 the dead " 1 said bitterly " whom they have 
 108
 
 The Jewel that Lives 
 
 run over and killed are not here to speak for 
 themselves. Frighten their horse ? Not at 
 all. That old leather-lunged, nerveless, 
 senseless, spiritless thing which the average 
 woman is content to drive hasn't got enough 
 good blood in it to be frightened if it met a 
 skinned elephant hauling dead alligators to a 
 bone-yard !" 
 
 I overdid it here. Miss Cynthia flushed ex- 
 ultingly and said, 
 
 " That's true, and it's because you men 
 always give us the no-'countest thing on the 
 place to drive Tom, for instance." 
 
 I winced under this, but reminded Miss Cyn- 
 thia that she had broken her promise. Then 
 I said apologetically : 
 
 "God knows I love woman, Miss Cynthia 
 in the abstract, concrete, possessive case, 
 ablative absolute, red-headed even, and in 
 any of her voices, moods, tenses, numbers and 
 persons, active and passive. 
 
 "But as much as 1 love her, just because 
 she is a woman, Miss Cynthia, and all that, as 
 heaven is my witness, I had rather take the 
 
 chances of charging with the Six Hundred the 
 109
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 guns of Balaklava and coming out alive, than 
 to pass one of these Syren-looking imbeciles 
 (Heaven forgive me, Miss Cynthia !) in an 
 eighty foot public highway, when she is doing 
 her own driving and talking about her neigh- 
 bor's wife." 
 
 Miss Cynthia continued to sew on. 
 
 "She runs into you so innocently and yet 
 so fatally. She smashes you so naively, and 
 wrecks you so charmingly and unselfishly, 
 that a poor man cannot do anything but smile, 
 beg her pardon, swear it was all his own fault, 
 that he alone was to blame, and tell her just 
 to drive on over him whenever she gets ready 
 God bless her ! And the dear thing takes 
 you at your word, Miss Cynthia, literally 
 and truthfully and after giving you a look 
 that would scorch a sandrock, she will not for- 
 get to go home, and publish it to the four 
 winds of heaven that is to say, by telling all 
 her female friends, which is the same thing 
 that she met you coming down the road the 
 other day, and that you were so drunk you 
 did not know which way you were going, and 
 
 after she had tried every way to drive around 
 no
 
 The Jewel that Lives 
 
 and avoid you, you deliberately pulled across 
 and wrecked her beautiful, beautiful phaeton. 
 The brute !" 
 
 Miss Cynthia did not even look up. 
 
 " In my callow days I was told that the 
 hand that rocks the cradle rules the world, 
 Miss Cynthia. I now believe it not because 
 it rocks the cradle, but because it sometimes 
 goes driving on its own hook. And right now, 
 in case of a war with a foreign foe, as the 
 most effectual annihilator the ingenuity of 
 modern science can originate, I propose a 
 brigade of lady drivers who shall be sent to 
 drive down on the enemy with positive or- 
 ders to turn to the right and thereby evade 
 him to frighten but not to run over him. 
 The enemy will never know what happened 
 to him." 
 
 Miss Cynthia was very still. 
 
 " You went driving this morning, Miss Cyn- 
 thia ; 1 this afternoon. If there is any thing, 
 not human, I am fonder of than any thing 
 else, it is my little mare and my road-wagon. 
 But pride cometh before a fall, and this is the 
 
 story of my fall. 
 
 in
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 " I drove towards the hills to see the sun- 
 set, and a beautiful one it was, Miss Cynthia. 
 I was busily engaged drinking in the scene 
 when two of these female drivers hove in sight. 
 It was a narrow pike, and I knew what was 
 coming, so I tried to drive out into a forty- 
 acre wheat-field to give them all the room 
 necessary to pass. For I saw by the way 
 they were talking and the zigzag way they 
 were coming that it would take three pikes 
 running parallel to hold them. But there was 
 a big ditch between me and the wheat-field, 
 and I could not get over. So I drove out to 
 the right, as close to the ditch as I could get, 
 folded my hands, said my prayers, and waited 
 as calmly as I could for the shock. And this 
 is the way they came : The old horse had his 
 head down, and, fast asleep, was shuffling 
 along, first on one side of the road and then on 
 the other. He was trotting in front, pacing 
 in the middle, and seemed to be galloping on 
 stilts behind, while his tail, which had been 
 worn off by constant beating of the double- 
 tree, was banging around like the air-paddles 
 of a flutter-mill. I thought, at first, that per- 
 
 112
 
 The Jewel that Lives 
 
 haps he was trying to switch off a horsefly that 
 had alighted in the very center of his spinal 
 column just out of range of his tail ; but I soon 
 saw he was doing all this hopping behind be- 
 cause one of the drivers was prodding him 
 with a broken whip-staff, while the other, with 
 every revolution of the wheels, was flopping 
 him up and down the back with the lines, and 
 both of them talking at the same time. 
 
 " When the crash came they were rounded 
 up with a jerk, and I heard one of the spokes 
 of my wagon tell its broken tale. They 
 shrieked in unison, and then, having found out 
 where they were at, they proceeded to tell 
 me what they thought of me. And there is 
 where I made a mistake, Miss Cynthia. In- 
 stead of telling them the truth, I ought to have 
 lied like a lover, told them it was all my fault, 
 that I alone was to blame and begged their 
 pardon. Instead, I tried to explain to them 
 that I was not to blame in the .matter. 
 
 " ' How in the world can you say that, sir ?' 
 they both exclaimed, freezingly, at the same 
 time. 
 
 " ' Ladies,' I said, as politely as I could, * I 
 8 113
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 was standing here, perfectly still, almost in 
 this ditch, praying that you would go by and 
 leave me unmolested. At the last moment you 
 crossed the pike and smashed into me. Ob- 
 serve, if you please, the positions of our 
 vehicles.' 
 
 " ' Oh oh oh !' came in a protesting cho- 
 rus. 'Did you ever in all your life?' And 
 they looked at one another with the air of one 
 who says : ' Well, I have heard of liars before !' 
 
 " Then a happy idea struck one of them 
 and she said : ' Isn't it the law of the road, 
 sir, to turn to the right ?' 
 
 " ' Certainly it is, madam/ I said gleefully, 
 thinking I had her now. 
 
 "'Just listen to him admitting it, Susie/ 
 she said triumphantly, ' and there he sits over 
 on our left !' 
 
 " And with a mixture of pity and triumphant 
 sorrow they punched up their old horse and 
 shuffled off, looking disdainfully back at me 
 every now and then with the curiosity of one 
 who just wanted to see when I would continue 
 my drunken drive and break my neck in the 
 ditch." 
 
 114
 
 The Jewel that Lives 
 
 I waited, but Miss Cynthia said never a 
 word. 
 
 " The poetry of the sunset was now gone 
 from me, and I started for home after getting 
 out and rubbing a little axle oil on the skinned 
 place they had left in my mare's forearm, and 
 looking at my splintered wheel. 
 
 " But I had not gone far before I met another 
 one of those lovely idiot drivers. This one was 
 beautiful, Miss Cynthia, and I didn't care 
 much whether she ran into me or not. I would 
 willingly have parted with a wheel to have 
 had her pitched into my arms. She was pink 
 and white, with the prettiest eyes in the world, 
 and a smile that was heaven itself. This 
 sweet creature had tied up her lines on the 
 dash-board and was busy reading a love-letter 
 while her horse attended to all the road and 
 the rest of the thing. I thought I could pass 
 her, but I was mistaken. Her horse wobbled 
 across the pike just at the place he knew 
 meant destruction to me, and another spoke 
 was gone. 
 
 " 'Why Mr. Ballington,' she exclaimed half 
 angrily for I knew her ' how in the world
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 can any one who professes, as you do, to 
 know how to drive, be so reckless and in- 
 competent ! Just see, you have ruined my 
 phaeton !' 
 
 "I looked at her vehicle it was not 
 scratched, but another spoke was broken in 
 mine, and the little mare carried a bruised 
 place on her hock. I profited by my ex- 
 perience before, and so I tried other tactics 
 here. 
 
 " ' My dear Miss Smith,' I said, ' I hope you 
 will forgive me. I deserve all your censure, I 
 know. But the truth is, you happened to 
 look up just as 1 was passing, and the light of 
 your glorious eyes blinded me so I could not 
 see which way 1 was driving.' 
 
 "I am willing to be run into again, Miss 
 Cynthia, to get the self-satisfied look and 
 glorious smile she gave me. 1 was instantly 
 forgiven. Nay, more, for before to-morrow 
 she will be telling every friend she has that I 
 am not only the best driver in Tennessee, but 
 the most truthful and honest gentleman she 
 has ever seen ! 
 
 " But I don't try to pass them any more, 
 116
 
 The Jewel That Lives 
 
 Miss Cynthia. When I see them coming, I 
 stop. And, since the law does not require 
 them to carry a red flag in the horse's head- 
 stall, as it ought to, I shaJl carry one myself 
 and make a boy run up the pike and flag 
 them until I can get by." 
 
 I ceased and waited to see what Miss Cyn- 
 thia would say to all of it. She did not move. 
 To my astonishment she had been asleep for 
 the last half hour. I waked her up and re- 
 marked that it was probably time for her to 
 retire. She rubbed her eyes and replied, 
 
 "Ah, yes. But you were telling about 
 running into two ladies, and I wanted to ask 
 you, did you break their buggy very badly ?" 
 
 117
 
 THE BATTLE IN HER EYES. 
 
 DAWN dust, shaken from the wings of day, 
 Has fallen in the deep lake of your eyes, 
 And starry pollen from the milky way 
 
 Down driven from the bowers of the skies; 
 And lover moonbeams o'er their surface play 
 Where humor bubbles float or upward rise. 
 
 O lakes of love, divinest, azure-hued 
 Mirrors of truth hand-glass of hope and 
 
 light- 
 May Time ne'er see them sad or tear-bedewed 
 
 Uplooking in the silent eyes of night, 
 Nor Sorrow drive her sombre sail and rude 
 Dark shadowing that which now is only 
 bright.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I CANNOT understand Thesis why she 
 will not see me in the old way. It is now 
 mid-June, and I have not yet seen her alone. 
 Even Miss Cynthia has noticed it, and on sev- 
 eral occasions has remarked that she wanted 
 to ask me a question. 
 
 Old Wash is very fond of Thesis, and when 
 she was a tiny thing he nicknamed her " Little 
 Glory." He has never called her anything 
 else since. A born woman of the South, she 
 seemed from the first to have understood the 
 old man thoroughly. For many years he has 
 never allowed her to be at home but a day or 
 two before he would spend all the morning 
 shining his brogans and all the afternoon brush- 
 ing up his double-breasted "King Alfred," as 
 he calls it the coat that his old master, the 
 law partner of President Polk, gave him, fifty 
 
 years ago. Then one more morning is spent 
 121
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 getting the dust and cobwebs out of his beaver 
 hat, which is also a relic of the Polk adminis- 
 tration. Then he is off to see "Little Glory." 
 
 He always comes back with a little present 
 and a happy smile, and during the rest of the 
 summer he is more her slave than if the 
 shackles were really there. 
 
 This summer he went as usual. I thought 
 his beaver never looked sleeker, nor his bro- 
 gans brighter, nor his " King Alfred " so near 
 sweeping, in its majesty, the ground. 
 
 He came back with the little present, but 
 not with the smile, and, though he said noth- 
 ing, 1 noticed that from that time on he 
 watched me very closely. 
 
 For a while Thesis came now and then to 
 see Miss Cynthia. Of course, 1 would not 
 take advantage of those visits to meet her, 
 since I thought she was avoiding me. Then 
 she ceased coming altogether, and when I have 
 called at Colonel Philips' I have either met 
 Bernice alone or the two together. On these 
 occasions she has acted as if nothing unusual 
 had happened. 
 
 But I never have failed to fiad Joe Forde 
 122
 
 The Battle in Her Eyes 
 
 there. Forde is now cashier of the banK of 
 which Colonel Philips is president. I wish 1 
 liked Joe Forde. I have tried to, all my life, 
 and failed. He is that type of man one 
 sees now and then, whom you may know 
 all your life and then know nothing about 
 him except that you don't like him. They 
 are what the world calls secretive people. 
 Secretiveness stands in the same relation to 
 selfishness, I have thought, that kleptomania 
 does to stealing a prettier term for it. And 
 they are cold-blooded, terribly in earnest 
 people, these secretive people. And when 
 they combine with it the lack of principle 
 which I had felt was in Joe Forde, they 
 would wreck the world to carry out their 
 plans. 
 
 As far back as I can remember Joe Forde 
 has loved Thesis in his determined, cold- 
 blooded way. We were schoolmates then, 
 and one day, at recess, when he boastingly 
 declared that Thesis was his sweetheart, and 
 that he would marry her when he grew up, it 
 brought on the stubbornest battle I ever had. 
 
 I had got him down on the grass and was 
 123
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 pounding him, when Thesis heard of it and 
 ran crying to the scene. 
 
 "Oh, you are killing Ned, you are killing 
 Ned," she cried, clinging to my neck and sob- 
 bing, "How dare you, Joe Forde ?" 
 
 I quit the fight abashed and silent. Up to 
 that time I thought I was killing him. 
 
 The Blind Man and I have had several talks 
 about it, and he has shaken his head in an 
 ominous way. I do not think he knows I 
 love Thesis. That is a secret I have kept 
 even from him. 
 
 At first I tried to study it out by myself. 
 Then I tried to study it out through Bernice. 
 I told the Blind Man what I was trying to do. 
 He smiled and said, " Let me know when you 
 succeed. The man who knows a woman 
 knows the world." 
 
 I did not like to hear him say that not in 
 this connection. It did not sound like him. 
 What 1 said to myself was, "That may be for 
 Bernice ; but if I can look into Thesis' eyes 
 five minutes I will read it all." 
 
 It has had its effect on me, and lately I 
 
 have decided to make no further effort to see 
 124
 
 The Battle in Her Eyes 
 
 her. The next day I would think what a 
 fool 1 was that 1 ever came to such a conclu- 
 sion. And then 1 have paraphrased the Blind 
 Man's remarks, and said, "The man who 
 knows himself, knows the world." 
 
 What puzzles me, too, is her secret efforts 
 to throw Bernice and me together. In many 
 delicate ways she has convinced me that Ber- 
 nice cares more for me than I thought really 
 more than I'd care for her to do. If I did not 
 think Thesis was above it, I'd suspect her of 
 match-making. It was late in June when I 
 heard that Bernice had gone away for a week's 
 visit. I resolved to stand it no longer, and to 
 see Thesis alone that evening. 
 
 There was a beautiful moon shining through 
 the big oaks and poplars that led up to the old 
 place, and I suppose Alana, my saddle-mare, 
 must have made very little noise, for I had 
 noticed she had a fevered heel when I mounted, 
 so I rode her across the blue-grass lawn instead 
 of the gravel-walk, to give her the benefit of 
 the cool night-dew. That is why we rode up 
 on something white under the big elm at the 
 
 library window before we were seen. 
 125
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 A maltese kitten was purring in her lap. 
 Her simple white dress was cut V-shape at her 
 splendid throat, and her golden-brown hair 
 was in a magnificent coil above. A tiny golden 
 heart on a close-fitting chain encircled her 
 neck and rested on a bosom so pure that an 
 infant angel might have laid his head there 
 and dreamed of another heaven. It was a 
 simple little locket, but my heart gave a leap 
 when 1 saw it. I had given it to her five years 
 before on her birthday. 
 
 " And so I have caught my bird at last," I 
 laughed, as I dismounted and threw the reins 
 behind the saddle-pommel, that Alana might 
 graze. She gave me her hand in the frank old 
 way. I could not help it the next instant I 
 had it in both of mine, and had kissed it. 
 
 She was never excited, never confused. 
 There is no guile in her nature, and, think- 
 ing no wrong, she never knew any. 
 
 For several moments she did not speak ; 
 neither did she withdraw her hand. I looked 
 into her eyes. They met mine with that 
 serene calmness a summer morning throws 
 
 over a dew-sprinkled world, and with the r- 
 126
 
 The Battle in Her Eyes 
 
 fleeted glory with which the star-sprinkled lake 
 looks up into the *'ace of a summer night. 
 
 "I am glad you came to-night, Ned," she 
 said, simply, as we sat down. " It will give 
 me a chance to say something to you I have 
 wanted to say only but Ned I am afraid 
 I cannot say it, at least, so that you will un- 
 derstand." 
 
 "No I do not understand you," I said, 
 very seriously. "I have not seen you alone 
 since you came home. If I were not a sensi- 
 ble fellow, Thesis, and did not love you, I'd 
 
 She almost started as she interrupted me : 
 "Ned ! Promise me, Ned, you'll not talk 
 that way the old way any more. You must 
 not. I cannot tell you now, but we cannot be 
 friends any more, if you do." 
 
 I looked quickly at her, and read the sad 
 earnestness that was in her eyes. Then I 
 flushed hot with a mortification I had never felt 
 in Thesis' presence before and pale with a 
 resolution that sent the steel into my heart 
 and the blood out of my cheeks. 
 
 I wish I were not so quick to decide. But 
 
 127 /
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 things come to me like bolts from a sky. I 
 wish, too, that I were not so sensitive. For a 
 moment it seemed that my life hung in a bal- 
 ance. I saw myself standing where two roads 
 met, and I was as one chained. 
 
 For five minutes I did not speak. Neither 
 did Thesis. But she smiled in a pleading, 
 pitying way as she looked me innocently and 
 sweetly in the face a martyr smile, firing 
 with its hands the fagots around it. 
 
 Pride I wish I had less of it. It is a capital 
 brother-in-arms, but when it becomes com- 
 mander and leads us against the breastworks 
 of our hopes, behind which stands every ar- 
 mored sweet dream of our life, then it becomes 
 a tyrant. 
 
 I did not speak. I would have died before 
 a volley of shrapnel before I'd have asked her 
 to explain. 
 
 And she never before had I seen such a 
 battle in human eyes. 
 
 The moon shone full on the field the field 
 of her glorious eyes and I watched the fight 
 and saw it as plainly as Bonaparte at Water- 
 loo, when he stood on the heights of Mount 
 128
 
 The Battle in Her Eyes 
 
 Saint Jean and saw the old guard go down on 
 their last stubborn charge. 
 
 And it was a Waterloo for me. 
 
 Five ten fifteen minutes, I sat and 
 watched it. I had read the issue and knew 
 what it was this fight between some great 
 conception of, to me, an unknown duty, and 
 my heart almost burst at the thought, but 
 I felt it I knew it ! my love. 
 
 1 could read her eyes, as I never could any 
 other being's on earth. To me they were not 
 eyes, but persons twin friends that I loved. 
 And as I sat and watched the fight go on in the 
 moonlighted field of my hopes, I deliberately 
 went over every word of a letter I had written 
 to her just before she came home. It was 
 so sweet to me at the time I penned it that I 
 had memorized it, and now, as I sat and 
 watched the ebb and flow, the resolve and 
 stubborn fight I could not help it I took her 
 hand in the old way and, bending till my lips 
 touched her cheek, I said, 
 
 " Have you forgotten it, dear ? May I re- 
 peat it now ?" Intuitively she knew what I 
 meant. She nodded. "All of it?" I asked. 
 9 I2 9
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 She nodded again, and I saw a flush of crim- 
 son pride sweep in. 
 Then I whispered the letter once again : 
 
 Your Eyes. 
 (To Thesis.) 
 
 " They haunt me they always have. The 
 first thing I remember of you when you were 
 a tiny tot was your eyes. I could not get 
 away from them, even then, to look at your 
 face they haunted me so. I have seen 
 brighter eyes, and gladder eyes, eyes with 
 more sunlight and perhaps more beautiful, 
 but never eyes that had the depth, the history, 
 of these. Never eyes that tell so much of a 
 fight for faith, nor of a sadness which no man 
 knows and only a poet may read. Never 
 eyes that tell of a truer courage or a more un- 
 selfish sweetness, so sad and yet so triumph- 
 ant in their sadness holding even in their 
 darkling depths the twilight of a smile. 
 
 " Sometimes, when I have seen them in a 
 mood, the mood that moves your soul, I 
 have despaired that I may ever win your love 
 
 that they belong to some angel spirit that 
 130
 
 The Battle in Her Eyes 
 
 has passed away from earth and is beyond 
 the touch of all things earthly. 
 
 "Then, again, when you laugh, they are 
 the very personification of life, and I almost 
 lose myself in the joy of the thought that such 
 depths might one day be mine to know and to 
 sound. Oh, the depths of them ! Oh, the 
 strength they will throw into the life of a 
 soulful man ! The man those eyes love can 
 never be a coward. He can no more be weak 
 nor deceive than can the poet who has learned 
 to look up into the fathomless blue of the 
 heavens God's eyes and has seen Him 
 there. 
 
 " They are so sad, yet full of such a per- 
 sonality so full, that when I saw them last I 
 distinctly heard them say, 
 
 " * I walk down the valley of silence, 
 
 Down the dim, voiceless valley, alone ; 
 And 1 hear not the fall of a footstep 
 
 Around me, save God's and my own ; 
 And the hush of my heart is as holy 
 As hovers where angels have flown.' 
 
 " But the most comforting thought, to me, 
 about them, is in the depth of their pity their
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 human pity. And that which awes me most 
 about them is their unflinching courage in the 
 path of what they conceive to be their duty. 
 
 " They are loyal, too, and the cause they 
 advocate or the friend they love will always 
 find them the same, for the light never changes 
 in these windows of your soul. Windows ? 
 Aye, more than windows. I would call them 
 conservatories, where everything above is 
 glass, and one has only to look and behold the 
 flowers that grow within the flowers of hon- 
 esty, sincerity, pureness, truthfulness the 
 blossom of unselfishness blooming on the 
 stem of queenliness." 
 
 I kissed her cheek when I finished. She 
 did not move. 
 
 " Look at me, Thesis," I whispered. She 
 looked up her eyes into mine. And then I 
 saw the battlefield was wet with tears. 
 
 Twenty minutes twenty-five passed, and 
 neither of us spoke. I prayed she would yield 
 and tell me ; that, for once in her life, the spirit 
 of earth might conquer the spirit of the skies. 
 
 A mocking-bird awoke from a nearby bush, 
 and it seemed to me, as he sang, that his 
 132
 
 The Battle in Her Eyes 
 
 notes had more of the bugle-charge than the 
 glory of his love-life. 
 
 Twice I thought she would speak and tell 
 me that the red line of love would conquer 
 the white line of duty. Then it was that the 
 tiny golden heart on her bosom rose and fell 
 with the fluttering wave of a banner advanc- 
 ing. Red wave after red wave marched over 
 her cheek ; then white wave after white wave 
 followed, until I fancied I saw there the em- 
 blem of our nation's flag. But it passed 
 quickly, and the white lines stood solid. 
 
 " Oh, red love-lines, rally ! Come on !" I 
 said to myself. 
 
 And then her bosom grew calm. The little 
 heart seemed scarcely to rise and fall, and I 
 knew the white lines of duty had conquered. 
 
 I looked at my watch. It had lasted an hour. 
 
 "Good-night, Thesis," 1 said, rising. 
 
 "Good-night, Ned." 
 
 She raised her head. I could not help it, 
 and it was taps for the platoons of the white 
 lines, for their lights went out, and in the 
 darkness a bold red sentinel seized their flag 
 and hurled it over the ramparts !
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 " Thesis ! Thesis !" I cried. " Will you ? 
 Will you ? Me? 1, who love you ?" 
 
 She turned and threw herself on the bench. 
 
 I sprang into the saddle, and as I turned to 
 ride away I saw two hands I loved clasped 
 above a little golden locket, and the black 
 shadow of the elm, like the stern commander 
 of the duty forces, stood over her.
 
 THE VICTORY OF FIRE. 
 
 A THISTLE-DOWN upon a sea of Hope, 
 Wind toss'd, yet knows not whence they 
 
 are, 
 Wave rocked, and hath no power with them 
 
 to cope, 
 
 Held in the influence of some unseen star. 
 Above, the sky ; beneath, the unfathom'd 
 
 sea; 
 
 Around, the miracles of life and light 
 Assured of death, his one known destiny, 
 Grim anchorage in the pale gates of the 
 night. 
 
 And yet across the sea of fate and foam, 
 To him that will, Faith finds a pathway 
 home. 
 
 
 '3$
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 BERNICE is a magnificent creature. I have 
 seen her frequently of late. She shall 
 never know why I went so often at first. Only 
 my heart shall know it. Yet I could never see 
 Thesis alone. 
 
 "The man who knows a woman, knows 
 the world," quoth the Blind Man. I would 
 give the world to know Thesis again. Had I 
 offended her ? No, not unless love was an 
 offense ; and I have yet to hear of a woman 
 who considered it so. Does she dislike me? 
 My own heart tells me better than that. 
 
 Whenever I have met her on the street or 
 in company she is the same gracious Thesis. 
 If I could only see her long enough to read her 
 eyes again ! But she will not look at me in 
 the old way. And I ? Pride is a stubborn 
 thing. 
 
 I have thought of numberless ways to meet 
 her and force her to tell me why she has willed
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 it that the old way must be forgotten. But 
 whenever I formulate a plan it always fades in 
 the shadowy uncertainty of an hour under the 
 elms, the sweet sorrow of a moonlit night, where 
 I begged with my eyes for the explanation that 
 should have been mine for the asking. 
 
 To ask again would be only manacling 
 defeat. 
 
 Last week 1 met her on the road as I was 
 driving to town. She had found a deserted 
 oriole's nest and was taking it home to add to 
 her little museum. I had written Bernice I 
 would call the night before, but something 
 prevented. 
 
 " That is a pretty specimen," I said. " How 
 did you get it ?" 
 
 " It was on the tip end of the limb of a wil- 
 low. I had a little negro boy to climb and get 
 it for me." 
 
 There was a silence of a few minutes. I 
 saw she felt it was becoming embarrassing, 
 and 1 thought it was scarcely like her, 
 when she said, "Someone at our house was 
 disappointed that you did not come last 
 evening." 
 
 13*
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 "Was it you, Thesis ?" I asked earnestly, 
 looking straight into her eyes. 
 
 She colored quickly, but did not reply. 
 
 " Was it you, Thesis ? ' Tell me if it was, 
 and let us end this folly." 
 
 She looked at me very calmly and said, 
 "It was Bernice." I cut my horse viciously 
 with the whip. 1 begged his pardon after- 
 wards, but before 1 could soothe his wounded 
 feelings he had left her standing in the road. 
 Then, in sheer desperation, I caught myself 
 saying over and over again, " Bernice is a 
 magnificent creature." 
 
 The next evening 1 went to see Bernice. 
 This time Joe Forde was there, and the con- 
 versation became general. Thesis I thought 
 was unusually quiet. Bernice was explaining 
 her idea of love. "It is Platonic love, in the 
 end," she said, " that lasts." 
 
 " Ned," said Thesis. 
 
 I turned quickly to the quiet form that was 
 speaking to me, yet looking longingly out of 
 the window across the fields. 
 
 " Ned, have you got the little trundle-bed at 
 Lynwood yet in its old place ?'* 
 '39
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 Bernice laughed. " In heaven's name, what 
 has a trundle-bed to do with Platonic love ?" 
 
 I went over to where Thesis was sitting. 
 My heart had leaped and was beating wildly 
 to hear her ask, in the old way, this simple 
 question. Had it been written in a book of 
 gold it could have carried no fuller meaning. 
 
 " Thesis !" I whispered. " Thesis !" 
 
 "I I wasn't thinking," she said ner- 
 vously. " Don't you see, you have left Ber- 
 nice and Mr. Forde ?" 
 
 "Thesis!" I said, sternly. 
 
 " Ned, if you must know Bernice Ber- 
 nice," she whispered, and nodded to me to 
 look. 
 
 "Yes, she is a magnificent creature," I 
 added, glancing at the queenly face that was 
 looking down on Joe Forde. Then I almost 
 started when I read the look that was in the 
 haughty bearing of her head in the calm con- 
 tempt of her eyes. Forde was trying to talk 
 to her. He was saying something explanatory. 
 She was listening, but with a look Minerva 
 might cast on an offending mortal. 
 
 I should dislike to have Bernice Philips de- 
 140
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 spise me as much as 1 saw she did the narrow 
 little soul before her. I turned to Thesis for 
 an explanation. She only shook her head. 
 Then she whispered to me, " Isn't Bernice 
 magnificent ? I should think every man would 
 be in love with her." 
 
 "Thesis," 1 said, "I wish very much to 
 speak to some one on the porch, will you ?" 
 
 She nodded. " I'll see that you do." 
 
 I had selected a favorite seat under a wis- 
 taria vine, and was thinking how I should talk 
 to her in the old way without sacrificing my 
 pride, when Bernice came out. 
 
 "Thesis said you wished to speak to me, 
 and I am glad to get away," she said, "for I 
 hate that man, Ned I hate him !" 
 
 1 thought she never looked so queenly be- 
 fore, the Philips pride ablaze in her eyes; 
 her whole nature that of the daughter of a 
 baron whose pride had been wounded in her 
 father's halls. 
 
 For a while I, too, was silent. My heart 
 seemed turned to stone at this last rebuff from 
 Thesis. Self-preservation is the first law of 
 love, as of life. Let love but see annihilation
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 ahead, and how quickly it will bring up its 
 other forces to help it out to save it from 
 death wounded pride, indifference, " 'tis bet- 
 ter so," the light of other eyes, the will to 
 forget, aye, even the conscriptment of another 
 love for the one that has fallen. 
 
 As I looked at her in her beauty and mag- 
 nificence, the queenliest woman of the blue- 
 grass lands, I made a reckless resolve. I 
 would conquer one love with another. I 
 would love Bernice. 
 
 Oh, Love! Oh, Thesis! Will you forgive me ? 
 
 Bernice is a magnificent creature. I began 
 to look upon her with increasing pride. How 
 she would grace Lynwood! How proud I 
 should be to introduce so queenly a woman as 
 my wife ! I had never seen her so gracious as 
 she was that night. Her haughtiness seemed 
 to melt, and once or twice I thought I saw cer- 
 tain tokens of an affection I had never seen in 
 her nature before. 
 
 She was beautiful and charming in her bril- 
 liancy. She was beautiful superbly so and 
 held me strangely fascinated. 
 
 And what is love, anyway, I said to myself, 
 142
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 but the passing chariot of two sentimental 
 souls, carrying, in a kind of dream-float, a cas- 
 tle of the air, to be drawn through gates of 
 imagery and gold, guarding the realms of para- 
 dise, only to come back to earth again ? How 
 much better off the world would be if people 
 would let sense and not sentiment dictate 
 with whom they should live, till death or the 
 divorce court divides them. 
 
 Bernice is a magnificent creature. 
 
 While we were talking 1 heard some one go 
 into the parlor where Forde and Thesis were. 
 It was Colonel Philips, and he looked worried, 
 and even distressed. He spoke to Forde 
 pleasantly, but I saw he was ill at ease in his 
 cashier's presence. 1 knew as soon as I saw 
 them exchange glances that there was some- 
 thing between them a certain triumphant 
 self-assertiveness on the part of Joe Forde and 
 dogged compliance on the part of Colonel 
 Philips which no one but they understood. 
 Colonel Philips is a very weak man. His 
 besetting weakness is his false pride, and 1 
 knew to-night it was strained and tried to its 
 highest notch when he could humble himself 
 
 H3
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 as I saw him do, and cringe and drop his posi- 
 tiveness and manhood before such a man as 
 Joe Forde. In a moment I saw that the cashier 
 was really the president, that the servant was 
 the master. 
 
 When I left an hour afterward, it seemed I 
 had never understood Bernice so fully. We 
 had talked as we never had before. There 
 was a tinge of bitterness in her nature I did 
 not admire, it is true, but there was an intel- 
 lectuality there that was superb. She was ir- 
 responsive and distant. But I could love her 
 yes, as one would love with awe a glacier 
 among the Alps. 
 
 Joe Forde had gone. I was thinking of 
 Bernice as I passed down the walk to where 
 my mare stood tied. It led around a wing of 
 the house, in the upper story of which was the 
 simple little room I knew was Thesis'. I had 
 seen it often when we were children. I knew 
 every nook, every corner, how each picture 
 hang in it. In the shadow of the oak, as I 
 untied my horse, I looked up and saw a motto 
 hung upon the opposite wall in her room ; it 
 
 was framed in lilac and blue, 
 144
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 " Love seeketh not her own." 
 
 I must have made a noise as 1 mounted. 
 She came to the window and looked down. 
 
 "Is it you, Ned?" 
 
 "I am just going," I said. 
 
 " Wait. I had written you something I was 
 going to mail to you. You must read it and 
 be brave, and then, Ned " here she leaned 
 out of the window, and as I saw her face and 
 beautiful hair in a parapet of lace and light 
 1 thought of the Blessed Damosel on the para- 
 pet of heaven " Then, Ned, you must forget 
 me." 
 
 She was gone, but the next instant a card 
 fluttered out. I dismounted and picked it up. 
 Then 1 struck a match on Alana's saddle-skirt 
 and read. It was her visiting card, with her 
 name on one side. On the other, a violet was 
 pinned ; through this, written in her fine hand, 
 
 " Peace I leave with you Not as 
 
 the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not 
 your heart be troubled, neither let it be 
 afraid." 
 
 1 kissed it and put it in my waistcoat pocket, 
 10 145
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 and the world, the stars and the heavens have 
 smelt of violets ever since. 
 
 But Bernice, I said in sheer desperation as 
 I rode out of the gate she is a magnificent 
 creature. 
 
 There are days when we all have disgusts, 
 and so I said to the Blind Man the next day, 
 
 " It's all nonsense this thing called love." 
 
 The Blind Man smiled. 
 
 " Real love is founded on common sense," 
 I went on. "The other is founded on senti- 
 ment. Real love is the child of the will, of 
 judgment, of cool reason and calm resolve. 
 The other is the fledgling of moonshine and 
 accident. Falling in love !" I added, derisively 
 " That's a good term for it, and correctly 
 expressed. And the fall is often fatal, and 
 nearly as bad as falling down the elevator- 
 shaft. A man can love any woman if he so 
 wills any good and physically perfect woman 
 and be happy with her." 
 
 The Blind Man interrupted me with a sar- 
 castic wink. "And if she happens to will it 
 otherwise, there'll be a conflict of wills a cat 
 and parrot time, eh ?" 
 
 146
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 "Physical beauty," I went on, "is the 
 foundation of it all. The rest is a mixture of 
 the monkey and donkey that is in us, or, if 
 you please, sentiment," I said. 
 
 "Ned," said the Blind Man, "is the flag 
 still floating from the arsenal staff ? I wish I 
 could see it again. God bless it ! But is it 
 still there ? A bit of silk, my boy, with red 
 and white stripes on it, and stars in a square 
 of blue. A practical thing just silk ; and a 
 sensible thing just certain colors. A yard or 
 two of cloth, which in a store you might rip 
 up and sell at so much a yard. But let insult 
 fire a bullet through it, and see how quickly 
 the land would be baptized with blood. Fifty 
 millions of people would charge through hell 
 to die for it. It is sentiment soul that rules 
 the world at last. Your soul is asleep to-day, 
 my boy, but I could awaken you in five min- 
 utes with a sentiment, such as, for instance, 
 dying to save you " 
 
 I glanced quickly up at him there was so 
 much earnestness in his manner. 
 
 " Such as dying to save you, my boy," he 
 went on "which you know I'd do if neces- 
 U7
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 sary, and it would arouse a sentiment, a soul in 
 you which, compared with your body, would be 
 like that sun up yonder compared with the thing 
 which 1 am kicking out from under my heel," 
 and he kicked a piece of flint into the road. 
 
 Then he laughed and said, as he walked off, 
 " Ned, a man's liver is a map of his life. I'd 
 advise you to have yours looked into." 
 
 I went away still more wretched. 
 
 A wretched man will do anything. And so 
 1 began systematically to work to try to forget 
 Thesis. 
 
 Wounded love, run through a vital spot, 
 how hard it fights for life ! 
 
 1 brought all the forces of my will to work, 
 and backed them with the battalion I had 
 called Common Sense. Thesis was poor. 
 Bernice was rich. Thesis was quiet and 
 domestic, and cared little for society. Ber- 
 nice was a magnificent creature, whom to be 
 husband to meant to be envied of men. Thesis 
 was lovely in her way. Bernice was a magnifi- 
 cent creature. 
 
 Oh, Love ! Oh, Thesis ! Will you forgive 
 
 me ? 
 
 148
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 That night I felt I had conquered myself, 
 until I picked up my favorite volume of Keats. 
 Pressed in its pages was a snow-white summer 
 lily. Thesis had given it to me only a year 
 ago that very summer night, as we sat on a 
 rustic bench in the moonlight. She had worn 
 it all evening over her own heart. When I 
 left, she had pinned it over mine. 
 
 I could see it all. It came back to me 
 the sweetness, the glory of it the very smell 
 of her hair. She had never used either a per- 
 fume or a powder, but like a lily that brews 
 its own sweetness in the laboratory of its 
 soul she carried always with her a perfume 
 which had no duplicate on earth. 
 
 I arose and began to walk the floor. 
 
 Talk about material things and that the soul 
 is not immortal, I thought, when the sight of a 
 faded flower will bring back a whole summer of 
 life and love will beget living months, children 
 of immortality. Talk about death ending all, 
 when the smell of a lock of hair, cut in imagina- 
 tion even, from the brow of a summer of long 
 ago, begets a love that will live beyond the 
 
 skies. Talk about disintegration and annihila- 
 149
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 tion, when the very memory of a lost love 
 may become the resurrected dream of an im- 
 mortality. 
 
 It poured in on me as a flood. 1 could see 
 the thoughts coming before they reached me, 
 in troops and in crowds. 
 
 Oh, divinest evidence of immortality, when 
 we have within ourselves the wonderful pro- 
 cess of living our own life again; when a 
 thought from the soul can bring back another 
 thought which was dead and buried, and as 
 it rises from the grave and stands before us, 
 chastened and in white, we have only to look 
 and see our double self Ourself of the Pres- 
 ent passing judgment on Ourself of the Past 
 pointing its wand at every grave of the past 
 and calling forth one unbroken rank of spirit 
 beings, beginning with a cherub face in a 
 cradle and ending in a white-winged, shadowy 
 thing of the stars. 
 
 " ' Aye, but we die,' saith the fool." 
 
 In a moment it all came back to me. As one 
 who dreams, 1 saw the little gold locket around 
 her neck. 1 arose to go ; and she, as she had 
 
 done since we were children, she arose and 
 150
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 stood by my side. She took the lily from her 
 heart and pinned it over mine. Then she put 
 her hands on my shoulders, tipped up, kissed 
 me, and said, "Good-nighf, Ned. Take care 
 of yourself for your Thesis." 
 
 I shut the book quickly. I was panting for 
 breath. Myself of the Present called up My- 
 self of Last Week and sat in judgment on it. 
 And what an evidence of divinity in the soul 
 it is that the soul of the present is always 
 allowed to judge the soul of the past. 
 
 I was ablaze with indignation at myself of 
 last week. I felt I was a iudge, indeed, and 
 exclaimed aloud, 
 
 " What a fool you were ! Platonic love ! 
 It will win nothing in this world nor the next." 
 
 " Dat's a fac', boss dat's a fac V 
 
 This brought me back to earth. From the 
 sublime to the ridiculous is only a step. It 
 was old Wash, and he had come to tell me 
 how Marjorie, the pacing filly, was stepping, 
 as he termed it, in her work. The old man 
 knew of every race for forty years, and he 
 evidently thought I was talking horse to my- 
 selfy for he went on,
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 " I knowed dat boss you call 'Tonic Love. 
 I seed Mm go at Hartford 'way back in de seb- 
 enties." 
 
 I smiled, but 1 remembered the race in 
 which Platonic Love was a first favorite. 
 
 " Don't you 'member de day," he went on, 
 "when he struck de gang dar True Blue, 
 Bridal Morn, De Gal I Lef Benin' Me, an' Dat 
 Ole Sweetheart Ob Mine ? Don't you 'mem- 
 ber it, fur you wus dar, an' whut he was 
 gwine do to de crowd ? Don't you 'member 
 what fine harness he had, an' dat five hun- 
 dred dollah sulky ? How he pranced an' 
 paced an' scored by de gran' stan' lak de wind 
 afire, till de gamblers bet on 'im five to one 
 an' it looked lak de yearth was his'n? He 
 made de yudders look lak twenty cents till de 
 race was called, an' den dey made him look 
 lak a pewter nickel in de vaults ob a busted 
 bank. 
 
 " Lor', whut fun I had ! I'd bet all my hen- 
 aig an' potater an' 'possum money on de little 
 Mizzuri filly Dat Ole Sweetheart Ob Mine 
 bet on her fur her name sake fur I'd ruther 
 
 walk home eny day, busted in a right'ous 
 152
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 cause, than to win on a fraud an* ride home in 
 a Pullmum palace. 
 
 "Dey called de race, and den de fun 
 begun. Ole 'Tonic Love was all right on 
 parade, but a counterfeit in de real battle. 
 Whut er awful time dey had gittin' 'im to 
 score down gittin' him to start eben! When 
 all de yudders jes' wanted to march down like 
 a weddin' procession, he'd break, an' balk, an* 
 hate ter cum' to de scratch. De yudders 
 knowed what dey wanted, an' wus reddy fur 
 de word reddy to go de race ob dey life, an' 
 take it, weal or woe, good or bad till death 
 us do part. But ole 'Tonic Love wus onsar- 
 tain, 'an thinkin' mebbe he wus mistaken, 
 an* sorter tired, an* all dat. An' when dey 
 did git off, boss, don't you 'member how he 
 dun ? Broke at de fus' quarter, fell down at 
 de half, caught de flag in de fus' heat, an' 
 died dat night in his stall ob wind colic ? I 
 tell you, boss, 'Tonic Love neber was knowed 
 to go de battle ob life it takes de Ole Sweet- 
 heart kind to stan' all de trials an* sorrers an' 
 dispintments and land yur a winner at de wire. 
 
 " But, Lor' bless yo' soul, honey, dat
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 little Mizzuri pacin' filly Dat Ole Sweetheart 
 Ob Mine wa'n't she a daisy ? Wa'n't she oiJ 
 in de can ? Didn't need no overcheck, knee 
 boots, nor nuffin'. Hadn't no waste action. 
 Glided along lak' a double-action locomotive 
 on silver-plated rails. Had it nip an' tuck wid 
 True Blue de fus' heat, but beat 'er only by a 
 nose. Fought out de naixt one wid Bridal 
 Morn an' De Gal I Lef Benin' Me, an' beat 
 'm by a lash, and den she paced de whole 
 gang to a stan'still, busted de rekerd, an' 
 made de man dat owned her rich an' happy. 
 Don't you 'member it, boss?" 
 
 I must have been listening with an amused 
 smile, for he went on, slyly and cunningly, 
 
 " Boss, don't tie onto eny filly bekase she 
 is a high-stepper, wid a graceful neck an' goes 
 all de gaits. Don't take 'er jes' becase she is 
 sound an' city broke. Don't buy her on her 
 pedigree, eben if it do run back to imported 
 Diomed on one side an' Colonial Dams on de 
 yudder, fur I've knowed many a man to git 
 nuthin' but a pedigree. Don't do it, boss. I've 
 seed 'em, an' dey allers look better in a pic- 
 ture den dey do in de homestretch. But stick
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 to de Ole Sweetheart kind, dat am sound an' 
 senserbul an' true, dat don't wear nuffin' but 
 de harness, an* allers reddy fur de race. Take 
 dem dat you know, an* lub all yo' life, dat 
 ain't got no wheels in her haid, but plenty 
 ob Trabeler crosses on her dam's side " 
 
 " What are you talking about ?" I said 
 with feigned indignation. 
 
 "Why, I are talkin' about hosses, sah, an' 
 ef you'll step out to de barn I'll show you 
 whut I are talkin' about." 
 
 1 smiled and followed. 
 
 In his favorite room in the barn, where he 
 kept the harness nicely oiled and the saddles 
 hung and the floor always swept, just over a 
 stall door he had hung a picture of Thesis she 
 had given him years ago. He had framed it in 
 a horseshoe, and to-day he had twined around 
 it a cluster of wild roses. Just beneath it a 
 beautiful chestnut head with a star and blaze 
 a head like a steed of the Caesars carved in 
 cameo looked satisfyingly out from the upper 
 part of the stall door. I patted her cheek. 
 She was my and the old man's pet, this 
 Brown Hal filly. Not a day of her life we
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 had not prophesied great things of her, told 
 each other of her wonderful points, her great 
 speed, and strength, and gentleness and 
 sense. Now she was four years old and 
 ready for the races. I stood admiring the pic- 
 ture, the beautiful, sensitive chestnut head be- 
 low, the calm, sweet, divinely fair one above. 
 
 The old man looked, too. Then he stepped 
 before them and said, with a comical bow and 
 gesture, "Boss, dar's de gal an' dar's de 
 filly." 
 
 That night I could stand it no longer. I 
 would see Thesis at all hazards, and I hum^ 
 bled my pride when I rode over to the oli 
 place. 
 
 " Is Thesis at home ?" I asked of Bernice. 
 
 Yes, but she had an engagement with Mr, 
 Forde, and they were within. 
 
 " Damn Mr. Forde !" was what I thought to 
 myself. What I said was, " He has grown 
 very rich of late by a deal in bank stock." 
 
 "Could you keep a family secret ?" asked 
 Bernice as she came up to my side and whis 
 pered in my ear. " Thesis is going to marry 
 
 Mr. Forde. It is all arranged 
 156
 
 The Victory of Fire 
 
 A big star which had just arisen above the 
 black hills which fringed the West was blink- 
 ing and scintillating as if its very soul was 
 shaken. I remember distinctly how queerly 
 it acted. Then the others seemed to partake 
 of its wild excitement, and acted as if a thou- 
 sand electric demons had been loosened in 
 their hearts. 
 
 I sat down on the railing of the veranda and 
 clutched the post. When I remembered very 
 distinctly again, Bernice was calmly saying, 
 " I suppose it is a good arrangement all around, 
 only I am sorry for Thesis. But Mr. Forde 
 is eligible and rich, and real love is founded 
 on common sense at last." 
 
 I believe life is so adjusted and balanced 
 that a man pays to the debit of every false 
 deed or thought a credit coined from the sweat 
 and anguish of his soul. 
 
 Never had words come back more quickly 
 to roost. 
 
 I do not know exactly how it happened, but 
 when 1 left 1 was engaged to Bernice. 
 
 '57
 
 A SMILE IN THE DARK. 
 
 HEAVEN-BREWED nectar from the eter- 
 nal hills, 
 
 Essence of truth and sweet beneficence- 
 Soul of the summer cloud and winter rills 
 
 Distilled in glorious munificence. 
 Symbol of all pureness, and holding up 
 The eye of nature to the face of form, 
 The perfumed lake within the lily's cup, 
 The white blanched cheek of ocean in the 
 
 storm. 
 
 Thin mist veiling round the cheek of morn, 
 Spirit of rainbows and the evening skies, 
 Hung in rich drapery when the stars are born 
 And peep from out with wondering, baby 
 eyes. 
 
 Purity, by angels lent in globes of love 
 Innocence, which God has sent from heaven 
 above. 
 
 To an Artesian Well. 
 
 '59
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 I THINK the holiest sight I ever saw was 
 Thesis leading the Blind Man to church. 
 All her life she has been a great favorite of 
 Mr. Emerson. He has petted her from a 
 child, and she still calls him by the baby name 
 her lips first made of Emerson "Tern." She 
 is very fond of him, and in his bluff way he 
 says of her, " Ned, God made only one like 
 her then he lost the pattern." 
 
 In vacation days she would never allow his 
 negro boy to take him to church. She 
 always claimed that as her privilege. And he 
 is the only man who ever went to church with 
 Thesis. 
 
 One summer she said to me, in her sweet, 
 frank way, " I do not think I ought to go to 
 church with you, Ned ; and you know I'd 
 rather go with you than any other of my 
 
 friends. It seems to me too sacred a thing for 
 ii 161
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 even friends to divide it. There we should 
 put everything but God aside. I do not like 
 to hear of close communion and open commu- 
 nion. I think we should commune only with 
 God. I cannot understand how people can 
 go to church as if it were a society event ; and 
 as for young people going there to indulge in 
 idle twaddle, oh, Ned, isn't that sacrilege ?" 
 
 But as I said, she leads the Blind Man to 
 church every Sunday morning. And it was 
 last Sunday morning that I made a discovery. 
 It was when she took his hand, in her inno- 
 cent way. Then I saw a new light leap into 
 his eyes. I was standing near when she 
 found him. She had gone to his home as 
 usual, but he had gone down town after the 
 mail. 
 
 "You have tried to run off from me to- 
 day," she laughed, as she caught up with 
 him ; " but you know you cannot do that, 
 Tern. Hold him, Ned," she laughed, "while 
 I catch him." 
 
 The Blind Man held out his hands. There 
 was absolute radiance in his face. She took 
 
 one of his hands, and then 1 saw it all. 
 162
 
 A Smile in the Dark 
 
 They passed on down the street. I do not 
 think the Blind Man himself knew what I had 
 discovered. There was no consciousness on 
 his part to show it. His was as a cloud- 
 clothed night suddenly lit up by the pulsing 
 smile of summer lightning. The clouds were 
 there he knew that ; they were a part of his 
 night but the sweet light that lit them up for 
 a moment, he did not make it, he knew not 
 whence it came. God had sent it, and it lit 
 up his night. That was enough for him. 
 
 From that time on my love and pity for the 
 Blind Man has been deeper. It was as if I had 
 looked on one who, condemned to grope in 
 solitary confinement in a dungeon, has seen by 
 the star-beam that shone for a moment, each 
 night, through a crevice in his prison, the 
 image of an inaccessible love, walking in the 
 sunlight of another world. He was utterly 
 unconscious that he loved Thesis. I knew 
 that by the very openness of it the unre- 
 served radiance of it the child-like simplicity 
 with which he revealed it. 
 
 In the shade of a tree which grew up by the 
 
 walk he suddenly stopped. She looked up at 
 163
 
 him and smiled. He never saw that smile, 
 and then I thought to him had come the crown- 
 ing sorrow of blindness never to see the smile 
 of the woman he loved. 
 
 One may sorrow never to see again the 
 sunset. Never more to stand upon The Knob, 
 and see the faint and far-off reflection in the 
 rock-cleft shadows of the Duck, making a sun- 
 set above and a sunset below. Because, 
 having once seen it, one may see it forever in 
 memory's eye. And the bridge over the 
 Duck, aye, it would be hard to give that up. 
 To stand upon it no more at midnight with 
 the stars above and the stars in the river be- 
 low. With the river flowing like a flaming 
 diamond through sides of sapphire under great 
 lime boulders that seem to prop the skies. 
 The Duck, bold-bluffed and crooked, darken- 
 ing in shadows or shimmering in starlight, and 
 never yet desecrated by the touch of a wheel 
 of commerce. One may forget even that, or 
 the sleeping hills and nodding woods and cool 
 cedar groves, carpeted with velvet moss, that 
 wind around the never-failing sweetness of the 
 
 " Kiss-Me-Quick " pike. Or the glory of a 
 164
 
 A Smile in the Dark 
 
 June day among the hills of Maury, stretching 
 above them, as they sleep, like the film of lace 
 drapery over the crib of a sturdy babe. Or 
 the clouds poems writ in the sky ; the look 
 of children ; the romance of a risen morn ; the 
 ever-changing yet perpetual story and glory of 
 Nature as she lives and loves in the Middle 
 Basin. 
 
 But God pity the man who has never seen 
 the smile of the woman he loves. 
 
 She looked up in his face and smiled. 
 
 "Thesis," said the Blind Man, "are you 
 as pretty as you used to be ? I haven't seen 
 you since you were a child." 
 
 "Tern, you rogue ! As homely, you mean," 
 she laughed. "Now aren't you ashamed to 
 ask me that question on the way to church ?" 
 
 "I do not care to know how any other 
 woman in the world looks but you," he went 
 on quietly. "You wouldn't care, child, if I 
 ran my hand over your face ?" 
 
 Her big brown eyes looked at him in as- 
 tonishment. "Why no, Tem if it pleases 
 you." 
 
 Almost like a benediction the Blind Man's 
 165
 
 hand fell on her golden brown hair. 1 thought 
 I had never seen so sacred a touch. 
 
 " Why, child, it is glorious glorious hair. 
 A little wavy, too kind o' curly and so thick 
 and natural. And the color ? Now let me see 
 it has changed some since you were a tiny 
 tot. If the sun shines on it I'd say it was 
 auburn; if the moonlight kissed it, I'd say it 
 was dark. But in the daylight, the blessed, 
 every -day daylight, I'd say it was glorious," 
 and he laughed. 
 
 " Come, hurry up, Tern," she said ; " you'll 
 have me so vain I'll not hear a word of the 
 sermon." 
 
 " What a fine brow, Thesis. I knew you'd 
 have that. But it's broader than 1 thought. 
 You are slow to act, but you never change. 
 And if you once love, it will be an eternity 
 thing with you. 
 
 "Your eyes? There, child, they have 
 never changed at all, and so 1 am looking into 
 them now, as I did long ago. Then, even 
 though you were a child, I'd watch them 
 sometimes in their far-away search for the 
 
 angels, looking across earth and sky, reflect- 
 166
 
 A Smile in the Dark 
 
 ing the visions they were seeing in a fairer 
 clime." 
 
 " O, Tem ; do hurry up. You know I can- 
 not see into other worlds any more than you 
 can." 
 
 " And that funny little nose about half an 
 inch shorter than it ought to be and turned 
 up just a little that hasn't changed either. 
 I am looking at that. It's a funny little 
 thing." 
 
 Thesis laughed. " Tem, if you don't stop 
 making fun of my nose, I'll I'll drop you." 
 
 "Just like a woman," laughed the Blind 
 Man ; " I've praised everything but your 
 nose, and now you want me to tell a fib about 
 that. Start into praising a woman, you'd 
 better go the whole thing." 
 
 Thesis looked at him a mocking grimace. 
 
 He was silent awhile, silent and serious. 
 Then he burst out in his impulsive way, 
 
 "And your mouth. O, Thesis, that little 
 rainbow mouth. Child, do you know you 
 haven't kissed me in a mighty long time ?" 
 
 Thesis burst into a merry laugh. 
 
 " Well, of all the sentimental old Terns ! 
 167
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 Do you think I am wearing short frocks yet, 
 Tem ?" 
 
 " Aren't you ?" asked the Blind Man. 
 
 " Weil I wish you could see. Five feet and 
 as many inches, and weighing one hundred 
 and thirty pounds," she said. 
 
 "I wish I could, too," said the Blind Man, 
 with inexpressible sadness. " Just to see you 
 just to see you, and then go blind again." 
 
 "Nonsense, Tem," she laughed, "you're 
 acting just as they say silly people do in love. 
 Come now, stop your foolishness, or I'll think 
 you are, and that will spoil it all." 
 
 And then the truth flashed over the Blind 
 Man. He looked up, his face blanched, his 
 mouth, for a moment, was hard set, and his 
 visionless eyes wore the look of Calvary. 
 
 He had seen the maid in the star, and the 
 light that went out with her passing was 
 another blindness to him a blinding of the 
 blind. 
 
 The fight lasted just a moment. But it 
 made him reel, stagger, and almost faint. He 
 clutched her hand for support. 
 
 " O, Tem, don't squeeze my hand so !" 
 168
 
 A Smile in the Dark 
 
 The Blind Man smiled and walked slowly 
 on. 
 
 I had seen that smile before. It was on 
 the face of a gallant old soldier, who had 
 starved to death in prison. He had not seen 
 his beloved for two years. He was dying in 
 that prison, and they told him if he could live 
 to get home he might go. In sight of the old 
 home she came out to meet him, and their two 
 boys were at her side. 
 
 " Oh, I am at home and well again ; well 
 again, beloved," he cried. 
 
 Then he held out his arms, smiled and died. 
 
 And that smile never left him like an angel 
 of light, sitting triumphant in the whitened 
 halls of death, aye, even on the Conqueror's 
 own throne, and proclaiming that there be 
 earthly loves which build their temple on the 
 stony brow of Dissolution itself. 
 
 169
 
 THE SORROWING STARS. 
 
 SWEET is the thought, that, some day 
 I shall rest. 
 Some day the good, glad sun will rise 
 
 Above the crest 
 Of billowed hills and ocean skies 
 
 The world to bless, 
 But it will greet my tired eyes 
 At rest sweet rest. 
 
 Sweet is the thought, that, some night 
 
 I shall sleep 
 Some night the sorrowing stars will rise 
 
 And peep 
 From out the mother skirt of nightly skies 
 
 But 1 shall weep 
 Not back within their answering eyes, 
 
 For I shall sleep. 
 
 171
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I SHALL never forget the night I called and 
 took Bernice her ring. 
 
 The man who puts a ring on the finger of 
 the woman he is going to marry, and does not 
 feel a happiness he has never felt before, is 
 damned to begin with. ... I am glad I do 
 not remember all that occurred, but I do re- 
 member this : 
 
 "We will tell Thesis," said Bernice. 
 
 She came out just before I left. I could not 
 tell her, and I hoped Bernice would not. But 
 when she saw the ring, it went through her as 
 quickly as one of its flashes permeate a twi- 
 light. She came quietly over to my side, held 
 out her hand and said simply, " Good-by, 
 Ned." 
 
 "No, no, not good-by, but good-night," I 
 said, and I stooped, half playfully, to give her 
 173
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 the kiss I had always given. Not any move- 
 ment or motion of hers stopped me. 
 
 She looked at me, and then I could no 
 more have kissed her than I could have pro- 
 faned the heavens by tossing a smoky lantern 
 into the night and calling it a star. It was 
 nearly dark. 1 am glad it was. 
 
 I sometimes think there are times when 
 every man considers, more or less seriously, 
 the problem of suicide. That night in my 
 room I twirled a pistol over and over for an 
 hour, as I sat and thought in my despair. 
 
 A card lay on my table. I took it up and 
 read, through the dying breath of a withering 
 violet: ". . . . not as the world giveth, give 
 1 unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, 
 neither let it be afraid." 
 
 I went to my window and threw the pistol 
 across the lawn. 
 
 Do you know this of birds, that they have 
 their favorite hours for singing, and so make 
 one unbroken wave of music around the 
 world ? Perhaps Webster was thinking of 
 this when he paid that tribute to the English 
 flag, never before equaled by tribute to any
 
 The Sorrowing Stars 
 
 flag from the lips of man. And so with 
 birds. 
 
 I counted them, in my agony of despair, as 
 I lay awake that night. At half-past one a 
 small green finch awoke near my window and 
 sang his simple song. Scarcely was he through 
 before a sleepless mocking-bird, poet-like, 
 with brain so full of fire and melody he could 
 not sleep, began a faint and far-off " Mise- 
 rere " in the hush of a half-veiled moon. A 
 black-cap caught it up not much of a song, 
 but just enough to appear as a kind of an ap- 
 plause to the melody of the mocking-bird. It 
 was nearly four when a black-bird piped his 
 merry note, to be followed a half hour later by 
 the flute-like notes of a thrush, and, later 
 still, by those of a wren. Then came a spar- 
 row, and then another wren, then the chaf- 
 finches, and then the linnets, until the chirp 
 and whistle of a lazy lark was heard really 
 the last bird to find that the sun had arisen. 
 And yet the world holds his name as a syno- 
 nym of sunup. The astonishing thing about 
 the world is what it does not know about itself. 
 
 During the day it is the same, one bird 
 '75
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 after another having his favorite hour for sing- 
 ing, and not ending at night, as is generally 
 supposed, with the whippoorwill's and night- 
 hawk's cry, but with the song of waking 
 birds and soulful birds, "following the sun 
 and keeping company with the hours," mak- 
 ing one unbroken wave of melody around the 
 world. 
 
 Bernice and I had decided there need be no 
 delay in our wedding. It was to take place 
 the next month. She wished to go to Europe 
 for her honeymoon. Had it been left to me I 
 should never have decided to go out of sight 
 of the hills of Tennessee. 
 
 I thought that Miss Cynthia would be greatly 
 surprised when I told her, but I was mistaken. 
 She looked at me with unusual interest, and 
 a merry twinkle shone in her earnest eyes. 
 In fact, she even smiled. This was all so 
 unusual for Miss Cynthia that I was greatly 
 surprised. 
 
 "I will give my consent," she said, "if 
 you will let me ask you one more question," 
 then she looked a little confused. I thought 
 
 she looked twenty years younger. 
 176
 
 The Sorrowing Stars 
 
 "O, that's easily earned/' I said. She 
 came up to me with more graciousness than I 
 had ever seen in her before. She crooked her 
 finger in my button hole, and so held me fast. 
 
 " Now will you not will you not " she 
 began. 
 
 I looked down on Miss Cynthia with a puz- 
 zled countenance, 1 know. In truth, I began 
 to be interested in her. 
 
 "Tell me," she went on "just how it 
 how it it, you know " Miss Cynthia was 
 actually blushing! "how it affects affects 
 people that is, people who who " 
 
 She was blushing furiously. And in that 
 blush her whole nature was transformed. I 
 saw another being before me not Miss Cyn- 
 thia, but a woman. Not the old maid with 
 silvery hair and deep-set indifferent eyes, 
 looking aimlessly future-ward ; but a woman 
 whom God had made to be a mother, and 
 therefore happy. There was a light in her 
 eyes, the first I had ever seen a smile of joy- 
 ful fulfillment on her lips the first that had 
 ever lingered there. It changed her very look 
 her very nature. Now she looked, I thought, 
 177
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 so dignified and distinguished with her white 
 hair combed gracefully back and her head 
 carried more proudly than I had ever seen it 
 before it had always been humble enough. 
 And her face, before, so pale and listless the 
 light that fell there! Now, it fell like the 
 crimson blush of the dying day, turning the 
 twilight of its life into the memory of a morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Miss Cynthia was positively lovely. O 
 holy ray of love, that can turn the petals of a 
 withering lily into rose-leaves of light ! 
 
 "You see," she blushed and went on 
 "you see, Ned " 
 
 "Miss Cynthia," I smiled, " I see you are 
 in love." 
 
 Then for all the world I would not have 
 said it. For a moment she looked at me in a 
 pitiful, hurt way. Then she burst into tears. 
 
 I think they were the first she had ever 
 shed in that way, the first that had ever 
 come into her poor unsatisfied life her life of 
 duty, of trial borne alone, of a yearning for 
 love and sympathy which never came, of see- 
 ing only the present, of knowing no future. 
 178
 
 The Sorrowing Stars 
 
 They touched me so, I could do nothing 
 but slip away to the barn. And yet I would 
 have given much just to have sat down by 
 her and wept too. 
 
 But at the barn I was greatly touched. I 
 had stopped to pet Marjorie as she thrust her 
 shapely head out of her stall. Then I looked 
 up and missed the picture that had always 
 hung there. The old man noticed it and said, 
 
 "She ain't dar, no mo', sah ! dun tuck 
 Little Glory down to my cabin, an' dar she 
 gwine stay as long as I lib. I'll nurver desert 
 her no, sah!" 
 
 They were simple words, but the old man 
 will never know how they touched me. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " 1 would not try to drive him to-day," said 
 the trainer. " Marjorie needs her work. If 
 you will drive for exercise on your wedding 
 morning," he laughed, " drive something that 
 is safe." 
 
 "Why not?" I asked, as I stood and 
 looked at them put on the boots and the finish- 
 ing touches to the great black giant, in silken 
 
 sheen and glossy coat, who stood nervously 
 179
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 grinding his bit, in keen anticipation of the 
 few swift heats that awaited him. 
 
 " He'll be rank and ugly to-day," went on 
 the trainer. " It has rained so he hasn't had 
 his work for a week. I weigh two hundred 
 and am strong as most men, but he han- 
 dled me in the backstretch that day as if I had 
 been a babe." Then he added seriously, 
 " He is not a gentleman's horse to-day, sir." 
 
 " That is why I shall drive him," I said, 
 recklessly. And the next instant I had 
 jumped into the toy thing of steel and hickory 
 which glided on air and rubber behind the 
 great horse's heels. A darky ran by his side 
 and snapped the overcheck, and as we reached 
 the track I saw, by the way the big horse went 
 up against the bit and nervously fought for 
 his head, that he expected a battle with me. 
 
 Twice around the track we went, until he 
 was keyed to his speed and lithe as a hickory 
 withe. Then 1 turned him about and gave 
 him his head for a fast mile. 
 
 At the half he went off his feet and plunged 
 madly. 
 
 " They will never know it was not an acci- 
 180
 
 The Sorrowing Stars 
 
 dent," I said to myself as I cut him with 
 a whip that fell like a blade of fire. I knew 
 what was coming I admired him the more 
 for it. 
 
 For an instant he quivered from heel to 
 head at the indignity of the insult. Then he 
 reared upward as though he would leap to the 
 stars if the bit was out of his mouth, and 
 the next instant he fell backward upon me. 
 It seemed to me a black meteorite struck my 
 head. . . . 
 
 There were fantastic dreams I had, and 
 then it seemed that eons and eons of time 
 went by, when, try as I would, I could not 
 know, and if I did know, it was only enough 
 to assure me in a shadowy sort of a way that I 
 was not knowing. Someone was holding my 
 head as in a vise. 
 
 Night was the world in chaos again, and 
 the day, would it never come ? It came and 
 went light, darkness, day but days of only 
 second's time. " I understand how eternity 
 is now," I thought once between the darkness 
 and the daylight " they are days of second's 
 time with God."
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 Day -and a tall and very beautiful creature 
 was silently looking at me and assisting 
 around the room. 
 
 Day again flickering and full of twilight, 
 and the man with instruments said, after it 
 seemed to me he had encased me in a solid 
 rock, " I love the boy, but I hope he will die. 
 Paralyzed for life on one side, and his mind 
 will probably go with it." 
 
 Then I knew the man who had been hold- 
 ing my head was .blind, because he said, " He 
 shall not die if I can save him. I wish I could 
 see you again, Ned, my boy." 
 
 He was holding my head when he said it, 
 and I tried to speak, but 1 could not. Then I 
 tried to press his hand to let him know I un- 
 derstood, but I could not. Then I knew what 
 it was to be paralyzed. 
 
 The man with the instruments came over 
 and wrung the Blind Man's hand and said, in 
 his bluff way, " Damn it, Emerson, you are 
 a trump a regular trump. I'll swear I don't 
 see how you stood it. Do you know you 
 and that old darky have held that boy's 
 
 head there, held that nearly fractured ver- 
 182
 
 The Sorrowing Stars 
 
 tebra together for ten days ? If you had 
 turned it loose, he would have died in an 
 hour." 
 
 "Sh-h-h-h!" whispered the Blind Man. 
 " Isn't he taking more interest in things ?" 
 
 I felt his hand go over my face in a gentle, 
 sensitive touch. 
 
 " You needn't bother about holding it any 
 longer," went on the other. " If he can live 
 ten days with that fracture, the plaster of 
 Paris will do the rest now. But, damn me, 
 Emerson, you and that old darky 1" 
 
 Day again, shadowy and sweet, and the 
 tall and beautiful form. Dreams of fields and 
 flowers, of a wood-thrush singing above a 
 sleeping herd. . . . Then winter chilling 
 everything, killing the wood-thrush, killing 
 the flowers. Blast after blast of winter 
 spasm after spasm of chill. 
 
 "This is death," I thought to myself. 
 
 And then some one bent over me some 
 / one tail and graceful. I should have known 
 better, but it seemed I had seen the eyes be- 
 fore. It was night, and the moon was shining 
 on them, and I saw the battle there and the 
 183
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 little locket. And then I could speak for the 
 first time. 
 
 "No, no, Thesis, darling, not good-by, but 
 good-night. Oh, love ! Oh, Thesis, will you 
 forgive me ?" 
 
 Then the Blind Man's voice, " He does not 
 know what he is saying, Miss Bernice." 
 
 Day, but the tall and beautiful form never 
 came again. 
 
 I remember that one night my mind sud- 
 denly seemed as transparent as glass. As one 
 who awakens from a great sleep, it took on 
 a keenness, an acuteness which was painful in 
 its intensity. There is a great thought in such 
 an awakening. How keen, how acute the 
 mind ! How the whole soul quivers as the first 
 sensations of thought creep over it. And the 
 longer and more profound the sleep, the more 
 sensitive the awakening. Aye, at the real 
 Great Awakening, after eons of sleep, how 
 sensitive will the soul be how keenly will it 
 see the difference between right and wrong ! 
 What can keep it from being its own judge ? 
 
 It was past midnight by the great clock 
 in the corner when I awoke, fully and corn- 
 184
 
 The Sorrowing Stars 
 
 pletely in possession of my senses again- 
 and yet I awoke with a start and a sense of 
 impending danger. The Blind Man was 
 asleep, bolt upright in a chair. Old Wash 
 was asleep on a rug at my door. The light 
 had gone out, but a bright moon shone full in 
 my window, and its white beams played like 
 noiseless ghosts upon the floor. Did you 
 never have such an awakening in the small 
 hours of the night ? 
 
 The world is still, your heart beats low and 
 quiet. Not a sound is heard. Not a being is 
 awake but your soul and yourself, and you 
 find your Conscience sitting in solemn judg- 
 ment on yourself. How strange it is that this 
 small voice will never cease ; even in dreams 
 it tells which are right and which are wrong. 
 And now it seems to have awakened you that 
 it might talk to you while all is still, and no 
 one to listen, or interfere to change the solemn 
 proceedings of its tribunal. 
 
 How little then become your wildest dreams 
 of wealth, or glory, or honor, or fame. How 
 less than little become your flashes of passion 
 or frets of daily annoyance or clamorings for
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 imaginary rights or bickerings for self ! How 
 small even appear the few good deeds you 
 have done, compared with the solid mountains 
 of those across whose sides you might write, 
 " My mountain of good intentions." 
 
 You shut your eyes again only to face the 
 clear painful silence, the calm still inexorable 
 judge, the deep reality of life, and the deeper 
 reality of death. Then it is that you see life 
 as it is, shorn of every folly and false idea, 
 but a plaything you have toyed with. Then 
 it is that you see your soul as it is, no longer 
 do you doubt it for it cuts you as a keen 
 razor the hands of a child. And then you see 
 death as it is, its eternal calmness and still- 
 ness, its hushing of all earthly vanities and 
 silencing of all earthly conceits. And it shows 
 you yourself as you are a tremulous sapling 
 among oaks, a speck of clay among planets 
 and suns. 
 
 And so in the sudden clearing of mental 
 vision I lay that night for awhile thinking over 
 my past life thinking and judging until the 
 whirl of emotion was too much to bear, and 1 
 
 sank again into blessed unconsciousness. 
 1 86
 
 The Sorrowing Stars 
 
 But one day I heard, in a dazed sort of a 
 way, the Blind Man telling some one that 
 some one else must be brought, that a great 
 mistake had been made and the other one had 
 gone to Europe. And then I heard him dis- 
 tinctly say, 
 
 " God never made but one like her. Why, 
 she loved him all the time, but sacrificed it for 
 another's sake. She will do what I ask her. 
 I'll bring her to-morrow." 
 
 The person he was talking to went out. 
 Then he sat down by my side, took my hand 
 and said, softly, for he did not know I was 
 conscious, 
 
 " Oh, Ned ! Ned ! To have won the love 
 you have ! God bless you both." There 
 was nobody else in the room, and for the 
 first time in my life I saw him bend his head 
 and weep. 
 
 The next day there came a vision brighter 
 than the sun. I knew she was there, though 
 1 could not quite understand. My mind was 
 wandering when I first saw the vision. There 
 was a boat and a man in it, light and light- 
 ning, troops and troops of beasts and soldiers. 
 187
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 Then things grew calmer, and I heard dis- 
 tinctly the song of a cat-bird, just out of my 
 window, and a great wave of happiness swept 
 through and over me. 
 
 " If I can hear him through without forget- 
 ting," I said to myself, "I'll know I am alive 
 again that day has come to stay and night 
 cannot claim me any more." 
 
 Never did I listen with more intensity. The 
 song went on. I heard it I heard it ! I 
 could scarcely believe I saw, I heard ! 
 
 The sunlight flooded my room. The win- 
 dow was up. There sat the Blind Man, hold- 
 ing my hand. Miss Cynthia was embroider- 
 ing in a corner. 1 heard a colt whicker across 
 the lawn. Never had I heard such sweet- 
 ness. 
 
 And the cat-bird sang on. 
 
 He sang of love and life, of hope that sits 
 enthroned in happy hearts, of nesting times, 
 trilling, trilling up to the happy stars. 
 
 I raised my eyes and looked up into 
 the eyes of Thesis, 
 
 She had slipped in, and stood beside the 
 
 Blind Man, and was looking down on me. 
 188
 
 The Sorrowing Stars 
 
 She saw the conscious rapture that swept over 
 me when I recognized her. She read all the 
 love and suffering that was in my eyes that 
 I was about to speak and then she knelt 
 down quickly, threw her arms around my 
 neck, kissed me and said, " Hush, hush, dear 
 heart ! I understand." 
 
 I saw the Blind Man wince, there was a 
 momentary struggle with myself and then I 
 saw myself as I never had my cowardice, 
 my pride. And now must I, a wreck and 
 cripple for life, set the seal of my selfishness 
 by accepting this love when I had nothing to 
 give in return ? 
 
 Only God knew the agony it cost me, when 
 1 turned my face to the wall. 
 
 She looked at me a moment in startled 
 shame, then fled weeping from the room. 
 
 The Blind Man came over to my bedside. 
 He was so agitated he could scarcely speak. 
 
 "Ned, I know men who would die to have 
 what you have thrown away." 
 
 189
 
 THE RECOMPENSE. 
 
 WE never give, but giving, get again 
 There is no burden that we may not 
 
 bear 
 
 Our sweetest love is always sweetest pain 
 And yet the recompense, the recompense is 
 there. 
 
 Who weeps, yet worships some sweet silent 
 
 star 
 E'en through his tears shall catch uplifting 
 
 light 
 
 We grow to what our aspirations are 
 Look up, O Soul, and be a star to-night. 
 
 Who pours his heart out to some flower rare 
 On scaleless cliff above a sailless sea, 
 
 Shall drink its perfume, if he linger there, 
 Until his very soul that flower shall be. 
 
 Who bares his head where God's star-altars 
 
 rise 
 
 191
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 And strives to probe with prayer their mys- 
 tery, 
 
 Even with the act claims kindred with the 
 skies 
 
 We are the Wish of all we will to be. 
 
 Who loves his love through death and riftless 
 ruth 
 
 Yet ne'er shall clasp and kiss her in his leal 
 Shall wedded be in spirit and in truth 
 
 We are the Deed of all we think and feel. 
 
 We never give, but, giving, get again 
 There is no burden that we may not bear 
 
 Our sweetest love is always sweetest pain, 
 And yet the recompense, the recompense is 
 there. 
 
 192
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A FFLICTION is the lightning that clears 
 /~V the sky of our life. After it, comes the 
 ozone of clearer seeing, of healthier living. 
 
 The Blind Man was my greatest comforter. 
 He never left me he and old Wash. It 
 touched me greatly to see them always around 
 me, day and night, always cheerful and so 
 always cheering me. For our lives are mani- 
 fold, not single. What we live often decides 
 what others shall live. 
 
 And old Wash it was pathetic to see how 
 interesting he tried to be. 
 
 "I tell you, Ned," laughed the Blind Man 
 one day, "you and I will be greater chums 
 than ever. You cannot walk and I cannot 
 see. So I will carry you and you shall see for 
 me." 
 
 Cannot walk ! I had not thought of it in 
 all its subtle, excruciating keenness before. I, 
 13 193
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 who so loved to walk. No more to go into the 
 fields, to see the sweet things of nature, to 
 study the birds. To lie here a helpless cripple 
 in a world of action I, who had been so 
 active. 
 
 This had been my life. Now God had 
 turned it right about. The old, full life must 
 go, go with all its strength and manhood, go 
 with all its dreams, go and with it Thesis. 
 
 The Blind Man's hand was on my brow. I 
 held it and kissed it. Then I shed tears, the 
 first in many years. 
 
 But old Wash looked at us both in his funny, 
 philosophical way, winked at me and said, 
 
 " G'way frum heah, wid all dat grave-yard 
 talk. I've seed game hosses break down 
 befo'. All you need is a rest, an' den a run 
 on blue-grass. Lor', ef de sperrit's dar, de legs 
 Ml follow." 
 
 Then he'd slip out and bring Marjorie up, 
 hooked and booted, and let me see her go a 
 bit across the green. It would end in his driv- 
 ing her to my window, where I'd give her the 
 lump of sugar 1 always kept for her. The old 
 
 man would sit in the sulky with all the dignity 
 194
 
 The Recompense 
 
 of a great driver. He would gravely fleck his 
 whip and look positive and sure. Then he'd 
 wink at me again as he drove off and say, 
 
 " It's betwixt grass-time and hay-time wid 
 you now, an' kinder blue, to-be-sho', but befo' 
 de snow flies agin, jes' see ef I don't hab you 
 up an' drivin' dis very filly." 
 
 1 did not hear anything about Thesis. I 
 knew she was teaching a music class in Nash- 
 ville. The Blind Man told me that much. 
 
 One day it seemed a long time, because I 
 could do nothing but watch the days come and 
 go I dictated a letter to Bernice. She was 
 in Europe, and I had heard how her great 
 beauty had attracted all. Her reply came 
 promptly. It was what I had expected, and 
 all I had wished. It was of many pages and 
 fulsome and complete. My ring came with it. 
 She did not say it in so many words, but 
 between the lines 1 read, 
 
 "Marriage is a civil contract and one in 
 which each contracting party should have 
 value received. I am sorry for you and so 
 good -by." 
 
 That night I slept with another envelope 
 '95
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 under my pillow. It was not even sealed, 
 and contained only the programme of a music 
 recital, directed to me in a well-known hand- 
 writing. Down in one corner was signed, 
 simply, " Thesis." 
 
 But it seemed that all life and hope came 
 back to me that night. For the first time in 
 weeks I wanted to live. Then all the old 
 fire and ambition of life came back, and I re- 
 solved to live. 
 
 When the Blind Man came in he must have 
 noticed the difference in me, for he said, 
 
 "That's right, Ned. Resolution is half the 
 battle." Then he went on, 
 
 " Do you know I wrote a poem once ? Not 
 much of a poem, perhaps, but it was the day 
 after I knew I was blind, and it all came over 
 me so. I had to write this to keep from giving 
 up." 
 
 He walked over to my bedside and drew out 
 a worn manuscript of three pages from his 
 pocket. Across it were scribbled some lines 
 running in all directions, for there was no light 
 behind the hand that guided them. The 
 
 pathos of it brought tears to my eyes. 
 196
 
 The Recompense 
 
 "I wrote that poem," he said, "the first 
 and the only one I shall ever write. Poems are 
 born in one, not made, and each is a different 
 birth the birth of a soul. For if they come 
 from the soul they must be part of it. Real 
 poets have these soul-births often, and so give 
 to the world these many children of their 
 genius. But all of us the most insignificant 
 and unpoetic of us have them once, at least, 
 in a life-time. We may not even give it birth, 
 and it may die between a sob and a shout. It 
 may be only a memory, the shadow of a linger- 
 ing, the vision of a regret, the dim recollection of 
 something we cannot even remember, but it will 
 come to sweeten and touch us to be ours." 
 
 He was silent a while, then he said, " When 
 the light went out of my life this was born to 
 me. And it has been my inspiration ever 
 since." 
 
 I took the manuscript and read aloud : 
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 " 'Tis the coward who quits to misfortune 
 'Tis the knave who changes each day, 
 'Tis the fool who wins half of the battle, 
 Then throws all his chances away.
 
 A Summer riymnal 
 
 " There is little in life but labor, 
 
 And to-morrow may find that a dream, 
 Success is the bride of Endeavor, 
 And Luck but a meteor's gleam. 
 
 " The time to succeed is, when others, 
 
 Discouraged, show traces of tire, 
 The battle is fought in the homestretch, 
 And won 'twixt the flag and the wire." 
 
 I knew then why the Blind Man was so 
 brave. 
 
 But despite my resolution, the weeks passed 
 wearily, and still I lay helpless and broken- 
 spirited. Had it not been for my love of birds 
 and their visits to me then, in the trees 
 around my windows, down in the grass by 
 the house, singing, chirping, cheering me, 1 
 think I should have died or given up. For try 
 as I would, I could barely lift my head, and not 
 at all either of my limbs on one side. I be- 
 lieve the birds knew it and sent word to all the 
 other birds, from the way they seemed to as- 
 semble and sing around my window. 
 
 1 do not think I ever should have gotten up 
 at all, if old Wash had not come in one day, 
 
 picked me up and set me in a big chair by the 
 198
 
 The Recompense 
 
 window, in my dressing gown and slippers. 
 How sweet the fields looked ! How like old 
 friends the hills that stretched along the Mount 
 Pleasant country ! I felt as if they were wel- 
 coming me up, and from their great sturdy 
 sides and everlasting, never-changing sum- 
 mits, I drew in again the spirit of their souls. 
 How beautiful it was, how, calm and trustful 
 and true ! 
 
 In the great sweetness of it all there burst 
 suddenly on me a flood of the richest melody. 
 I could hear it, but I could not see the mu- 
 sician. It seemed to come from everywhere 
 I knew the singer who gave it forth, and 
 the white oak tree he was in, but the mocking- 
 bird, like all true singers, is so unpretentious 
 in his make-up, and so near the color of nature 
 generally, that I could scarcely tell him from 
 the big honest limb he was sitting on. But I 
 knew well enough, too, why his music seemed 
 to come from everywhere he draws it from 
 everywhere, and he never pours it out twice 
 in the same direction. 
 
 Oh, he is the true singer ! Watch him just 
 
 a moment and see, while his little gray throat 
 199
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 swells and puffs and rolls like miniature bil- 
 lows, and his flashing eyes, " in a fine frenzy 
 rolling," dart about here and there, now at 
 the earth, and now at the heaven above him, 
 notice how his little head moves from side to 
 side, pouring his song in every direction and 
 varying it to suit every new and beautiful 
 sight that flashes across the threshold of the 
 tiny chambers in his eyes. It is almost comical 
 to see how earnest he is not merely to sing, 
 but to sing some new thing. And so he takes 
 in both Earth and Heaven, and involuntarily 
 pours out the impression that he sees. 
 
 "You are the true poet/' I said, as my 
 heart swelled up at the lesson he was teach- 
 ing me " You are the true singer. Spring 
 has been glorious, but it has passed now, and 
 you are not to sing of spring until your song 
 becomes a spring joke among the other birds. 
 The heavens are blue, but you don't dwell on 
 them always. The fields are green and sun- 
 shiny and beautiful, but only a glint of them 
 has crept into your music. Your mate died in 
 the terrible freeze of last winter and that ten- 
 der flutter of crape in your song is just enough 
 200
 
 The Recompense 
 
 to draw me to you. Had you hung out your 
 black flag, as some folks do who imagine they 
 are mourning thereby for the dead, or poured 
 your misery between me and the sunshine, I 
 would shut my ears and tell you to go and 
 mate with a black-bird." 
 
 But oh, what a singer you are ! A little of 
 the fields, a June waft from the air, a glint 
 from the sunshine and a gleam from the skies. 
 A memory of a dead love, a quaint shaft of 
 musical satire, a withering take-off on some 
 cat-bird, who thinks he too is a singer and has 
 tried to imitate you, and a jolly laugh at the 
 foibles of man. Twinkles, jests, raptures, 
 dreams ; dances, song, brooks, flowers ; ser- 
 mons, poems, music, stars and all, all of it, 
 heaven ! 
 
 The sweetness and beauty of it all came 
 over me. 1 felt that, to me, no more were to 
 be the fields and the birds and the sweet 
 things of nature, and yet I was never so 
 happy. For I thought of Thesis and her love 
 for me, and out of the night of my sorrow 
 there arose and shone the sweet star of my 
 recompense. 
 
 201
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 But one day, when the Blind Man came 
 into my room, he wore a strange and troubled 
 look. 
 
 "Ned," he said, "I fear the devil is to pay 
 with Colonel Philips." 
 
 "Tell me about it," I said, "for you know 
 1 do not hear much that is going on." The 
 Blind Man thought awhile, and then he brought 
 his fist down in a way that is not at all like 
 him, except when he is very greatly in earn- 
 est. 
 
 " If there is a villain unhung," he said after 
 a while, "it is Joe Forde. I believe, Ned, he 
 is at the bottom of a scheme that is going to 
 wreck Colonel Philips wreck him from land 
 to life. His home has been deeded to Forde, 
 and I learn that all the old man's bank stock 
 went with it." 
 
 I tried to rise in my bed, so great was my 
 astonishment. 
 
 "What does this mean ?" I asked, as a ter- 
 rible suspicion went through my mind. 
 
 "It means," said the Blind Man, springing 
 up in excitement that was not natural to him 
 "it means" then he stopped short, came 
 
 202
 
 The Recompense 
 
 over to my chair, seized me eagerly by the 
 hand, and said, "Ned, my boy, you must get 
 up from there, and get up quick. I am going 
 to need you, and need you badly. No living 
 man can help me but you ; and a life, aye, two 
 lives are at stake." 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me that she " 
 
 1 tried to get up, but fell back, power- 
 less. 1 could not even finish the thought that 
 rushed through my brain. Nor could the 
 Blind Man hear me out. He turned and left 
 the room. But as he left, I saw an expression 
 on his face I had never seen before. I knew 
 then that the Blind Man, when aroused, was a 
 dangerous enemy. 
 
 10.3
 
 THE DREAM OF A MELODY. 
 
 O, LET me sit and listen nay, not speak 
 No unanointed sound shall enter here, 
 Nor uninvited guest of discord seek 
 
 To break the sweet communion. Love, Hear 
 Scarcely to breathe, lest I might shake 
 Too soon from starry bowers 
 The music blooms that hang above this lake 
 Of flowers. 
 
 That hang above or float through wind-blown 
 
 wood, 
 
 Faint, blended sounds of mist and melody 
 Echoes of heart-aches, dreams not understood 
 
 Till death shall read for each the mystery. 
 Sobs from the Silent Land memory of mother 
 eyes 
 
 Caught in lambent ray of love, 
 As earth-lakes catch the glory of the skies 
 From those above, 
 aos
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 Tone-dreams stealing through the garden of 
 
 the mind, 
 
 Chord-rays blending in a blaze of harmony 
 A thought a touch and lo! the list'ning 
 
 wind 
 Leaps from the stars and mantles earth with 
 
 melody. 
 For every dream we waft up to the sky 
 
 Through blight and bar, 
 Down here, tho' but the echo of a sigh, 
 Up there a star. 
 
 Light lightlight and the breaking dawn 
 
 Shall purple yet the midnight of our dream. 
 We live in thought here yonder, in a morn 
 Whose sun is sound and mellow music's 
 
 beam, 
 
 Whose nights are notes of singing stars that 
 roll 
 
 In chords around, 
 
 Until is wed the concord of our soul 
 To that of sound. 
 
 Light light light and the Minor's wail 
 Shall sound not down the key-board of our 
 
 heart, 
 
 206
 
 The Dream of a Melody 
 
 For hope shall tear with Major hands the veil 
 And turn our sobs to flute-notes ere they 
 
 start. 
 
 And every song that Sorrow's lips have sung 
 Through hot tears mute, 
 
 Shall fall back laughing in our lap, and flung 
 Like ripened fruit. 
 
 Then dream and weep and weep and dream 
 
 again, 
 And tell in touch what may not be by 
 
 tongue : 
 
 Our loftiest notes yet in our lutes remain 
 Our sweetest songs have never yet been 
 
 sung. 
 No dream is lost no vision e'er will die 
 
 From star to star, 
 
 We step across the threshold of the sky 
 To worlds afar. 
 
 207
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE love of woman surpasses that of man. 
 It is the one divine thing of earth the 
 thing in it that is of Heaven and has its birth 
 among the stars. And as a woman has only 
 one soul, so can she have only one love. 
 Often, indeed, that soul lives, and, like some 
 pure white single star, passes from morn to 
 noon, and from noon into its twilight, and finds 
 no companion-love to go with it. But think you 
 not it is mateless. For the Jove is there, and 
 the divinity of such a love can find its counter- 
 part only among the stars. 
 
 No one's music appealed to me as did that 
 of Thesis. Her's alone seemed to satisfy all 
 that was musical within me. I hold this of 
 music as of poetry that every one has one 
 melody within and which is his very own. Who 
 touches it touches all that is musical in his 
 
 nature. Sometimes it is a grand strain ; often 
 14 209
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 it is a simple childhood tune. But the one 
 touches as completely as the other. When 
 the bud bursts and the perfume comes, it mat- 
 ters not whether the rose is the cultured flower 
 of the hot-house or the wild one that blooms 
 over the wayside fence. Each gives all it has, 
 and the rest depends on him who plucks it. 
 
 And so there was that about Thesis' play- 
 ing which satisfied all that was musical within 
 me. As the days passed I thought of her more 
 and more. I longed for her with an inex- 
 pressible, a painful longing. The road over 
 the hills, as I looked at it from my window, 
 became a sacred thing to me, because she once 
 had passed over it. Yonder by the garden gate 
 she once stood I could have knelt and kissed 
 the spot. That white-oak she once said it 
 was beautiful ; to me it was now divine. 
 
 The days passed. .Her name was too sacred 
 for me to speak to others, and so no one spoke 
 it to me. 
 
 But one day I noticed that Miss Cynthia 
 seemed mystified and serious. I knew she 
 wished very much to say something, to have 
 something explained to her, but she said 
 
 210
 
 The Dream of a Melody 
 
 nothing. Twice she came in and twice went 
 nervously out of my room. Once I saw her 
 looking and listening intently at the library 
 door, within which was the piano where Thesis 
 had so often played. Suddenly she started 
 quickly, and for the third time left the room 
 with no explanation. I do not know why I 
 thought it, for was not Thesis at that time in 
 another city ? But if she 
 
 My heart thrilled as with the flush of a 
 winged joy indeed, indeed, it was her touch 
 on the keys in the next room the old touch 
 the old melody that filled my soul. It came 
 again, this far-off sweetness in which Chopin 
 poured out his heart. My head sank on my 
 breast. I wept. An hour passed. The music 
 died away and left me weeping. 
 
 The love of woman surpasses that of man 
 aye, it passeth man's understanding. It de- 
 spises words and is silent. It is best told in a 
 dream, in a song, in a melody, a separation, a 
 sacrifice. And a woman writes it in the path 
 of her life as the stars write the journey of 
 their hearts in the pathway of the milky-way. 
 
 211
 
 THE SECRET OF THE HILLS. 
 
 O FAR-AWAY hills, faint, far-away hills, 
 Will you tell me the secret you hold ? 
 What dreaming day lulled by the twinkle of 
 
 rills, 
 
 Lies asleep in your mellow and mold ? 
 What Summer-time sent from the long, long 
 
 ago, 
 What Spring tides of pleasure that bubble 
 
 and flow, 
 What laughter from lips that are cold ? 
 
 O far-away hills, faint, far-away hills, 
 
 Will you give me the solace you hold ? 
 The dream-bordered solace of memory's mills, 
 
 The tinkle of bells in the fold 
 The hush-time of evening, the lush-time that 
 
 fills, 
 
 The child-days that never grow old 
 O far-away hills.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 I SEEM to remember only one great desire 
 during those days of despair and suffering. 
 I did not care to be strong again for myself, 
 the blow had fallen too heavily and time had 
 reconciled me to it fixed in me the thought 
 that it could never be otherwise. I did not 
 care to be well again to make money, to fight 
 life's battle, nay, not even to walk over the 
 fields again, to ride over the hills, in the 
 strength and sweetness of health and youth. 
 But just to be well again, that I might find 
 Thesis, go to her, and offer her again the love 
 of a strong man. 
 
 Day after day and week after week, I sat 
 at my window and looked across the blue hills 
 toward Nashville. 
 
 There is nothing in all nature so comforting, 
 
 so restful, and yet so awe-inspiring to me as 
 215
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 the eternal silence and solitude that seems to 
 hang over the distant hills. Who lives among 
 them, in their far-away homes ? Is that blue 
 veil that hangs over them but the reflection 
 of sunlight like ours, or is it the curtain of 
 an unsolved, unexplored land where only 
 memories live ? If 1 might go to them, slip 
 off from the main road that leads over them, 
 and penetrate their innermost recesses, their 
 very heart of hearts, would the veil be with- 
 drawn to me, would they give up the secret 
 of their rest and sweetness, or would they 
 point me still further on, would they send me 
 sadly away and bid me seek it from those, 
 their comrades, still further off, resting also 
 in their solitude and silence ? Would the 
 mystery of it never be solved ? 
 
 Oh ! hills oh, life ! that we must wander 
 and stumble onward trying to lift the curtain 
 that droops across the face of the future, to 
 solve the mysteries of the life to be, seeking, 
 seeking ever to penetrate the land of silence 
 that we may find rest, seeking and wandering 
 on, only to find, when we reach it, the curtain 
 
 withdrawn, and that which was to be the roof- 
 216
 
 The Secret of the Hills 
 
 tree of our soul, but the reflected light from 
 the shadows of our own sun ! 
 
 Oh, hills oh, life ! 
 
 But one day I found it harder than ever to 
 bear, for as I looked across the hills, I saw the 
 first crimson streak in the leaves of the forest. 
 Then the birds began to migrate, and my heart 
 sank within me oh, if they would only not 
 leave me ! 
 
 The cat-birds left early. I mourned within 
 myself that morning when I saw them no more 
 in the cherry trees, now nearly bare. 
 
 "When you came in the Spring," I 
 thought, " how different life seemed to me. 
 
 " Now now " 
 
 The migration of the birds is one of the most 
 wonderful of things. Few of us see or notice 
 it, we are so busy with our own affairs. But 
 all the law of nature, all the harmony of the 
 spheres, is involved in this bird instinct. 
 
 Some went South, passing in pairs or groups, 
 paying me little neighborly visits as they went, 
 stopping a day or two to sing and flit about, to 
 sring their farewell songs and be social and 
 
 friendly. These little ones must be watched 
 217
 
 closely if you would enjoy their brief visits. 
 They come from the far North, and are 
 strangers in a strange land. But they make 
 themselves so much at home, one is apt not to 
 notice them, or to suppose they are the same 
 little friends that have been with us all Sum- 
 mer. Others go by in strange nervous flocks, 
 resting but a moment in the tall trees, or 
 sweeping onward toward the reeds and rushes 
 of a far-away Southern home. The bobolink, 
 with his gorgeous summer plumage changed 
 to the modest gray of his little wife for now 
 he is gregarious, and must not be a target for 
 the eye of his enemy scarcely stops to bid us 
 good-day, ere he is gone again. The red- 
 wing black-bird cannot change his plumage, 
 but must devise other though quite ungallant 
 means; and so the males travel Southward as 
 they came Northward in the Spring in one 
 flock, the females in another. 
 
 Thus they all left me, all but the swallows. 
 I knew they too were going soon, because 
 they congregated in one great chimney at 
 Lynwood, and soared and swept and twittered 
 
 around in the pure, clear Autumn air, as if 
 218
 
 The Secret of the Hills 
 
 trying their wings for their distant flight. One 
 morning, after an unusually noisy convention 
 the afternoon before, I heard them no more, 
 and so I knew that they too were gone. 
 
 And thus they all went but the mocking-bird. 
 Game, brave fellow that he was, he stayed to 
 sing and cheer me through the long Winter 
 months. 
 
 It was due to old Wash's persistence that I 
 was allowed to sit up at all. He would beg 
 and coax me, as if I were a little child, to try 
 to walk, to try to raise my hand. But try 
 as I would, one side remained weak and help- 
 less. 
 
 One day, I shall never forget it, it was 
 about three weeks before Marjorie was to be 
 shipped North to make the great race of her 
 life. Marvellous were the tales the old man 
 had told me of her great speed, and how in the 
 Ten Thousand Dollar Purse in which she was 
 entered there was nothing that could out-foot 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, she's oil in de can, boss oil in de 
 can," he would say. 
 
 He was exercising her that morning, and 
 219
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 drove up to my window. She nickered when 
 she saw me, and turned her big brown 
 eyes, so full of human sympathy, on me. 
 Hooked to my light speed wagon ! I wondered 
 what the old man meant. In a few minutes I 
 learned, for he came in without a word, lifted 
 me as if I had been an infant, and placed 
 me in the cart. Then he got in beside me, 
 holding me with one hand and driving the filly 
 with the other, turned her head and sped away 
 to the track. The air rushed into my lungs 
 as she flew along. I felt the old tinge come 
 back, my old spirit and fearlessness. Yet 1 
 clung to him as a babe to its mother. 
 
 Wheeling into the track, he gave her he* 
 head ; but I could see he was watching me 
 very closely, and I thought I detected an 
 amused look on his quaint old face. I knew 
 he was trying an experiment, but I did not 
 guess what it was, until, stepping the filly to 
 her limit, she seemed fairly to fly. The eighth- 
 and quarter-posts flew by me, the sunshine 
 seemed to shoot through and through me, and 
 the blood pulsed through my heart and body 
 like liquid fire. On on the filly flew, her 
 
 220
 
 The Secret of the Hills 
 
 very breath was fire, her heels the twinkle of 
 a hundred stars. 
 
 At the last quarter I saw the old man pull 
 out his watch and snap it. It seemed but an 
 instant, when, with the rushing air scorching 
 my cheeks like blasts of hot ether, and the 
 fence-posts flying by, hand in hand, like danc- 
 ing ghosts, we rushed under the wire and I 
 heard his watch snap again. I looked at it 
 it was thirty seconds ! 
 
 "Wonderful! Wonderful, Wash!" lex- 
 claimed. " A two minute gait, and drawing 
 two men and a wagon !" 
 
 " Jes' watch de next one," he chuckled 
 "she aint pacin* yit!" And he whispered 
 low and clucked to her. She laughed back 
 with a shake of her head as she felt the lines 
 come taut, and moved away like a flying 
 meteor. The skeleton cart seemed scarcely 
 to touch the ground. In an instant I forgot 
 myself. 1 was pulsing with blood and excite- 
 ment, and 1 reached out, grasped the lines 
 with both hands, and shouted, 
 
 " Let me drive her for heaven's sake let 
 me hold those lines !" 
 
 221
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 I scarcely knew what I did. I was brought 
 back to myself when I heard the old man 
 shout and felt him throw both his arms around 
 me. But I had the lines and I telegraphed my 
 wish to her sensitive mouth. She seemed 
 proud to know that it was I who could drive 
 her again, and she flew along as she never had 
 before. When we pulled up at the gate, I 
 knew why the old man shouted, why the tears 
 of joy stood in his eyes. For I felt a great 
 wave of life sweep over me and I knew I was 
 myself again. 
 
 Tenderly he tried to help me to alight. But I 
 would not have it so ; 1 stepped from the wagon 
 myself, then sank on the grass and thanked 
 God in prayer. And as 1 prayed, the sweet 
 tears of thankfulness ran down my cheeks, 
 and through and rn them all I saw the vision 
 of another life, and with me one who walked 
 by my side and beckoned me to follow her 
 through fields where nature and sweetness 
 dwelt, through woods where the birds sang, 
 through years where love led on to holier 
 living. 
 
 When I arose, the old man was rubbing out 
 
 222
 
 The Secret of the Hills 
 
 the filly as if nothing had happened. He did 
 not seem to notice that I was there. He 
 was wrapping her up in a blanket as a mother 
 might tuck away her babe. 
 
 "Fur she's oil in de can, boss oil in de 
 can," was all he would say. 
 
 I could not speak, but I put both my arms 
 around her neck, and she looked humanly 
 down, her great earnest eyes into mine. 
 
 But those first few steps never before had 
 1 felt such a throb of joy !
 
 LITTLE MISS FIDDLE. 
 
 DAR now, Banjo ! t'ek yo' sign in,- 
 Let Miss Fiddle sing her song. 
 O my h'art I'm jes' a pinin' 
 
 Come, Miss Fiddle, come along 
 Wid yo' gleam of sun in show'rs, 
 
 Nights so sweet an' days so ca'mful 
 Wid yo' birds an' bees an' flow'rs, 
 Fetchin' music by de armful !
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IT was nearly two o'clock in the morning, 
 and yet I could not sleep for very joy. 
 
 I walked around the room like a child who, 
 having that day learned the art, now would 
 walk itself to death. I picked up my Indian 
 clubs. I could scarcely lift them, yet how 
 proud I was of my strength ! I went to the 
 window and looked across the hills toward 
 Nashville. 
 
 " If I might only go to-night but not yet, 
 my heart not yet." Finally I could stand it 
 no longer this wild joy in my heart. Putting 
 on my hat, I slipped out to the old man's cabin. 
 To my surprise his light was burning, and as 
 he opened the door I caught my breath, so 
 gorgeously was he attired. 
 
 " In the name of heaven, Wash !" 
 
 " Celerbratin'. Marster celerbratin' dis 
 227
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 flo'is day" and he gave me one of his old- 
 time bows, with a sweep that was grand. 
 
 "We'll celebrate together," I said. 
 
 The old man needed no further hint He 
 vanished, and in a short while he brought 
 back a decanter of Tennessee whiskey he 
 himself had made it for my father, and it was 
 of a vintage of twenty years before. 
 
 But as he went off I had laughed at his 
 costume. A spike-tail coat and white satin 
 waistcoat he had worn when he served at Pres- 
 ident Folk's inauguration. Knee-breeches of 
 green velvet, shiny brass buckles, and white 
 home-knit stockings that looked as if they had 
 come out of the military chest of General An- 
 drew Jackson in the rooms of the Tennessee 
 Historical Society. 
 
 " Bar's oil an' cinnermon draps " on his hair 
 a red silk bandana handkerchief, for a cra- 
 vat, around his high standing collar, and low 
 quartered shoes these completed his attire. 
 
 When the old man dressed in that way a 
 classical renaissance done up in ebony I 
 knew he meant it as the chiefest of all compli- 
 ments. 
 
 228
 
 Little Miss Fiddle 
 
 He drank his toast very reverently. 
 
 " It's to Little Glory, God bless her !" was 
 ail he said. 
 
 " You may take another one on that," I 
 said, as I poured him another glassful. 
 
 In ten minutes he was in one of his mellow 
 moods, the mood I loved so much in the old 
 darky ; I knew he had something rich com- 
 ing, and I was not disappointed. He went to 
 an old chest and took out his violin. It was 
 an old one a Stradivarius. 
 
 My great-great-grandfather had brought it 
 from England when he first settled in Carolina. 
 It had passed through four generations of us to 
 my father. At his death, because old Wash 
 was, first of all, a musician and his trusted 
 slave and devoted friend, it was given to 
 him ; but chiefly because the old man wanted 
 it. And my father also remembered how, 
 during the fights around Atlanta, old Wash, 
 who was his body servant, had ridden down a 
 whole line of the enemy, receiving the fire of 
 every gun, yet miraculously catching no bullet 
 all to save an old violin left in camp the 
 
 night before, and the camp in the hands of the 
 229
 
 enemy. How he escaped unhurt and brought 
 it through the lines is to this day a wonder. 
 
 There were few things I liked more than 
 to hear the old man play. If ever there was 
 a violinist it was he. He seemed to grasp 
 music naturally. He had only to swing his 
 bow and it flowed like a clear mountain stream 
 from the darkened depths within. 
 
 He was not a negro fiddler he was an artist 
 a musician. In the glow and heat and fever 
 of his passion I have known him to improvise 
 music as grand as any obligato ever composed. 
 But it passed with the breath of it not a note 
 has remained. 
 
 " What is the difference between a fiddle 
 and a violin ?" I asked him once. 
 
 " De same dif'runce, Marster," he said, 
 " as 'tween de fiddler and de vi'linist." 
 
 He brought out his violin, took his seat, un- 
 buttoned his shirt collar, and said, 
 
 " I'm gwine co'rt Little Miss Fiddle fur you 
 to-night. 
 
 "Now, you musn't co'rt Little Miss Fiddle 
 lak you do eny yudder gal," he went on, 
 
 "fur she's a gal of sperrit she's got some 
 330
 
 Little Miss Fiddle 
 
 rigernalerty. You tnusn't be in a hurry, 
 musn't lose yo' haid, an' as you hopes to win 
 her, don't fur heaben sake carry on no flutta- 
 shun wid no yudder gal twell Miss Fiddle is 
 yourn " he winked. " She's awful prutty and 
 sweet an' tall dat, but man-suh, she's high 
 strung and won't stan' no foolishness 'fall ! 
 Uh-ur ! Can't hab but one luv wid her. 
 
 " But when yo've won 'er, man-suh, she's 
 wurf all de yudder gals in de wurl. No yudder 
 gal in de wurl can drap 'er sweet little haid on 
 yo' shoulder lak she do jes' so" and he put 
 his violin lovingly under his chin " and nestle 
 right up under yo' year, so you kin talk to 'er 
 soft lak, an' kiss 'er cheek and eyes, an' she 
 kin whisper back. Fur you got to make yo' 
 move, you know, by de whisper she sends 
 back. An' dar she jes' lafs back in yo' eyes 
 an' gives you all de chance you want to throw 
 yo' lef arm round 'er sweet little neck art' 
 tickle 'er under de chin wid yo' own tune. 
 Uh-ur ! No gal in de wurl lak her. 
 
 "Now, take Miss Peanner, f'instunce ; 
 man-suh, I don't lak her 'fall. She's too 
 proud and col', allers dressed up in white an' 
 231
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 black, settin' off in her ribbons an' gowns, 
 talkin' bout sassiety and Germany an' all dat ; 
 when you co'rt 'er, you got to set off, too, so 
 dignerfied lak, an' sorter feel yo' way 'long, 
 an' then ma'ebbe you hafter thump 'er an' box 
 'er and bang 'er years befo' she'll talk sweet. 
 An' den she'll tell you jes' whut she'll tell 
 eny yudder feller dat co'rts de same way. 
 
 " But de sweet little fiddle she's got a dif- 
 'runt talk fur every feller she luvs, an' de 
 closer you squeeze 'er an' hold 'er to yo' 
 heart an' kiss 'er cheek an' tickle 'er under 
 de chin de sweeter she gwineter talk back to 
 you man-suh, dat's a fac' ! Den arter you 
 done marry dat Peanner gal, she no good. 
 'Taint long befo' she's stayin' off in a room 
 by herse'f, allers shut off by herse'f in de 
 parlor and wid all her finery on. Makes a 
 prutty good housekeeper, to-be-sho', allers 
 carryin' her keys 'round, an* sech lak. But 
 she jes' can't nachully hang 'round yo' neck 
 'bout de fiah place, or set in yo' lap lak Little 
 Miss Fiddle. 
 
 "An' dar's Miss Git-tar," he went on 
 
 " she's no good. Fit only to be along wid sap- 
 232
 
 Little Miss Fiddle 
 
 haids an' fools. Can't do nothin* but lay in 
 yo' lap an' look up an' sing luv songs to de 
 moon. Too soft too soft ! Too reddy to fall 
 in lub soon as you tech her. 
 
 " De Organ you ax about, sah ? Nice, good, 
 'lig'us ole maid. Still I lak 'er, fur she's mighty 
 fat an' good-nachured an' solumn, an' sings 
 prutty well in de quire ef she don't ketch a 
 cold. Too gloomy, dough ; allers thinkin' 
 'bout death an' runnin' arter funerals an' 
 tendin' distracted meetin's. Nice good ole 
 church worker, but nurver will marry got too 
 much 'lig'un. 
 
 " Miss Banjo ? Oh dem golden slippers ! 
 Now you heah dis nigger shout ! Yaller gal 
 awful sweet. Cheeks roses an 1 jes' full ob 
 romance. Got to pinch 'er and tickle 'er a 
 heap to m'ek 'er talk right, but when she do 
 begin to sing, man-suh, she's a lark ! Kin sing 
 eny kind o' tune, from Dixie, de tune dat 
 'ud march Johnny Rebs agin de breastworks 
 ob death, to de sweet lullerbies ob our child- 
 hood. Kin m'ek you split yo' sides wid funny 
 songs, or cry lak a baby as she leads you all 
 ober de ole plantashun, whar de ole folks used 
 233
 
 to lib. God bless yo' sweet soul, honey, comin* 
 right down to Charley-on-de-spot, you am de 
 gal fur me ! 
 
 "But de beauty 'bout Little Miss Fiddle she 
 gits better es she gits older. Dis gal ob 
 mine," he added, taking up his violin lovingly 
 and caressing it, "is two hunderd an'thurty- 
 five year ole, an' she gits sweeter an' pruttier 
 es she gits older. 
 
 " Now jes' watch me co'rt her," he winked. 
 
 He drew his bow, made a flourish, and 
 touched the strings with apparent indifference, 
 but with a keen, quick ear, and watched the 
 effect. 
 
 " What's all that for ? Why don't you go 
 on and play ?" 
 
 "Gitten' 'quainted wid her, suh, tellin' 
 her 'Good ebenin', Madam.' She don't 'peer 
 to know me yit," he went on " don't seem 
 to want to talk. She's a little col' at fust, 
 but jes' wait till she warms up some. She 
 don't talk love on a col' collar I've got to 
 whisper in 'er year mighty fine. No, suh, de 
 man don't lib dat kin jes' grab up Little Miss 
 Fiddle on fust 'quain'tunce an* smack 'er 
 234
 
 Little Miss Fiddle 
 
 red lips an' m'ek 'er laf an' lay 'er cheek 
 agin his'n and go right off talkin' sweet on fust 
 'quain'tunce. Listen now jes' watch 'er 
 talk back to me." 
 
 He drew his bow with a quick flourish gently 
 across the strings. " ' / don't know you, suh,' 
 she sez Heah dat, jes' es plain es it kin be ? 
 1 1 don't know you, suh,' she sez Huh er er ! 
 But I knows you, sweetheart I knows you," 
 he said as his bow began to fly to and fro. 
 "See 'er eyes flash ! ' How dart you, suh! 
 How dare you, suh !' Who-o ! but aint she 
 powder an' fiah ? 
 
 " I'll gin' 'er a little poetry : 
 
 1 do not kno' yo' name, 'tis true 
 But dis I kno' to my h'art's own rue 
 De sweetis gal in de wurl am you. 
 
 Hi yi ee ! see dat blush ? Heah dat little 
 laugh aint it nachul ? Don't you see 'er 
 beginnin' to limber up ? Miss Fiddle jes' lak 
 eny yudder gal, she luvs to be called prutty, 
 an' ef you win 'er, you got to do jes' lak you 
 do to all de yudders lie an' lie an' lie to 'em ! 
 Now jes' watch me do it, bow an' sashay an' 
 235
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 scrape aroun'. Tell 'er I've come way 'cross 
 de ocean jes' to see 'er, an* how 'er blush 
 minds me ob de sunshine on de waves, an 1 
 her eyes ob de moonlight on de deep." 
 
 I never heard such music. The old man 
 seemed carried away in a tumult of melody. 
 His body swayed under the excitement. His 
 honest old black face shone like a star, and all 
 the time, as he played, he wove in his story. 
 
 "Dar now, Darlin' now we clippin' it 
 now is de time fur luv. See how de stars 
 smile sorter faint lak in de moonlight an' de 
 shadders round de lake nudge one nudder an' 
 laf across de waves. Heah dat bird ? ' ' and he 
 imitated the notes of the wood-thrush as per- 
 fectly as the bird himself "dat's de wood- 
 thrush in de lily hedge, dun waked up case 
 his heart is so full ob music an' melerdy he can't 
 sleep, and he jes' bleezter sing to his mate on 
 de nest. Can't you smell de lily flags es de 
 wind blows 'em noddin' so sleepy lak across 
 de lake ? Can't you jes' feel de sweetness all 
 round you under de soft sky lak de bref ob a 
 sleepin' babe under de snug filmy drapery ob 
 
 de crib ? Lis'n at 'er laffin' at me now, and 
 236
 
 Little Miss Fiddle 
 
 den lookin' up at me quick and shy. Oh my 
 sweet Little Miss Fiddle look out ! Ain't 
 you done fin* yo* match ?" 
 
 Here, to my delight, he improvised a beauti- 
 ful waltz. 
 
 " Lord a mussy ! Did you eber ? Dun 
 gone to waltzin' wid me erreddy. Oh, dem 
 golden slippers Oh, dem little feet how dey 
 do talk ! How dey kin step fur dey age ! Whut 
 a stately step she's got. Look how she leads 
 in de minuet. Now-suh, she's fairly waltzin' 
 me in de air. Lord, ain't she a warm un ? 
 An' now jes' look she's pantin' in my arms, 
 wid 'er haid on my breast, lak a run down 
 fawn on de mossy bank ob de creek in de shade 
 ob de sycamo' tree. 
 
 " Er uh ! dat's it, is it, Little Miss Fiddle ? 
 Gwine gimme nudder heat ? Lord, how kin 
 1 stan' it ? Flesh and blood can't stand dat, 
 an' you red es a rose now an' trimblin' all 
 over. But dar now ! Ain't she sweet ernuff 
 to eat ? See de little wet curls clingin' round 
 her cheek lak curly clouds round de sky when 
 de sun am settin' ; an' now, es she draps into 
 de promernade all see her takin* my arm an' 
 237
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 laffin' an' fannin' hersef. Watch her use dat 
 fan ain't she a queen ? but wan't dat waltz 
 fine ? 
 
 "Come, Little Miss Fiddle, come wid me, 
 gal. De air am cool an' sweet an' de stars am 
 made fur luv'ahs. Come wid me now, an' let 
 us set on de mossy bank ob de lake close up, 
 gal, close up so we can talk low and sweet, 
 whlls't you look up in my face wid eyes lak 
 stars lookin' up in de black face ob night. 
 
 " Don't you heah what I'm sayin' to you ? 
 Hush gal, don't you heah it ? Don't you heah 
 me tellin' you how I luv you ? How all dese 
 years I've luv'd you, whils't de stars look 
 down and laf. How ever sence you was a 
 little gal I've luv'd you, an' nobody but you, 
 an' ef you don't nab me now I'm gwine pine 
 erway,p-i-n-e erway p-i-n-e e-r-w-a-y an'die! 
 Dar now ! she's cryin' an' sobbin' an' clingin' 
 round my neck an' quiverin' like ten thousand 
 quivers. Her h'art is gone and she quivers 
 lak a bow-strin' when de arrer's done shot." 
 
 The note ended in the faintest imitation of 
 a kiss. 
 
 " Hi ho ! jes' look at me now !" he shouted 
 238
 
 Little Miss Fiddle 
 
 as he swung his bow and burst from one grand 
 climax into another "I'm crazy wid luv an* 
 too happy to live. I'm holdin' her in my arms 
 an' kissin' her eyes an' cheek an' mouf. I'm 
 playin' de weddin' march ob de angels on de 
 thunder organ ob all eternity, an' she tremblin' 
 an' laffin' an' cryin' an' blushin' an' white 
 an' red an' pale an' gray. 
 
 "Hi yi jes' look at me now! Turnin' 
 de air into music, m'ekin' de grass sing, de 
 trees dance, an' de skies laff. Pullin' de stars 
 down fur fiddle-strings, stringin' em up wid 
 beams of sunlight de blue vault ob heaben 
 fur my fiddle and de rainbow ob promise fur my 
 bow Glory Halleluyah !" 
 
 I left him hugging his fiddle, mopping his 
 face with a red bandana, and reaching for 
 another toast for Little Glory. I left him with 
 such poetry in my own soul as I had never felt 
 before, and such a prayer of happy thankful- 
 ness, that in the dark shadow of an oak I 
 dropped to my knees and thanked God that 
 I was a man again. 
 
 239
 
 THE LIGHT REFLECTED. 
 
 WE live and laugh, 
 And know not life's deep seeming 
 
 We live and weep, 
 And yet we weep in vain. 
 
 We live and love 
 Aye, strange that from life's dreaming 
 Comes its true pain. 
 
 16 241
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 I WAS up at daylight. I felt so full of the 
 new life I could not sleep, and I had been 
 an invalid too long in that room to wish to stay 
 in it longer than the sun permitted. For 1 
 had sadly neglected him of late him and his 
 children of the woods and fields. I was up 
 early, first of all to surprise the Blind Man. 
 So I mounted Alana and rode over to his 
 house. What a glorious thing to ride again, to 
 feel the live horse between your knees, her 
 sensitive mouth braced against the bit, her 
 whole soul respond to yours, and yours re- 
 spond to every breeze and sunbeam, every 
 bird and bird-note ! 
 
 To my surprise, Mr. Emerson was already 
 up. He was pacing his veranda in deep study 
 in fact, in an agitation that was unnatural 
 
 with him. 
 
 243
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 I intended to surprise him ; so, slipping from 
 the saddle, I started across the lawn. He had 
 sat down on a bench in the far corner and lis- 
 tened, looking cautiously around. His hearing 
 was very acute, and he had detected the slight 
 noise of my footstep. 1 stood still until he 
 seemed reassured, then slipped quietly up be- 
 hind him, intending to seize him in my grasp 
 and give him a royal surprise. 
 
 But I did not, for just as 1 reached him his 
 hand went into his pocket and he drew from 
 his bosom a faded and much thumbed pack- 
 age. It was an unopened letter, directed to 
 him in the girlish handwriting of Thesis, ten 
 years before. He dropped into an undertone 
 conversation with himself, a habit he had, and 
 I heard him say, 
 
 " Yes, she wrote this, God bless her ! when 
 she heard I was blind. She was a child then 
 and off at school, but I know what is in it, 
 though I have never read it, and no man ever 
 shall : ' Tern dear , dear Tern Oh how sorry I am 
 for you never to see again never to see me and 
 the flowers and the skies / cried about it all last 
 
 night, and I cannot study to-day. But I love you 
 244
 
 The Light Reflected 
 
 more we all all the world will love you more 
 than ever,' ... . it is all there. I can see it 
 just as plainly as if 1 had read every word of it 
 just as plainly. And how is it signed ? Let 
 me see Yes, only one way, always the same 
 way, ' Your own little girl, Thesis.' It is 
 there, though no eyes have ever seen it mine 
 cannot, and it is too sacred for any other. 
 Mine cannot now, but they will, some day. 
 For it will be buried with me, and on that 
 great day when I shall awake and see again, 
 Pll yes, I know I shall I shall open it and 
 read it first open it and read it first 
 
 " ' Will awake and remember and understand.' " 
 
 He put it tenderly away in his pocket. Then 
 he turned over a photograph that went with 
 it a faded picture, but still it was she, and 
 at sight of it my heart beat wildly. I was 
 ashamed, and endeavored to move away. I 
 had not intended to hear him. I would not 
 look into his holy of holies. I moved to be 
 gone, but a leaf rustled under my footsteps. I 
 stopped, and the Blind Man looked up and 
 
 listened in wonder. Then he went on again, 
 245
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 " Let me look at it once more. Blind ? aye> 
 but I can always see that the sweetness, the 
 beauty of it would penetrate even sightless 
 eyes. Her eyes have not changed since I saw 
 them last, great, earnest, unconscious, truth- 
 ful eyes and here she is in her short frock 
 and sweet white waist and her school-girl hair 
 over her shoulders. And that smile on those 
 lips ! who says that I cannot see," he added 
 aloud "that I cannot cannot see " 
 
 He turned pale then red with shame. 
 " Fool that I am ! Oh, Ned, I am unworthy 
 of your friendship My God ! And yet I mean 
 no wrong, I cannot " 
 
 He kissed it and put it again in his bosom. 
 Then he looked up. 
 
 There was once a traveller who heard of a 
 barren, rugged volcano in a foreign land the 
 tallest, grandest, most rugged, and yet most 
 barren mountain of any land under the 
 scorching sun of a tropical desert, where not a 
 blade or leaf could put forth the heart that 
 was in it. For hundreds of miles around there 
 
 was nothing but the hot sands below and the 
 246
 
 The Light Reflected 
 
 fierce sky above, and nothing on all the land- 
 scape to break this dead monotony of the dead 
 nothing save this lofty, barren mountain, 
 itself the crown of all the death around it. 
 And no man had ever scaled it, no man had 
 ever reached its summit to look down into its 
 sightless sunken crater. No man except this 
 traveller, who, when he heard of it, went 
 many miles and crossed many seas to reach it. 
 And when he saw it, the mountain held him 
 with a strange fascination ; and he camped for 
 weeks at its base, and he loved it as he never 
 had loved any mountain before. By day he 
 would look at it in wonder, its summit piercing 
 the hot vaults of heaven, lost in the infinite 
 blue. And by night he would go out and 
 worship with it, for a thousand diamond- 
 peaked stars seemed to cluster around its top 
 where the heavens rested upon it. At last the 
 traveller could resist no longer, and he resolved 
 to climb to its very top and look down into its 
 heart of hearts. It took him many days to do 
 it, days of toil and thirst and labor. But one 
 evening, just as the sun was setting, he gained 
 
 its height and knew its secret, for there, bub- 
 
 247
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 bling up from its crater-heart, poured the purest 
 and most beautiful of streams, so deep and pure 
 that the tiniest pebbles could be seen hundreds 
 of feet below in its depths. And the sweet 
 moisture from the stream had caused many- 
 colored flowers of the rarest and most beauti- 
 ful hues to grow in every crevice of the scarred 
 and rugged crater, filling the air with sweet- 
 ness and fragrance, until, as the enraptured 
 traveller looked down upon them, they seemed 
 to be one vast bouquet in a vase of granite and 
 gold. And the setting sun caught up its 
 splendor, and from the side where the stream 
 burst forth crowned it all with a rainbow of 
 light. 
 
 The Blind Man was weeping. 
 
 It was an hour before 1 rode back again. I 
 slipped from the saddle and seized him in my 
 arms. " Oh, Ned ! Ned!" And "God be 
 praised !" was all he could say. 
 
 248
 
 \ 
 
 THE BLIND DETECTIVE. 
 
 AND I would weep for thee, thou monarch 
 of the wood, 
 Thou king that long the scorn of Time hast 
 
 stood. 
 
 King by the royal right of strength alone 
 With star-crowned head bared to the circling 
 
 zone 
 
 Of good deeds done, of sweetness and of mirth, 
 Scion of the sun, defender of the earth 
 O, 1 would weep for thee. 
 
 And 1 would mourn for thee, aye, truly mourn, 
 For what thou wast and all that thou hast borne. 
 Brother to the skies, companion to the hills, 
 Comrade of the clouds and mother of the rills, 
 Gatherer of dews, garnerer of herb and flowers, 
 Guardian of the muse in trysting, twilight 
 hours 
 
 O, I would mourn for thee. 
 249
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 And I would honor thee for what thou'st done, 
 Scorner of winter's wind and summer sun, 
 Builder of birds' nests, brewer of bubbling 
 
 pool, 
 
 Painter of shadows dark on landscape cool, 
 Wafter of odors sweet on summer's breeze. 
 Turner of winter's sleet and biting freeze 
 O, I would honor thee. 
 
 And I would reverence thee, thou hoary one, 
 Thou who hast stood while centuries have run, 
 Thou who hast seen the Indian lover stand 
 While virgin morn smiled down on virgin land 
 The ax, the rifle of the pioneer 
 All these have passed, and all had left thee 
 here 
 And I would reverence thee. 
 
 O, Ax of Traffic, buzzing Saws of Trade, 
 Dost think for thee alone the Earth was made ? 
 For thee, to garner clean her fields of corn, 
 With barren hills to greet the babe unborn ? 
 For thee, to glutton in her sweet-stored wine 
 And leave no grape on fainting Future's vine ? 
 
 Traffic. 
 
 250
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 IT was early in the afternoon when the Blind 
 Man came to my room. Now I did not 
 wish to see him just then, because in another 
 hour I would have been on my way to Nash- 
 ville. For the one great overpowering impulse 
 of my heart was to see Thesis as soon as 1 
 could. 
 
 But he looked determined and quiet, and I 
 said nothing of my proposed visit. 
 
 It was some time before he seemed to wish 
 to talk. Then his manner was so stern, and 
 different from his old way, that 1 felt abashed 
 in his presence. 
 
 " Ned," he said, after a while " 1 wish you 
 to go a little journey with me to-night. I have 
 got at the bottom of all this thing, but I want 
 you to hear it yourself I have been wanting 
 
 to tell you for a month," he went on quietly, 
 251
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 "ever since that morning I told you of the 
 transfer of Colonel Philips's bank stock to 
 Forde, but I have waited until you were 
 strong enough to help me." 
 
 I rose and gripped his hand. " How is that 
 for a paralyzed man ?" I asked. 
 
 He smiled. " Oh, that's all right. But I 
 mean strength in a different way. The weak- 
 est man I ever saw could toss a bale of cotton. 
 Don't ask me any questions now. Have the 
 mare ready at ten o'clock." 
 
 "Any time you name," 1 said, "and no 
 questions asked." 
 
 It was just ten when we turned the mare's 
 head up the Mount Pleasant pike. "Drive to 
 St. John's Church," was all he said. 
 
 There are few roads more beautifully sur- 
 rounded than the Mount Pleasant pike, thread- 
 ing across a country as fertile as ever the crow 
 flew over. Two miles out of town the Bigby 
 Creek dashes across it, under a rustic bridge, 
 at a place and in such a quaint romantic bend 
 that the impulse to stop and drink from a cold 
 spring that bursts from a lime-rock crevice on 
 
 its bank is almost irresistible. Further on the 
 252
 
 The Blind Detective 
 
 pike winds around stately and sombre hills, 
 casting their cool shadows askant, or throwing 
 them in gloomy dignity across the road which 
 winds around them. 
 
 Just over the rise of the hills lies the beauti- 
 ful old estate of Ashwood the ante-bellum 
 home of the Polks, but now passed into the 
 hands of others, its broad acres divided and 
 subdivided to meet the encroachments of a 
 narrower age, its beautiful old trees now en- 
 circled by "the deadly girdle," and standing 
 in the moonlight, leaning, limbless monuments 
 of a happier time. I was glad the Blind Man 
 could not see it, for it hurt me. I who had 
 seen them in their beauty and glory now to 
 behold them fall a victim to the mercenary spirit 
 of some would-be wheat- and-potato king. 
 
 To the left of the road stands the deserted 
 old church, in all its sacred sweetness so 
 sacred that even the speculative spirit of the 
 wheat-smut and potato-bug has passed it by 
 and so it remains amid its venerable trees and 
 sacred dead, kneeling among its evergreens, 
 in perpetual communion with God a sacred 
 
 altar in the wilderness, an ark of the past 
 253
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 undesecrated by the touch of the unholy hand 
 of the present. 
 
 It was a beautiful night, and the full moon 
 lit up every tomb, until I could almost read 
 the epitaphs where I sat in the deep shadows 
 of the evergreens. 
 
 The Blind Man was quiet and I said noth- 
 ing. 1 did not know what he meant, and 
 as the hours passed by 1 grew nervous and 
 excited. 
 
 A screech-owl came out and sat shivering 
 on the limb of a near-by oak. The distant 
 bark of a cur from a negro cabin was added to 
 the weird notes of the bird. Then I heard the 
 rattle of a buggy on the pike. It stopped at 
 the gate, then in and down to a clump of 
 evergreens. Two men got out, one of them 
 unsteadily, and walked across the yard. As 
 they came out into the moonlight, I recognized 
 them and clutched the Blind Man's arm. 
 
 " It is Joe Forde and Colonel Philips," I 
 whispered. The Blind Man nodded " I knew 
 it," he said " Be quiet and let us see." 
 
 Colonel Philips walked unsteadily. But 
 
 Forde walked in his cool, cold way. 
 254
 
 The Blind Detective 
 
 " Colonel Philips is drinking but Forde is 
 sober," I whispered to the Blind Man. 
 
 He nodded again. " Forde is too cold- 
 blooded a scoundrel to drink/' he said. " He 
 doses his wits with wine and his conscience 
 with cold lemonade. He needs all his brains 
 for his own villainy." 
 
 They came across the yard to the shadow 
 of a Norwegian spruce under which a slab, 
 over a tomb, shone white in the brilliant 
 moonlight. The elder man stumbled over a 
 grave and fell sprawling. 
 
 " Get up," said Forde gruffly " I am sur- 
 prised that a man of your age and sense will 
 drink. You are in a place where you will 
 need all the brains you have got," he added 
 brutally. 
 
 " You know as well as I do," said the older 
 man doggedly, " that I never drank to excess 
 until you got me into this embezzling." 
 
 "Well, I'll give you a chance to-night to 
 win your money back," laughed Forde. 
 
 "If I could get even with you and place 
 that money back in bank that money I have 
 used in gambling with you I'd never play
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 another game of cards or take another drink," 
 said the other. 
 
 "May be you will to-night," Forde replied 
 seductively. 
 
 They lit cigars, placed a silk handkerchief 
 over the corner of the tomb, sat on the grass 
 and soon began to play. 1 noticed that the 
 money Colonel Philips drew from his pocket 
 was in large rolls. He drew out a large bill 
 and threw it down Forde covered it and the 
 game of poker was soon on. It was well 
 that the Blind Man and I were so well con- 
 cealed ; for I had only to look through the 
 tangled shrubbery to see the players within 
 ten feet of us. So interested and excited they 
 were, that they made not a sound. Often 
 their cigars went out three times in an hour 
 1 saw Forde relight his. Suspecting no one at 
 such an hour and in such a place, they paid 
 no attention to anything but the game, as 
 they threw down bill after bill on the pile and 
 played on with varying gain or loss. I my- 
 self grew so excited that 1 sat gripping the 
 Blind Man's hand. He seemed to fear I 
 
 would make some noise, for he gripped my 
 256
 
 The Blind Detective 
 
 hand in return, while every now and then he 
 would whisper, 
 
 " Look ! Listen ! And be quiet, Ned be 
 quiet and listen!" 
 
 The silence was broken by Colonel Philips : 
 " 1 am five thousand dollars ahead, Forde," 
 and he took a drink from a silver flask that lay 
 by his side in the moonlight. "Guess I'll do 
 you up to-night." 
 
 Forde smiled and played on. Another hour 
 went by, and the pile of bills on the tomb 
 now contained all Colonel Philips had. It 
 had started with a thousand dollars, but each 
 had " seen " the other and " put up," until, 
 as Colonel Philips threw in his last bill, he 
 added recklessly, 
 
 " And now I call you that ten thousand is 
 mine to-night." 
 
 1 was watching Forde closely I saw him 
 slip a third card from the gaiter of his shoe, 
 as he sat with his feet drawn up under him. 
 One of the cards in his hand took its place 
 and he threw down his hand and exclaimed, 
 
 " Not unless you can beat that hand !" 
 Colonel Philips looked at it, threw down his 
 17 257
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 cards and staggered to his feet. " Let us go," 
 he said. 
 
 Forde thrust the bills into his outer coat- 
 pocket and said, " Wait, let me talk to you a 
 minute. You said you would like to get even 
 with me. You know there is one way you 
 can." 
 
 "You lied to Bernice about that once be- 
 fore," said Colonel Philips hotly "and you 
 lied to her. You knew he was not in love 
 with Bernice, and you made Thesis believe it. 
 You knew her unselfish nature, her self-sacri- 
 ficing way, and that she would " 
 
 "You do not mean that I lied," said Forde, 
 turning pale with anger. " You mean that I 
 was mistaken." 
 
 " No, 1 mean just what I say," said Colonel 
 Philips defiantly " yu lied ! I am ashamed of 
 the little I had to do with it, and I tell you now 
 I'd rather see her dead than married to you." 
 
 I looked to see Forde strike him, for he 
 clenched his fist, and his eyes fairly blazed 
 in the moonlight. 
 
 I half arose, but I felt the Blind Man's grip 
 
 on my arm. 
 
 258
 
 The Blind Detective 
 
 " Let me loose," I whispered "if he strikes 
 that old man I'll kill him where he stands !" 
 
 "Be quiet, Ned, be quiet," whispered Ifte 
 Blind Man as he held me back, "be quiet 
 and watch him." 
 
 "Come," went on Forde, "we may as 
 well be plain all that is past. The bank 
 is already wrecked there is not ten thousand 
 dollars in the vaults, and if it fails you know 
 who embezzled it and where you will land. 
 She will marry me to save you you know 
 she will. It is true you embezzled the deposits, 
 and the cash balance will show that you have 
 gambled off two hundred thousand dollars. 
 It is true also that I have won it from you. 
 But I haven't spent a cent of it, and I will re- 
 place it all, saving the bank and saving you if 
 you will help me to force her to marry me. 
 This thing can't run on but a day or two 
 longer," he added significantly, "and then 
 
 Colonel Philips moved off toward the bug- 
 gy. Forde turned as if to follow him, then he 
 stopped and watched the old man until he 
 had staggered out of sight. 
 259
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 And now I was so indignant that I felt noth- 
 ing should restrain me. I tried to spring up 
 and confront him, but the Blind Man's iron 
 grip was on my arm. 
 
 " Be quiet, Ned, for her sake," he whis- 
 pered. " Be quiet and watch him now, for it 
 is this we have come for this is the most im- 
 portant of all. Watch him watch him for 
 I cannot see, you know watch him what he 
 does next." 
 
 Forde stood looking until he thought him- 
 self alone. Then, slipping by one of the 
 tombs, he cautiously raised the half broken 
 top and took out a safe-deposit box. For a 
 moment he looked cautiously around, then 
 placed the bills in it, the box back in the tomb, 
 and followed Colonel Philips. 
 
 I sat in astonishment and wonder until I 
 heard the buggy-wheels go down the pike, 
 and die away in the distance. Then I stepped 
 quietly over, raised the broken top of the tomb 
 and brought the box to the Blind Man. 
 
 It took us a half-hour to count the money 
 "nearly two hundred thousand dollars," I 
 
 said. 
 
 260
 
 The Blind Detective 
 
 " Just what I expected, Ned," he answered 
 gently. "We have saved the bank and Colonel 
 Philips, too, to-night. You see," he explained, 
 "this thing has been going on for a year or 
 two. Forde first got him to deal in futures. 
 Both of them used the funds of the bank for 
 that, expecting, as all embezzlers do, to re- 
 place it, and, as all gamblers do, to win thou- 
 sands for every hundred used. But Forde 
 won and Philips lost. To regain his losses, 
 Forde, whom I have known to be a gambler 
 all his life, has led him to cards, inducing and 
 enticing him to use the funds of the bank, and 
 beating him fairly or foully. A weak man to 
 begin with, Colonel Philips has added the 
 folly of drink to the rest of it, and so has be- 
 come an easy prey for Forde. Now," he 
 said rising, " now to save him. Did you hear 
 his cold-blooded proposal, Ned ? And he will 
 stop at nothing to accomplish it. But we shall 
 see we shall see." 
 
 We had driven half-way back to town when 
 the Blind Man broke the silence by saying, 
 " Ned, there is but one place to put this money 
 
 until we can act. It is in a small cave under 
 261
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 the river bluff. Let us drive to the Slant- 
 ing Rock." 
 
 Where the bold little river cuts through 
 the solid limestone at a bend just east of 
 the town, a huge rock, ages and ages ago, 
 perhaps, fell from the cliff above and plunged 
 diagonally into the river. Its base resting 
 half-way across the river down amid the 
 mussels in their pearl caskets, its top fallen, 
 but resting on the river's bluff, often con- 
 cealed from view by high water, it makes a 
 dangerous and fatal suck-hole and maelstrom 
 under which the water rushes with terrific 
 force. Here many a bold swimmer in the 
 past, to my own knowledge, had lost his life, 
 and here I had often loved to sit and listen to 
 the roar of the water, grumbling sullenly at 
 the indignity offered it, in being forced to pass 
 under the yoke of this giant tyrant from the 
 hills. 
 
 There was a small and utterly secluded cave 
 in the rocks above. Wild vines and lichen 
 grew over its mouth, and in wet weather a 
 tiny spring trickled down into the river. The 
 
 money there would be safe, known to but 
 262
 
 The Blind Detective 
 
 two, and in vaults that knew not fire nor 
 thieves. The Blind Man was holding the box 
 until 1 found the little cave. I had stood for a 
 moment just above the river where the Slant- 
 ing Rock lay, on a slight projection of stone 
 and clay. The moon was just setting, and the 
 clouds had banked grimly in the West, throw- 
 ing fantastic shadows across the water, which, 
 owing to the recent heavy rains, rushed with 
 greater force and roared with louder voice as 
 it whirled and dashed above and plunged 
 under the Slanting Rock. I remember how 
 quickly I took in the beauty of the night and 
 the splendor of the unharnessed stream. Just 
 across was the little bridge that spanned Jack- 
 son's Spring, where once, in the long ago, the 
 doughty old hero had stopped and quaffed. 
 The fertile valley bend stretched away in front 
 where Schofield's army thundered across in 
 its retreat to Nashville, and here, on the 
 bluff where I stood, Hood's batteries had sent 
 screaming, defiant shells into the Northern 
 ranks. The top of the old mill rose above the 
 cliffs still further up the stream, and the glitter 
 
 of the sheen of silver water could be seen as 
 263
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 it rolled over the dam like a web of finest silk 
 from the great loom of waters beyond. Per- 
 haps the picture made such an impression on 
 me because it came so near being the last. 
 
 I heard the Blind Man say, 
 
 " Be careful, Ned you may make a mis- 
 step " and before I realized, I had fallen into 
 the water. My right arm was numbed by the 
 fall, my left side appeared weak and helpless. 
 The suck-pool caught me up as if I had been a 
 feather, and shot me towards the death-trap 
 in the Slanting Rock. I remember only a silent 
 prayer, the vision of a fair neck with a little 
 locket around it. 1 struggled, but I was help- 
 less. 
 
 " Ned ! Ned !" I heard him exclaim as he 
 rushed coatless to the water's edge. 
 
 "Here! Here!" I shouted as the suck- 
 pool spun me around around and around as 
 a lion would play with a mouse. 
 
 I heard a splash in the river just as my hand 
 went up and clutched a point in the Slanting 
 Rock, and though the swirling water carried 
 my body out and around^ around and around 
 
 until it seemed that my grip would be wrested 
 264
 
 The Blind Detective 
 
 from the rock, I still held on and shouted, 
 "Here! Here!" in answer to the "Ned! 
 Ned !" that came to me over the water. 
 
 The Blind Man was a capital swimmer and 
 an athlete in strength, but he swam in the 
 dark. He breasted the waves and dashed the 
 whirlpool from him as if it had been a seashore 
 bath, and as he battled with and breasted it 
 his cheery voice rang out anon, " Ned ! Ned !" 
 and I answered back and clung for life. 
 
 Twice he went past me in the dark twice 
 I saw the waters whirl him around as if he had 
 been a straw, and then his great strength 
 would tell, and he would right about as a ship 
 in a gale. But it was a midnight battle with 
 him a blind fight in blind waters and even 
 in my peril, expecting every moment to be 
 swept into the jaws of the Slanting Rock, the 
 superb heroism of those blind eyes, struggling 
 sightless and without a chart amid rocks that 
 threatened his life, in waters that tried his 
 strength, all to save my own life, came over 
 me with a wave of admiration that made me 
 grip yet more tightly the rock and call back 
 
 in the dark" Here ! Here, I am !" 
 
 265
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 1 was lying on the Slanting Rock when I 
 remembered again, and the Blind Man was 
 sitting by my side with his finger on my pulse. 
 
 " A narrow escape for us both," he said, as 
 he helped me to rise. " I have been in that 
 hole before, when I could see where I was 
 swimming, but that swim in the dark that 
 thought that you had been swept under this 
 rock and it was useless " 
 
 The last rays of a golden moon, setting over 
 the river's bluff, lit up his face with a light that 
 seemed not of earth, but of heaven. Then 
 he laughed merrily and shook the water from 
 his locks. I looked up into his face as we 
 arose to go, and to this day I have never seen 
 the moon go down 
 
 " Like a golden goblet falling 
 And sinking into the sea," 
 
 but 1 have instinctively looked into the skies 
 above, since I can no longer see it on earth, 
 and there beheld again that brave, unselfish 
 face, and around it a holy hero-light that shalJ 
 never die. 
 
 " And forever and forever, 
 As long as the river flows, 
 266
 
 The Blind Detective 
 
 As long as the heart has passion, 
 As long as life has woes ; 
 
 " The moon and its broken reflection, 
 And its shadows shall appear, 
 As the symbol of love in heavtn, 
 And its wavering image here."
 
 THE PICTURE OF A ROSE. 
 
 '"pHOU art the dream of Nature when she 
 1 sleeps 
 And dreams of youth-time and sweet April's 
 
 eyes, 
 And slumbering now, lo ! round her breast 
 
 there creeps 
 
 This pictured vision of departed skies ; 
 Departed skies, concaved, with clouds of snow, 
 Cerulean depthed that left us long ago. 
 
 And thou art Nature's memory when she 
 
 wakes, 
 All conscience-clear and weeping o'er the 
 
 past, 
 
 Clear visioned, keen, her yearning soul par- 
 takes 
 
 Of that which was, but was too pure to last. 
 And so she holds, with soft light breaking 
 
 low, 
 Holds to her heart the hopes of long ago.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ACROSS the pike from Lynwood is the 
 cottage home of my neighbor, Mr. Trux- 
 ton. He is a nurseryman, and his apple and 
 pear orchard is now yellow and red with ripen- 
 ing fruit. I always liked Truxton, a quiet, 
 gentle fellow, with ways like an old maid, 
 and as prim and as neat. His was a small 
 farm, but everything about it was well kept. 
 Professions to me have always indicated the 
 character and nature of the man who practices 
 them. I will go a step farther even than 
 Horace, in his beautiful first Ode, where he 
 tells us that you could not tempt him "who 
 delights to cut with his hoe his patrimonial 
 fields " to become a timorous sailor and cross 
 the seas, by adding that both the farmer's and 
 the sailor's choice of occupation was more 
 the effect than the cause of character. And 
 that even the hunter, " unmindful of his 
 
 271
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 tender spouse " and he "whom it delights to 
 have collected Olympic dust in the chariot- 
 race," aye, even he " who despises not cups of 
 old Massic," all, like water, have risen or 
 fallen in occupation to the level of their char- 
 acter. No money-lender was ever heartily a 
 'physician ; no poet a lawyer ; no soldier a 
 merchant. 
 
 And so I knew Truxton was a good man by 
 his pear orchard, and a quiet, honest one by 
 his apple orchard. I knew he loved good 
 books and birds by his currant and cherry 
 trees. I knew he was romantic by the way he 
 planted his strawberry-beds. In fact, I knew 
 he loved all nature because he planted fruit 
 trees, and all men because they bore fruit for 
 them. And here is a thought that is beautiful 
 to me : that years after we are dead, by an 
 act of ours in life we may still give, through 
 the trees we have planted, sweet gifts to those 
 who shall come after us ; that year after year, 
 the trees we have tended and nursed and 
 reared shall live on, and drop into the lap of 
 each generation luscious, golden-bowled me- 
 mentoes from a hand that is still. 
 272
 
 The Picture of a Rose 
 
 And how easy it is to do this, to help others 
 after we are gone. If we were selfish enough 
 to desire it, could we design a way to make 
 mankind remember us more surely ? Who has 
 ever plucked a peach from a tree and failed to 
 wonder who planted the tree ? Who has eaten 
 a cherry and been so selfish as not to care to 
 know the name of the thoughtful giver of the 
 gift ? Let him stop and think. Was ever such 
 sweet fame from books or battles ? Was ever 
 immortality so easily earned in any other way ? 
 A generous thought, a spade, a few moments of 
 pleasant labor, years afterward and a thou- 
 sand cherries drop plump into rosy-cheeked 
 mouths, a hundred apples, year after year, are 
 hid away in urchin pockets. And from the un- 
 known land where our own spirits dwell, will 
 not the russet and red of their bright earthly 
 cheeks add even a richer glow to our spiritual 
 ones ? For at last, when we come to die, the 
 thing with us is not how much we have done 
 for God who really needs nothing at our hands 
 as how much we have done for his children, 
 our fellow-men. And so 1 think it is better to 
 
 found a nursery than a new sect. I had rather 
 1 8 273
 
 plant cherries than discord peaches than 
 political parties. I had rather write flowers 
 than poems preach apples than sermons. 
 For an orchard in bloom is a poem, and an 
 orchard ripe is a sermon. 
 
 I remember last Spring, when all of Mr. 
 Truxton's acres of apples were in bloom, I rode 
 over and through them, just at sunset. Was 
 ever anything so beautiful ? As far as the eye 
 could see it was banks and banks of blossoms, 
 billows and billows of pink and white and 
 green, until I felt as though I was a-sail in a sea of 
 sapphire, under snowy floating clouds streaked 
 with the purple of the sleepy setting sun ; and 
 the wind came over the sea of them as from 
 the vales of a flowered port where memory 
 hides her sweetest things. I was lost in an 
 ocean of flowers. I was buried in a sea of 
 bloom. 1 rode to a neighboring hill and looked 
 down, and there in a valley, shut in by ever- 
 green hills, a mighty, unseen hand had gath- 
 ered a gigantic handful of flowers and placed 
 them in an emerald bowl. 
 
 I learned while I was ill that Mr. Truxton 
 
 had been at Lynwood a great deal of late ; 
 274
 
 The Picture of a Rose 
 
 Indeed, since being informed of it, I remember 
 in a vague way seeing him one night gazing 
 at me in his quiet fashion as he stood by my 
 bedside. Miss Cynthia was standing near 
 him. I think it was the time I came so near 
 dying. It must have been a dream, surely 
 at least that was always the part that troubled 
 me anyway, she seemed to have her hands 
 in his, and as she looked at me dying, as she 
 thought she laid her head on his shoulder and 
 wept. 
 
 I was reminded of all this one day by seeing 
 Truxton strolling leisurely across the lawn, 
 then up to the porch. In his pockets were 
 a half-dozen rosy-red wine-saps. Miss Cynthia 
 did not know I was at the window, and she 
 went to meet him. As she did so she looked 
 across and saw me watching her with an 
 amused smile. Then she turned as red as one 
 of the wine-saps itself. 
 
 I heard them whispering awhile in the hall, 
 and then it all came to me, and I wondered 
 at my stupidity. I became so interested and 
 excited I think I even laughed to myself. 
 
 They whispered and whispered, and I knew it 
 275
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 meant that they had decided that I must know 
 it all, and this whispering was the council of 
 war nay, rather the rolling of this wooden 
 horse into my unsuspecting fortress. 
 
 After a while they walked in very soberly, 
 Miss Cynthia leading and looking very rosy 
 and interesting. In fact she carried apples in 
 her hands and in her cheeks. But I was 
 amused at Truxton and the Sunday-school, 
 pious, yet determined look he carried on his 
 face. He halted in the doorway, then turned 
 pale. Then he rushed at a chair and turned 
 red. Then he stammered a salutation and 
 plumped down into the chair. 
 
 I had noticed before that he never perspired 
 save in one spot, a perfectly round bald one, 
 on the extreme top of his head, from which the 
 hair gradually receded in all directions with a 
 regularity and evenness that was a geometri- 
 cal wonder to have been chance. He mopped 
 that spot vigorously with his handkerchief. 
 Now whenever Mr. Truxton did that I knew 
 he was warm. It was evident he had been 
 posted to speak first, for Miss Cynthia only 
 
 looked at him and kept turning redder. 
 276
 
 The Picture of a Rose 
 
 The thing was contagious, and I felt that I 
 was beginning to blush for them myself. 
 
 "I I never was much at telling such 
 things" said Mr. Truxton, apparently talk- 
 ing to Miss Cynthia, but intending it for me. 
 
 " But you must er er Da vid !" with 
 a jerk and gasp for breath in which the 
 " David " came with such startling sudden- 
 ness as to cause that good little gentleman 
 to jump from his chair, and, as he always did 
 when he did not know what else to do, he 
 began to hunt in his pocket for the illustrated 
 catalogue of his fruit trees. 
 
 Having pronounced the name, as in duty 
 bound, Miss Cynthia drew a long breath and 
 looked relieved. The opportunity to tease 
 was too great for me to resist. 
 
 " I never should have suspected it of you, 
 Miss Cynthia," I said. " Not that you will 
 not have my assent and congratulations both 
 of you but you, Miss Cynthia, of all women ! 
 How in the world did it happen and I not find 
 it out ?" 
 
 She came over very graciously and sat down 
 by my side. Then she very tenderly took 
 277
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 my hand in hers. There was moisture in her 
 eyes when she looked at me and said, 
 
 " It all began, Ned, with the picture of a 
 rose." 
 
 This reminded Truxton that he must help 
 out. He started again, visibly, at Miss Cyn- 
 thia's remark, and began to feel around in his 
 pockets for the pictures of the fruits and 
 flowers all nurserymen have to illustrate their 
 wares. For my part I take no stock in them, 
 for after years of buying and experimenting, I 
 find that my roses never look half so gorgeous 
 as the pictured one, nor my fruit so beautiful 
 and large as those they are supposed to grow 
 up to and resemble. 
 
 Mr. Truxton nervously unfolded his leaves 
 of roses. He hung over a chair the picture of 
 a crimson beauty, budding with an aroma one 
 might almost detect even on paper. 
 
 " The Miss Cynthia er er ahem! color, 
 clear bright carmine very large and finely 
 shaped well formed exquisitely so er 
 ahem !" the original was visibly embarrassed 
 and had turned away her head " with a per- 
 fume exceedingly delicate and fresh ahem !" 
 278
 
 The Picture of a Rose 
 
 " You see, Ned," said Miss Cynthia, "we 
 needed some new roses in the garden, and I 
 asked Mr. Truxton to come over with his 
 samples. Now wasn't it strange that the very 
 one he selected had my name, and that he 
 should have said all these charming things 
 about it?" 
 
 " A very fine rose," went on Truxton 
 professionally "a very fine, old-fashioned 
 rose " 
 
 " I was never more astonished in my whole 
 life/' whispered Miss Cynthia. 
 
 "Grafted from a famous stock of red roses 
 which grew so profusely in the South before 
 the war," he went on. "The old stock not 
 quite hardy enough for Tennessee winters, 
 and not as productive of buds in season as de- 
 manded by the climate " 
 
 "I felt so sorry for him, Ned," she whis- 
 pered, " it seemed so hopeless of him " 
 
 " And so after years of trying, experiment- 
 ing, hard work, aye, even of yearnings, to pro- 
 duce a new rose " 
 
 " Wasn't that just pitiful, Ned ? such con- 
 stancy ! such devotion !" 
 279
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 " This one rewarded me- 
 
 " How could I help it, Ned ?" 
 
 " By bursting into bloom one day " 
 
 " Oh, I shall never forget that sweet, sweet 
 day," said Miss Cynthia laying her hand 
 affectionately on his shoulder. 
 
 " For all my years of work and devotion." 
 
 " And did he not deserve it, Ned ?" 
 
 " So that now," went on Mr. Truxton, " 1 
 have a rose " 
 
 The rose blushed becomingly. 
 
 " Which er er which " he stammered, 
 but still professionally, " is guaranteed, Mr. 
 Ballington, with proper cultivation to produce 
 more buds er er " 
 
 "Da vid!" 
 
 He mopped his bald spot in great confu- 
 sion. 
 
 " But 1 must be quite frank about this rose," 
 he went on ;" it is a little peculiar and requires 
 delicate handling " 
 
 "Now David you know that is exag- 
 gerated and I am not at all peculiar." 
 
 " During the first part of its growth, and, 
 
 later, it will be deficient in robustness, un- 
 280
 
 The Picture of a Rose 
 
 satisfactory in growth reserved so to speak, 
 you know " 
 
 Miss Cynthia looked at him reproachfully. 
 
 "Wasn't it just too lovely of him, Ned, to 
 say all of those things about me ! And it all 
 started with that picture of a rose. He told 
 me all of that the first time he came over here 
 all of those lovely things. Of course I 
 ordered ten, Ned," she added in a practical 
 way "the older roses were nearly all killed 
 last winter. I ordered ten, and told him he 
 must come over and set one out each day. I 
 wouldn't agree to pay him, Ned," she whis- 
 pered, " until he agreed to come over and set 
 them out himself. Now, David," she blushed 
 and said to Truxton, "tell him about your 
 next visit when you came to set them out. 
 Listen, Ned." 
 
 " This rose needs most careful transplanting 
 and cultivation," he went on. " I alone seem 
 to understand just how to do it natural, you 
 know, since I originated it." 
 
 "Yes, yes David of course we under- 
 stand." 
 
 " The plants must be a little aged before 
 281
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 attempting it a little aged but age adds to 
 their beauty, when when er er the roses 
 come, you know ?" 
 
 "Beautiful so beautiful" whispered Miss 
 Cynthia " and remember, Ned, he told me 
 that every day for ten days before I would 
 give him any satisfaction. Oh, I despise my- 
 self when I think how obstinate I was !" 
 
 Mr. Truxton ceased. We waited awhile, 
 but he did not begin again. 
 
 "And so you came every day, David, 
 didn't you, to see about it?" went on Miss 
 Cynthia" You know you guaranteed them to 
 live, David." 
 
 " I guarantee all my trees and flowers to 
 live," he said. 
 
 " And one day you told me, David, that 
 you had named that rose for me, because it 
 was so like me in every way " 
 
 " In every way," he repeated. 
 
 " And one beautiful afternoon, just at sun- 
 set, when we found the first blossom, and you 
 said and you said " stammered and blushed 
 Miss Cynthia " that 1 " 
 
 He came over by her and took her hand, 
 282
 
 The Picture of a Rose 
 
 " That you were lovelier and sweeter than 
 the rose, dear ; and that although I loved it be- 
 cause it was my very own, that I had made 
 it and propagated it and claimed its very exist- 
 ence and its being, but that " 
 
 He waited his eyes sought hers. They 
 met his, and in the meeting I saw Miss Cyn- 
 thia, as I had known her, pass quite away and 
 out of the world. In her place was a happy- 
 visioned, radiant-eyed creature into whose life 
 had come the sunlight of love. 
 
 "But that" she whispered after awhile. 
 
 His bashfulness and professional ways had 
 gone. Love had worked its miracle in him, 
 too. O divinest of miracles ! O true fountain 
 of perpetual youth ! 
 
 He was not a nurseryman any longer, but a 
 lover. And she was an angel. 
 
 They sat holding hands, oblivious even of 
 me. Had 1 been able I should have left them 
 thus, for what followed seemed too sacred for 
 any ears but theirs. His voice sank low and 
 tender. 
 
 " But that," he finally said, " if the original 
 would give me the sweet privilege, I would 
 283
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 love and cherish her even more and and 
 
 " And if she would " she took it up 
 " would she pin this, the first rose of their 
 together nourished vine, in his button-hole, 
 and " 
 
 They ceased, and Truxton took tenderly 
 from an envelope in his pocket the faded rose 
 which she had pinned over his heart. 
 
 And that is the story of their love a love 
 which, though coming into both their lives after 
 the sun-spots on the floor had long passed the 
 noon-mark, lit them, therefore, not with the 
 garishness of noonday, but with the tenderer 
 romance of evening and the sacred starlight.
 
 THE UNPAGED RACE. 
 
 OIT'S Masses in de pud'n, 
 An' it's sugar in de cake, 
 An' it's kissin' till you cud'n 
 Sorter dreamin', yet awake, 
 When de sulky 'gins to glide it 
 
 An' you feel de feelin' cum 
 When de slippers 'gin to slide it, 
 An* de wheels begin to hum 
 An' de wheels begin to hum 
 'Gin to hum hum hum 
 An' de wheels begin to hum. 
 
 O it's 'taters round de possum, 
 
 An' it's gravy in de pot, 
 An' it's yaller-gals in blossom, 
 
 An* it's Charley on de spot 
 When de hoofs begin to patter 
 
 Lak de fiddle an' de drum, 
 An* yo' blues begin to scatter 
 
 When de wheels begin to hum 
 
 When de wheels begin to hum 
 285
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 'Gin to hum hum hum- 
 An' de wheels begin to hum. 
 
 Sum lak to sail de oshun, 
 Sum to hump it on a wheel 
 
 Ev'ry man unto his noshun, 
 Ev'ry ship unto its keel ; 
 
 But lem'me own a pacer, 
 An' when de summons cum 
 
 Lem'me go behind a racer 
 When de wheels begin to hum- 
 When de wheels begin to hum- 
 'Gin to hum hum hum 
 An' de wheels begin to hum. 
 
 2S6
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IT was six o'clock one afternoon I shall 
 never forget that day when I went to the 
 station to see Marjorie off to the races. It was 
 a rich stake ten thousand dollars in which 
 she was entered, but I knew it was ours if 
 ever this wonderful filly turned her face to 
 the starter. For her speed was phenomenal, 
 her gameness equalled only by her rich blood- 
 lines, and she went like a horse with a heart 
 in her. I myself had timed her miles at a rate 
 I dared not tell, but it had swept me off my 
 feet. I knew that in her class there was noth- 
 ing in all the world that could beat her. 
 
 How beautiful she looked that afternoon, 
 her form taking on the joyous fever of the ex- 
 citement, her limbs like the marbled ones of the 
 Greek horses on the frieze of the Parthenon 
 her whole being keyed to the subtle nicety 
 
 and balanced equipoise of a steel-strung ma- 
 287
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 chine a racing machine, indeed, and one 
 without a flaw. 
 
 The trainer stood smiling at the car door. 
 
 Old Wash, who was to go with her, had 
 proudly led her in, and stood with his pockets 
 full of apples, giving her one occasionally, and 
 soothing the sensitive creature for the start of 
 the car, stroking her chestnut crest with a faith- 
 ful old hand that, in days gone by slave days 
 and free days had grasped so often the 
 burden of duty and carried it so unselfishly. 
 It was a hard black hand, it is true, but it was 
 faithful and honest, and in its rough grip more 
 gentleness dwelt, more truth and honor lay, 
 than in many another of softer parts and 
 finer turn. For it had been blackened like the 
 roots of the black-oak twisted and hardened, 
 gnarled and knotted in the primal fight for 
 life with the elements of nature. But uncouth 
 and unbeautiful as it was, it had borne its full 
 burden in the fight of civilization and the battle 
 of the brave. And so it was misshapen and 
 its joints were large from strain and toil, and 
 the veins ran through it like the channels of a 
 
 stream deep cut, and it was sloughed in like 
 288
 
 The Unpaced Race 
 
 the turn of the plow-handle, and set in like the 
 grip of an ax-helm, and was deep set and 
 scarred. But if, that day, there had come a 
 deep upheaval of the earth in the fusion of 
 rock and matter, and this hand, of all earth's 
 civilization, had alone left its imprint there 
 to be read eons of ages hence by beings of 
 enlightenment and light in the museum of a 
 higher civilization, well might it stand, im- 
 bedded in some kindred block of stone, not 
 to point the name and lineage of some pre- 
 historic animal, nor even the hand of a savage 
 in the jungles of an earlier earth-life, but 
 through all the ages of all time it would stand 
 as the track of Duty in the Man age of the 
 earth. 
 
 Now it gently stroked the filly's cheek. 
 We stood around in a group, each silently ad- 
 miring her. The trainer's practiced eye ran 
 over her form, then he ran his thumb and 
 finger down the tendons of her hard, flat legs. 
 He pressed with his thumbs her deep-set, slop- 
 ing sides, and the flesh rebounded under his 
 touch like solid rubber. 
 
 "Three heats better than 2.10 on a half- 
 19 289
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 mile track, yesterday, and she but a three- 
 year-old," he said admiringly r" we will bring 
 home the purse and the world's record, Mr. 
 Ballington." 
 
 " An' we won't come home till mornin 1 , 
 An' we ain't gwi' walk at all !" 
 
 sang old Wash. 
 
 "She will have a plucky field to battle 
 with," I suggested. 
 
 " I know them all," went on her driver 
 "they are good, but not one of them can pace 
 it in 2.10." 
 
 " They are good," he continued, " but this 
 mare is phenomenal she has got them at her 
 mercy. We will pull out at ten o'clock," 
 and he looked at his watch. "No, Wash," 
 he laughed " we will not walk home, not if 
 she lives to score down for the word." And so 
 we stood in a group around her, and no queen 
 of society ever received more gracefully. I 
 could see it all, and so plainly the shouting 
 grand stand, the flying filly out-footing her 
 field and coming in to fame and fortune. I 
 
 could feel it all, and so keenly I, who had bred 
 290
 
 The Unpaced Race 
 
 and raised her. My own pride and joy that 
 keen satisfaction that comes to but few who 
 rear race horses and who love them for the 
 nobility of the animal that comes to but few, 
 and that, perhaps, but once in a life time. 
 
 I had yet to learn that the unpaced races 
 were the real races of our lives. And yet, 
 how often we spend life training for the 
 great race of the future which never comes 
 off struggling, hardening, exerting, deny- 
 ing ourselves for battles we are never to 
 know, for victories we are never to win. 
 Planning for the time when our colors shall 
 show first at the front and the plaudits of the 
 world be ours. Struggling, training on. And 
 after the years have passed, after the day 
 when the great battle and great victory was 
 to have been, then it is that we look back in 
 wonder at the real races of our lives the un- 
 paced races we have won. And we wonder 
 the more when we see that we have won 
 them in our seeming unpreparedness pitched 
 headlong into the unexpected fray of the pres- 
 ent we have found the faith and strength of 
 
 the day equal to the need of it, and so, look- 
 291
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 ing ever to the great battle of the future, One 
 has led us, for the faith and earnestness that 
 was in us, to win the real victories of the past. 
 
 The unpaced race how uncertain, how 
 real ! 
 
 For the next instant a carriage drove hastily 
 up and I saw the Blind Man beckoning to me. 
 
 When I reached the carriage door he almost 
 pulled me in as he said, excitedly, 
 
 " I have looked for you for two hours read 
 it, Ned read it, quick !" 
 
 I took the note he handed me a crumpled 
 one from Thesis. At sight of the well-known 
 handwriting I felt the blood rush through my 
 heart. It was a minute before I could open it 
 it was another minute more before I could 
 read, 
 
 " Tent! Tern I Come take me and save me ! 
 your poor distracted little girl 1 The TSanh is 
 to fail to-morrow and Uncle to be a felon if I 
 do not marry him. I have no one on earth to 
 appeal to but you. If you do not come by ten 
 to-night, I fear " 
 
 I could read no more. I threw the note 
 
 down. The Blind Man was looking at me with 
 292
 
 The Unpaced Race 
 
 blanched cheeks. Then there swept over his 
 face such a joy as ! had never seen before. 
 
 " Go !" 1 cried. " For God's sake go !" 
 
 My voice seemed to arouse him. I was be- 
 side myself with impatience, but I watched 
 him closely. For a moment he hesitated, but 
 only for a moment. For a moment the halo 
 of joy lingered around his brow, ending in the 
 span of a rainbow in his sightless eyes. For 
 a moment I saw the same light shine there I 
 had once seen in the shadow of a church door. 
 Then it passed like a chastened beam of sun- 
 set reaching out and upward into the realms 
 of night. 
 
 He took my hand. All the excitement, all 
 the doubt, all the haste were gone. 
 
 " Ned dear Ned if you love me, it you 
 love her as I know you do. Go ! and God be 
 with you !" 
 
 I scarcely knew what I did except that I 
 sprang from the carriage and rushed to the 
 ticket office. But the six o'clock train had 
 already passed. 
 
 I rushed back only to find the carriage 
 gone. 
 
 293
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 There was nothing else to do. I went quickly 
 to the car door the trainer had gone. 
 
 "Wash, lead out the filly and her racing 
 sulky." 
 
 The old man looked at me with exasperat- 
 ing coolness I thought ; then, when he realized, 
 he stammered, 
 
 " For heaben sake, Young Marster what 
 you mean ?" 
 
 "1 must drive her to Nashville," I said, 
 "and drive her there in two hours." 
 
 The old man drew himself up and shouted 
 indignantly, 
 
 "1 belonged to yo' grandfather, I raised 
 yo' father an' I nussed you. I've nurver 
 questioned de wurd of a Ballington nor dis- 
 obeyed enny order. But I'll look you squar' 
 in de eye an' see you kill me in my tracks 
 befo' you shall lay a hand on dis filly !" 
 
 " Wash ! Wash ! You do not understand," 
 I cried. " It is not for my sake not for any 
 of our sakes it's to save her!" 
 
 His countenance changed. His look went 
 through me a look of astonishment, fear and 
 
 pity. In a moment he seemed to grasp it all. 
 194
 
 The Unpaced Race 
 
 Then he led the filly out without a word, threw 
 on the racing harness, buckled the shaft-band 
 while the tears ran down his cheeks, handed 
 me the reins as I sprang to the seat, pressed 
 my hand and stammered, between his tears, 
 
 " It breaks my heart to see her killed in dis 
 drive but but Little Glory Little Glory 
 ennything fur Little Glory !" 
 
 As I wheeled away he had taken off his old 
 hat and dropped by the car door in prayer.
 
 A PIKE OF BATTLES. 
 
 LEAM of bay, effort of fire, 
 
 Will of death and dumb desire 
 Onward onward to the wire. 
 Feet that falter not, nor heed 
 Soul of strength and soul of speed 
 Speed Speed ! , 
 
 Gleam of bay, answering sky, 
 Heart of hope and hero-high 
 
 Onward onward do or die ! 
 Form that knows not blight nor blame 
 
 Blazoned on the shield of fame 
 Fame Fame ! 
 
 297
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 I LOOKED at my watch it was just seven 
 as we sped along the streets of the town, 
 and in a minute more the iron bridge over the 
 Duck loomed up in the twilight. My face was 
 set, my heart beat wildly, my fingers seemed 
 driven into the reins. The hopelessness of it 
 all went through me and fixed it as in a seal 
 of fire. 1 saw everything, remembered every- 
 thing, even to the drift of the smoke across the 
 river. 1 was provoked with myself with 
 Marjorie it seemed so hopeless, so desperate 
 a trial for us. Perhaps 1 was nervous and in 
 that stage when little things worry most, but 
 I remember fretting because the mare seemed 
 to know nothing of it nothing of the struggle 
 and strife ahead, nothing of the hope that 
 hung on her heels, nothing of the forty long 
 miles over which she was to be tested as horse 
 had never been before, nothing of the agony 
 299
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 at this end, the doubt and despair at the other, 
 nothing of the cruelty of the fate that lay 
 coiled in the fact that I, who had reared and 
 loved her I, who had cared for and developed 
 her now must sit behind her an executioner 
 and drive her to her death. 
 
 She darted playfully from a passing vehicle, 
 tossed her head and sped away as if she 
 thought it .was but an evening's jaunt an 
 exercise to unloose the limbs trained for higher 
 things. I felt like the executioner I was my 
 heart sank with a double sorrow. 
 
 " God help us, little mare," I muttered 
 " God help us and help her !" 
 
 That cool air was from the river. The big 
 bluffs threw the shadows across the stream, 
 and the dim moonlight that fell across them, 
 from boulder shadow and darkling peak, pic- 
 tured in the depths of this pearl -stream a 
 Switzerland below, companion to the one 
 above. 
 
 Half-way across the bridge, the quaint old 
 cemetery on the river's bluff, full to overflow- 
 ing with the shadowy memories of lives that 
 
 had been, was the parting view I had of home ; 
 300
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 and as I thought of it all, the drive before me, 
 the extremity which made Thesis make the 
 appeal she did, the cool villainy of Forde, the 
 unselfishness of the Blind Man, I almost wished 
 that I, too, had been laid away in the old ceme- 
 tery, forever at rest by the side of the pearl- 
 studded stream. 
 
 On the bridge Marjorie shied at the big 
 rafters and played fear again. Then she 
 thought she was on a race track and darted a 
 two-minute gait across. The sparks flew from 
 her steel shoes as she struck the flint of the 
 Nashville pike, and then she struck a steady 
 pace that swept me along as a bubble on the 
 brow of a mill-race. I tried to take her up, 
 but she plunged and fretted. 
 
 "Easy, sweetheart, easy !" I whispered. 
 " I would not kill you so soon." She grew 
 calmer at the sound of my voice, then tossed 
 her head in the old trusting way she had. 
 The very confidence of it went through me 
 like a stab. I felt sick with sorrow for her 
 sick with the hopelessness of it, and before 
 I thought, I had pulled her up. Then, for a 
 moment, 1 hesitated as I stood and watched 
 301
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 her in the moonlight this beautiful creature 
 of nerve and fire, giving her life with a line 
 in her mouth, giving her breath with a bit 
 in her teeth, trusting it all to a hand and a 
 head that would drive her free and willing 
 spirit to death. 
 
 For a moment I hesitated. The long white 
 pike lay before me, the blue shadowy hills 
 rose beyond, and once more the hopelessness 
 of it all came over me. I clenched my teeth 
 1 could scarcely sit in the sulky. Coward that 
 I was, I tried to turn her home again. Half- 
 way, she turned, as I hesitatingly used the 
 line, then did she know it ? did she realize 
 it ? game beauty that she was, she wheeled 
 the other way as if scoring for the word, and 
 went with a rush. 
 
 " God help us little mare God help us and 
 help her!" 
 
 My voice seemed to quiet her, and I talked 
 on. "A bitter drive it is, Marjorie a bitter 
 drive and useless ! A race such as neither of us 
 ever dreamed of, a battle no horse ever had 
 before. There is death in every mile of this 
 
 pike, for the pike itself is a pike of battles. 
 
 302
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 This was the battle-ground of the Confederacy, 
 the turning-point of its destiny. Here, on that 
 old bridge below, Buell made up the hours that 
 saved Grant's army at Pittsburg Landing that 
 Sunday night on the sixth of April, 1862, 
 which made Grant a President instead of a 
 prisoner, and welded two sections into one 
 glorious nation. On what little things do the 
 destiny of men and nations seem to hang 
 seem to hang, Marjorie, but God sees all and 
 turns even the straws of destiny with the 
 breath of his silent lips. 
 
 " A pike of battles it is, and every mile a 
 battle ground. Here, for four long years Blue 
 and Gray charged and re-charged, captured 
 and re-captured. Van Dorn, Forest, Wheeler, 
 Hood; Wilson, Buell, Schofield, Thomas 
 skirmish and battle line, bullet and bloody 
 sword, sabre and severed heads ; marching 
 and counter-marching, dust and dying moan 
 <i long white road of rock and grinding metal, 
 a race-track of death, with the butchery of 
 Franklin atone end and the slaughter of Nash- 
 ville at the other." 
 
 She was pacing steadily and true. We sped 
 33
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 by a spring that ran from a blue grass lot in 
 the edge of a field by the roadside. " Jack- 
 son's spring, Marjorie the memory of Old 
 Hickory ! Here he rested and disbanded his 
 brave pioneer soldiers after the Creek War 
 and the victory of New Orleans that gave 
 us half a century of peace. May we imbibe 
 some of his deathless spirit for the task before 
 us." 
 
 Along the river bank we flew, the silent 
 stream lying asleep, like a great silver snake 
 in the moonlight ; then up the slope and down 
 through the toll-gate. The cool night wind 
 brought back my calmer self, and I took out 
 my watch to time the miles. She heard the 
 watch-spring snap and knew what it meant, 
 for she flew away, thinking she was on a 
 track and scoring for the word. But I held 
 her to a three-minute gait, and when she 
 reached Rutherford Hill in just five minutes, I 
 pulled her to a quiet pace and looked back for 
 the last time on the lights of the town three 
 miles away, on the heights of Mount Parnassus 
 crowning the town with its huge round top, not 
 unlike the tiers of some ancient amphitheater 
 304
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 filled with the ghostly spectators of by-gone 
 years. 
 
 From the top of Rutherford Hill to the top 
 of Mount Parnassus above the town is three 
 miles as the crow flies; and between these two 
 peaks is a valley as fertile as Poe's immortal 
 bird ever flew over, with a river flowing 
 through it as picturesque as it is unique. It 
 was Tuesday, the 2gth day of November, 1864, 
 that Hood's starved but brave and desperate 
 army crossed the Duck River on its raid into 
 this garden spot of the South, from the defeats 
 of Atlanta, with the wild dream of wresting it 
 from the sturdy Thomas at Nashville. Scho- 
 field, with his picked army corps, had barely 
 time to rush up from the Tennessee, in an 
 effort to fall back on Thomas, at Nashville, 
 and barely escaped being cut off at Columbia 
 and Spring Hill. But he burned the bridge in 
 his rear, and here from the peak of Parnassus, 
 above the town, to the peak of Rutherford, 
 over the creek, an artillery duel was fought 
 that made the valley hot with shells. Then 
 Hood crossed two miles east of town, at the 
 
 old ford, and the march and retreat went on 
 20 305
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 on across this pike of battles, built for a 
 pike of peace. 
 
 Down the long Rutherford Hill Marjorie would 
 speed but I held her in. The old covered 
 bridge shook and rattled beneath the sturdy 
 strokes of her regular stride, until I feared it 
 would go down with us. On on we sped 
 over the creek where Forest fought, up the 
 slope and away. I knew she was now warm 
 and relaxed, and I let her set the pace and 
 never did mare enjoy it more. On on we 
 sped, past the old Polk place where a great 
 President spent his youth. 
 
 On a long stretch of the pike, beautiful and 
 quiet in shadowy sleep, we passed by an old- 
 time Southern mansion, standing in a grove of 
 beech and maple to the right. 
 
 "The Cheairs place, Marjorie," I said. 
 "Here on that fateful November morning 
 breakfasted for the last time on earth Cle- 
 burne, Strahl, Granbury, Adams and Gist, 
 that matchless quintet of brave generals who, 
 before supper, lay dead around the breast- 
 works of Franklin, while thousands of the 
 
 boys in Gray who marched that day along 
 306
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 this shaded avenue, and thousands of those 
 in Blue, who fell back before them, gave 
 up their lives with them. And here, where 
 we now fly by," I said, as we passed a coun- 
 try lane opening into the pike, " is where 
 Hood's army should have attacked and cut off 
 Schofield, where the battle should have been 
 fought, where Schofield, his men demoralized 
 and falling back, his wagon-train stretched out 
 for miles and exposed, should have been cut 
 off and captured. Here is where Hood sent 
 orders for Cheatham to attack, orders which 
 Cheatham never received ; where Forest, ever 
 alert, lay with his bold cavalry along the pike, 
 saw the Blue army rushing by in confusion, 
 and walked the pike in rage and chagrin. Let 
 us call it, Marjorie, the lane of Lost Opportu- 
 nities, so many of which open, unexpectedly, 
 into the pike of our lives. Alas, for the Con- 
 federacy alas, for the things we would to be, 
 but which God wills otherwise. For His plans 
 are wiser than man's plans, Marjorie and so, 
 to-night, in the reunited strength of our brother- 
 hood of union, we weep and laugh, we sigh 
 and smile and see that it is best." 
 37
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 It was a level stretch to the bridge, then up 
 to the top of Picnic Hill. I thrust the head of 
 a match against the wheel as we flew along 
 and glanced at my watch 7.30 ! 
 
 "The record, Marjorie ! Eleven miles in 
 thirty minutes, up hill and down. No living 
 horse has had the speed and heart to do that 
 before none will ever do it again." 
 
 The village of Spring Hill now lay at my 
 feet in the moonlight. Down the slope we 
 sped, passing an old brick house standing to the 
 right and away from the road amid tangled 
 undergrowth and gloom. "Where General 
 Van Dorn was killed," I whispered. " It is a 
 sweet and peaceful village, now, Marjorie, 
 surrounded by this matchless country, and 
 resting here like a high born maiden in her 
 father's halls ; but many a tale of blood it 
 could tell." 
 
 Just beyond the toll-gate we passed the spot 
 where Forest's brother fell, and where the 
 great cavalry leader of the Confederacy laid 
 down his sword long enough to melt his iron 
 soul in sorrow. We dashed through the toll- 
 gate and up the pike. A blue-grass mound 
 308
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 was on the left. I took off my hat. " Hark, 
 Marjorie, to a tale of our reunited country. 
 That blue-grass mound tells it all. That is the 
 grave of a Union soldier, washed up last year 
 by a little creek that flowed through that pad- 
 dock. And his story is this : 
 
 " On the night before the battle of Franklin, 
 he had been ordered to stand guard on the 
 picket line, here on the very outposts of 
 Schofield's army, as Hood thundered on his 
 heels, and here, in ; the dark night, this sentinel 
 had given up his life for his country this 
 picket had been 'off duty forever,' and for 
 over thirty years he was numbered among the 
 unreturned dead. In the morning, when 
 Hood's army marched by to Franklin, he had 
 been rudely thrown into a sink-hole, by the 
 side of the little stream which ran crimson 
 with his blood. But, strange to tell, when 
 the waters of the little creek, after all these 
 years, had changed its course and washed 
 away the bank that hid him, the picket was 
 not off duty, but there he stood, upright, on 
 the creek bank, wrapped in his raincoat, his 
 cap, with the visor of a Wisconsin regiment, 
 309
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 on his head, and his right hand raised as if 
 giving the eternal salute, through all these 
 years, to the flag of his country. Tenderly 
 was he relieved from his duty ; and the hands 
 that once tossed him into a sink-hole, in tears 
 and sorrow laid him away, there in that quiet 
 meadow, his sod a verdure of Southern blue- 
 grass, his decorations the daisies which South- 
 ern children planted over him, and the land 
 where he died as an enemy now honoring him 
 as a friend. 
 
 " Hark ! Marjorie, does not that tell the 
 whole story ?" 
 
 I strained my eyes in the distance. Near 
 the blue-grass mound I beheld a homely-look- 
 ing old bay mare, cropping the grass in the 
 starlight. 
 
 "Old Sweepstakes, Marjorie, the dam of 
 world-beaters. Does not the blood of her own 
 matchless son, Star Pointer, flow in your 
 veins ? Go ! mare, go !" 
 
 It was a heart-killing pace to Thompson's 
 
 Station, for the pike was level and good. In 
 
 a little branch 1 stopped for a moment and 
 
 dipped my hat into the water. I gave her six 
 
 310
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 swallows, dashed the rest in her face and on 
 her flanks, jumped into the sulky and was 
 off again. 
 
 It was now quite dark as we flew along. 
 And here an accident happened that nearly 
 cost me my life. The mare was going like a 
 whirlwind, when all at once I saw her spring 
 into the air, barely in time to save herself. The 
 next instant the sulky shot down into an open 
 culvert and I went over the wheel. It was a 
 second before I came to. My first thought 
 was that she had run away and left me, and 
 my heart sank at the thought. Instead, she 
 had stopped, turned round, and stood over 
 me as I lay half senseless and was licking 
 my face. I could not help it, I kissed her 
 soft nozzle. I blessed her for a mare that 
 was more human than horse. "God bless 
 you, Marjorie, there was never one like 
 you !" 
 
 I sprang again to the seat and we were 
 away. 
 
 "Thompson Station, Marjorie, battle after 
 battle around it, and one that was particularly 
 brilliant. Here, in the earliest days of the 
 3"
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 war, the intrepid Forest, with eight hundred 
 men, defeated and captured General Coburn 
 and his brigade. Here the gallant Shatter, 
 then almost a boy, gave up his sword fighting 
 to the last ; and lived to lead the armies of our 
 reunited Country against Santiago and to com- 
 mand in that battle an old Confederate Major- 
 General. God knows best!" 
 
 From Thompson Station to Franklin is nine 
 miles, the pike winding in and out, up and 
 down, level stretch and sloping hill. And all 
 along I talked to her, this filly of blood and 
 nerve, racing like a frictionless engine, the 
 strokes of her sweeping limbs like those of 
 the pistons of a mighty locomotive, and yet 
 skimming along as gracefully as a swallow 
 flies. We drove from the Station to the Atha 
 Thomas school-house, three miles, in ten min- 
 utes. 
 
 Here was the fearful artillery duel on Hood's 
 famous retreat, when from hill to hill the 
 starved and disheartened Confederates stopped 
 and stood like a wounded bull or turned and 
 charged their maddening pursuers. Three 
 
 miles further we were at Winston Hill, and 
 312
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 from the top, away in the distance, I saw the 
 lights of Franklin. My watch showed just 
 eight o'clock ! My heart beat wildly now, 
 and hope came, swift and true. I reached out 
 and felt the flanks of the game mare that had 
 brought me twenty miles in an hour on the 
 road, a record I knew flesh and blood would 
 never make again. She was as wet as a 
 blanket dipped in a spring, but no foam was in 
 her flanks, and I knew her muscles were soft 
 and pliant and her skin in the condition of race 
 horses. There was no friction there. 
 
 The little town of Franklin lies in a bend of 
 the Harpeth. In the bend, and behind the 
 town, are the bluffs of the river. At the high- 
 est point of this bluff, on Figuer's Hill, I saw, 
 still standing, the grim outline of the Federal 
 fort that poured its screaming shot and shell 
 into Hood's army on that woful last day of 
 November, 1864, when they formed for their 
 charge against the Federal line of breastworks 
 that ran in front of, and around the town, 
 from river to river again. 
 
 On the top of Winston's Hill, on my left, 
 was an old linden tree I saw it standing in 
 3'3
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 the starlight where General Hood sat and 
 gave his fateful orders for the brave brigades 
 to go down to their death. 
 
 " It is hard, hard, Marjorie but this, this 
 is truly the battlefield of death. Here around 
 this little town nine battles were fought in that 
 unholy war. Uncover, mare, uncover, for we 
 tread on the very threshold of death. 
 
 " Here, where we now fly along, the Con- 
 federate army formed. Down this pike and 
 over these fields they charged and recharged, 
 from four o'clock until midnight, storming these 
 breastworks of death thirteen brutal butcher- 
 ing times. Uncover, mare, uncover ! 
 
 " Across the fields they swept, nearly half 
 a hundred thousand men, in battle array, with 
 drums beating, and flying, flaunting flags. 
 Across, from the fort, thundered and screamed 
 the iron shells, and in front lay Schofield's 
 army behind entrenchments which Baiaklava 
 could not have turned, nor Trafalgar silenced. 
 Uncover, mare, uncover ! 
 
 " Right there was the old cotton-gin, in front 
 of which lay the gallant Cleburne. This is the 
 Carter house, riddled with bullet and shell. 
 3H
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 Yonder Adams and his horse lay, half over the 
 Union breastwork. Here were Gist and Strahl 
 and Granbury, all field officers, dead while 
 soldiers, dead, lay for half a mile so thick, one 
 could walk across the battlefield with the 
 dead as stepping-stones. Uncover, mare, un- 
 cover ! 
 
 " They wore the gray, then, Marjorie, and 
 perchance their sons would to-day even 
 under the old flag, but now that it is all 
 over, the sons of those who died around these 
 breastworks of death in brave and honest en- 
 deavor to tear down the flag of their country, 
 these would die to-night to place it there again ! 
 Uncover, mare, uncover !" 
 
 We rushed through the town of Franklin, 
 and at a stable door I stopped, sprang from the 
 sulky, unchecked and called for a bucket of 
 water. She begged piteously for it all, but I 
 gave her but three swallows. I dashed the 
 rest in her face, then put my ear to her heav- 
 ing flank. It rose and fell like the waves of 
 the sea when the hurricane drives in from the 
 deep. It beat like the tramp of an army in a 
 death-run for victory. It scudded and swelled 
 3'S
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 and rolled like black clouds before the whirl- 
 wind's breath but there was no uncertain 
 sound, no fluttering, no thumping. Nature's 
 machinery was working like clockwork. 
 
 I patted her cheek she whinnied back in 
 my face, begging for water I dared not give. 
 Instead, I took quickly from my pocket a flask 
 and poured half of it down her throat. As I 
 sprang into the sulky a man rushed out. 
 
 "My God!" he cried, "are you mad? 
 Whereto?" 
 
 "To Nashville in an hour," I called back. 
 
 I saw him throw up his hands and shout, 
 but already I was half-way through the town. 
 
 On on we flew the mare seemed crazed 
 and ablaze with speed her brain was fire, 
 her limbs the flash of it my arms seemed 
 bands of stiff, cold iron my spine ached, my 
 shoulders were adamant, my head lead. I 
 felt that I should faint. I reeled in the seat 
 and clutched at space. In a sulky there is 
 nothing to hold to but the lines. 
 
 " God help us," I cried. " If I faint we are 
 lost." 
 
 A moment later, when I regained my senses, 
 316
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 I was still in the sulky seat my head had 
 fallen on her croup. She had stopped until I 
 revived. She had saved me again. 
 
 " Eighteen more miles ! Oh, if we can only 
 live to do it, Marjorie !" 
 
 Roper's Knob on the right, grim and silent. 
 
 The Soule place. Something thundered be- 
 neath me like the rumbling of distant cannon ; 
 we had run over the little bridge at Spencer's 
 Creek. On on I let her go, past the old 
 Stanley tavern, the McEwen place Cox pike 
 and Mallory Station. I tried to pull her up. 
 We seemed to be boring a door in the darkness 
 a continual door, opening to our rush, clos- 
 ing as we went through. 1 could not stop her. 
 The whiskey had gone to her head, and she 
 raced like a maddened thing. The fire flew 
 from her hoofs on the flint of the pike. She 
 had broken her check rein, and with her head 
 down she was running away at a pace. 
 
 At the Holly Spring Gap I scarcely saw the 
 log house where the bandit, Murrill, and hfc 
 gang used to meet, and where so many trav- 
 elers had given up their lives in darkness ano 
 in silence. Then we plunged into the dark 
 317
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 ness of the Gap, into the midnight gloom, cold 
 and heavy, and holding the lines as I was, 
 seeing nothing before me, I appeared to myself 
 to fly from midnight into the mouth of dark- 
 ness. The next instant I felt a shock, and shot 
 like a bolt from my seat. 1 clutched the air as 
 I went, and came down in a dazed heap, my 
 arm around the filly's neck, and she stagger- 
 ing wildly for her feet. She had gone down 
 and I had been thrown from my seat, but had 
 caught her neck as 1 went over her head. 
 
 In an instant I had struck a match, and there 
 in the darkness I drank of the gloom of it 
 never had such despair and sorrow overtaken 
 me. After such a battle, after such a race, 
 such superhuman strength and gameness 
 now to fail ! She had broken both knees, 
 and the blood flowed in streams to her hoofs. 
 But she did not wince. Only she stood look- 
 ing at me in baby-eyed, wondering astonish- 
 ment that I should take this cruel way of kill- 
 ing her. I shall never forget it, for as I tore 
 my handkerchief in twain and tied the strips 
 around her knees I felt her soft, pitying nose 
 laid gently on my cheek. 1 felt her impatient 
 318
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 nibble to be gone, and my heart revived again 
 with hope. I could not help it when I sprang 
 to the seat again, the tears were streaming 
 down my cheek. 
 
 And though her knees were broken, she did 
 not wince when she felt the lines again, and 
 only in the darkness could I see that she had 
 worn off one of her steel shoes worn it to a 
 plate a thread to powder ! Then I knew 
 what a terrible drive it was to do that. I knew 
 the shoe was gone, because the sparks would fly 
 in the darkness from all the other feet but that, 
 and when 1 thought of the agony that would 
 soon be hers, when the flint and gravel had 
 worn it to the quick, I almost wished she had 
 died in the miles behind her. Lame in front 
 quicked behind her knees broken and the 
 blood pouring down, and yet never to wince, 
 never to whine, never to quit oh, Marjorie 
 Marjorie would, would that mortal man 
 were half so noble, half as game and good as 
 you ! 
 
 For five miles further, her feet flew with the 
 regularity of a squadron marching. Past the 
 old Tavern, the Zelner place, down the long
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 stretch of the Little Harpeth Valley on on 
 with never a balk or break ! I heard only the 
 stroke of her sweeping stride, and felt the fly- 
 ing sulky move under me through the star- 
 light ! 
 
 " God help us, little mare !" was all I could 
 say. 
 
 On on we flew past Oden's, Moore's 
 and Brentwood past McNish's. Then two 
 steel rails shot under me I had crossed the 
 railroad again. It was Baxter's crossing. The 
 iights of Nashville were nearly in sight. 
 
 Oh, Thesis ! 
 
 It was very dark, save for the starlight. 1 
 could not see my watch> but now that hope 
 was in sight, my blood ran like a river afire, 
 and my spirits came back like the ebb of a 
 tide. Then I talked to Marjorie again : 
 
 " It is a pike of death, little mare, a pike of 
 death, and once again we have plunged into a 
 battlefield. This was the Confederate line in 
 the battle around Nashville. This was the 
 bleak and frozen plain and hillside, when, 
 :rom the second day of that freezing Decem- 
 ber until the sixteenth, Hood's remnant of an 
 320
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 army stood and fired and froze and fell before 
 the well-fed, well-protected veterans of the 
 Rock of Chickamauga. Here, at last they 
 gave way, and then began that stubborn, 
 freezing, dying retreat that ended the war 
 and buried the flags of the Lost Cause in 
 the soil of its origin ! Uncover, mare, un- 
 cover !" 
 
 She seemed to be beside herself with flight 
 never had I known such speed. The sparks 
 ceased to fly from her near forefoot I knew 
 that shoe was gone too, and yet she did not 
 wince she did not flinch. The other was 
 worn to the quick and left blood in her track, 
 but, game creature that she was, I knew she 
 would pace in, if but a bone remained for her 
 to stand upon. 
 
 And then my heart gave a great leap, for in 
 the night of stars and gloom I saw the great 
 top of old Fort Negley loom up ! I remember 
 but confusedly from here in the electric lights 
 of the city, the clock in the Custom House tower 
 my plunge into a stable, my despair my 
 hope my sorrow joy ! Despair and sorrow 
 
 when 1 saw her stagger and fall at last joy 
 21 321
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 infinite joy when I felt I should see Thesis 
 again to protect, to save her ! 
 
 And then I remember seeing a black shadow 
 spring out from the darkness and catch the 
 mare as she fell. I saw him on the floor, her 
 head in his lap, and the blood-red whiskey, 
 gurgling down her parched throat, while a 
 sponge of water, ice-cold, played over her face 
 and head. 
 
 " My God, Wash ! How " 
 
 " Drove to Spring Hill an' caught a freight 
 me and Marse Emerson. He's with her. 
 Go quick ! quick ! young Marster, ef you'd 
 be of help ! I'll save de filly see ef I don't ! 
 This kind don't die fur a little drive lak dat. 
 But fur God's sake, go ! they need you 
 quick !" 
 
 My blood seemed afire, and yet I was never 
 cooler never was I more resolved or deter- 
 mined. I seemed to stand on the brink of a 
 tragedy, and I cared not whether it meant life 
 or whether it meant death. 
 
 I flew up the steps of the house, where I 
 knew she was, but I rang no bell, for it was 
 
 fully lighted up, the doors open as if company 
 
 322
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 were there. At the inner door 1 stopped, and 
 the blood flew from my cheek and left me, for 
 the first time, trembling and almost fainting. 
 
 She stood by the Blind Man, as sad as a 
 Madonna and as beautiful as an angel of light, 
 and she held to his arm for protection. Her 
 eyes seemed wild with a light I had never seen 
 there before. Her uncle was beseeching ; 
 Joe Forde was sullen and determined. A 
 man in a clerical coat was at the left. 
 
 Only the Blind Man stood like a lion in their 
 path. 
 
 "She will marry me or that man wears 
 stripes," Joe Forde was saying as I came up. 
 
 "It is to save me, Thesis," mumbled her 
 uncle, sillily. 
 
 " Never oh, uncle never !" she pleaded. 
 " Let him send me to prison " 
 
 Then the Blind Man spoke, and never had I 
 heard such a voice. He was not excited, not 
 even angry ; but it came with the clear, pene- 
 trating voice of the holy fire that leaped from 
 heaven at Elijah's call from Mount Horeb, and 
 burned the offerings and the altars of the 
 priests of Baal. 
 
 323
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 " Joe Forde, you have played a false game 
 and been caught in your own toils. You 
 will wear the stripes yourself, if any are 
 worn." 
 
 Forde turned, in the tantalizing, quiet way 
 he had, and with a cynical, triumphant look, 
 said simply, "What do you mean, sir ?" 
 
 " You threw your bank-stock on the market 
 this morning, and sold it for a song before you 
 left, did you not?" 
 
 Forde did not reply, but stood looking at 
 him over his eye-glasses in a condescending, 
 self-arrogant way, as one who had made up 
 his mind to be bored for a few minutes by a 
 well-meaning but silly antagonist, before car- 
 rying his own point. 
 
 "Yes, you did," went on the Blind Man, 
 quietly. "You sold it for ten cents on the 
 dollar, and then you sneaked out of town and 
 left your assistant cashier to open up a broken 
 bank to-morrow, and a weak old president, 
 whom you have robbed and beguiled, to bear 
 the infamy of your own robbery." 
 
 Forde's manner instantly changed. I saw 
 him flush quickly ; then, for the first time in 
 324
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 my life, I saw him turn pale. A puzzled look 
 also crept into his face. 
 
 " Now, it was my money in fact, it was I 
 who bought that stock this morning," coolly 
 went on the Blind Man, " and I own and con- 
 trol that bank to-night. See !" he said, as he 
 drew from his pocket a large envelope and 
 handed it to Thesis : " It is yours," he said to 
 her simply ; " yours and Ned's wait !" 
 
 Forde laughed ironically. " I would have 
 warned you against buying worthless stock 
 myself, if you had advised with me," he said. 
 "There is no money in the vaults, and you 
 know why," he said, turning to Colonel 
 Philips. 
 
 The latter turned impatiently away. 
 
 "And there is where you are mistaken," 
 went on the Blind Man quietly, but with that 
 same penetrating voice. " I deposited all the 
 money in the vaults at just ten minutes before 
 six o'clock this afternoon." 
 
 " Oh !" laughed Forde, forcedly ; " then 
 
 you are richer than I suspected. But do you 
 
 know that it will take two hundred thousand 
 
 dollars to do that ? And I don't suppose you 
 
 325
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 will find that sum every day in a sheep's 
 track, eh ?" 
 
 "No," said the Blind Man, with a cruel, 
 painful emphasis, and a voice that cut like a 
 sword " No, sir not in a sheep's track ; but 
 I found it in a wolf's track, where you had hid 
 it, sir, robbed the bank and that old man there 
 and hid it. And I only put it back, sir, where 
 it belonged took it from the vaults of a tomb 
 and put it into the vaults of a bank where you, 
 thank Heaven, and other thieves, will have no 
 authority to go in and steal." 
 
 There are times in their lives when men, 
 even with the cool villainy of Joe Forde, when 
 beaten, turn and forget all things else, to rend 
 their conquerors. For a moment he was a 
 maniac, and sprang at the Blind Man's throat 
 with clinched teeth and uplifted hand. 
 
 But he never struck him. As far back as I 
 can remember, it has been a rule of the Bal- 
 lingtons to strike first and to strike hard ; and 
 1 put all my strength into that blow. 
 
 I was still looking at him, stretched sense- 
 less on the floor, when I heard Thesis scream, 
 
 and then hold out both her hands to me. I 
 326
 
 A Pike of Battles 
 
 sprang quickly to her side. She was standing 
 by a chair in which the Blind Man sat. His 
 head had fallen back, and a smile so sweet 
 and natural hung round his lips that I thought 
 he was calling to me. 
 
 Then 1 looked into his eyes. They were no 
 longer sightless, but, fixed in the far distance, 
 I saw reflected there the glory and sweetness 
 of another world. I realized it all only when 
 I felt Thesis draw my hand in hers, and 
 instantly we both knelt down beside him, 
 while she sobbed in my arms and said : 
 
 " Oh, Ned ! Ned ! He sees at last. It is 
 endless, endless day with him now I" 
 
 3*7
 
 MY LOVE HAS COME AS A LILY. 
 
 MY Love has come as a lily 
 In the good glad Easter-tide, 
 A sweet hope born with the risen morn, 
 
 Forever at my side. 
 And her eyes are the stars of the lily, 
 And her face is a snow-white bloom, 
 Lifting up, from the petal's cup. 
 The soul of a sweet perfume. 
 
 O Love, that has come as a lily, 
 
 O heart in the lily's fold, 
 You are mine to-night by the new-born light, 
 
 By the faith and the story of old 
 You are mine to-night, O Love, by the right 
 
 Of the love my heart doth hold.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 OHALL I ever forget it the sweet Easter 
 O week I brought her to the old place ? 
 We had had our first tea together, and now, in 
 the twilight, we were sitting on the porch, 
 where already the white rose-bush had begun 
 to throw out its starry blossoms. 
 
 A beautiful chestnut head was thrust over 
 the balcony from the lawn, begging for a lump 
 of sugar. I had seen Marjorie limping across, 
 with scarred knees and drawn tendons blem- 
 ishes that made her sacred to me but in the 
 game and resolute, tender eye, that begged 
 playfully for sugar, there slumbered the never- 
 dying light of a great, dumb victory. And 
 she got her sugar, with a gentle caress, from 
 hands that would, God willing, in the years to 
 come, give her many more. Then two white 
 arms stole around the filly's neck, and there 
 was the natural sealing of a life's friendship. 
 331
 
 A Summer Hymnal 
 
 And now, from the cherry tree, came a 
 burst of glorious melody that made my heart 
 melt. When it ceased, Thesis had laid her 
 head on my shoulder, and was weeping. 
 
 "It is the mocking-bird, dear," she said, 
 " and he is adding this sweet benediction to 
 our wedded love." 
 
 But I had seen the flash of a slate-blue form 
 that told me who the singer was. 
 
 "It's the cat-bird, sweet," I said; "love and 
 a home have made him a great singer." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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