MY AIN LADDIE EDITED BY DAVID DORLEY 1922 THE STRATFORD PUBLISHING CO. Boston, Massachusetts Copyright, 1922 The STRATFORD CO., Publishers Boston, Mass. The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. INTRODUCTION AS LADD'S literary executor, his personal writings and manuscripts naturally came into my possession. Among these, none reveals more intimately the inner workings and struggles of his soul than the correspondence that passed between himself and Claire, his faithful friend and fiancee, the lodestar of his career. Ladd dearly cherished these epistles. They were kept reverently apart from his other writings, and showed unmistakable signs of having been read again and again, with what profit to his soul I leave to the reader to judge. To obtain the letters Ladd had written to Claire was a more difficult task. Obviously she considered it as approaching a desecration to share them with others; yet finally I succeeded. She turned them over to me along with a short sketch of her impres- sions of Ladd when first she met him. What more natural than for me to weave these letters into a tale, and, omitting all names, present it to you for the sake of the dear, dead past for the sake of her "Ain Laddie." David Dorley, October 19, 1919. 2129243 SKETCH OP "THE MAN" By ONE WHO WOULD THINK SHE KNEW HIM IF SHE DIDN'T KNOW BETTER. WHEN he first swung into view a tall boyish figure, he caught my attention much as a ray of light through the blind catches the attention of a child. And I wondered in a vague sort of way if life's shadows had ever touched him. Looking up- ward from the shadows, this air of buoyant youth and happiness aroused my resentment. The thought came to me that if any darkness should fall across his path, this almost aggressive contentment with the world and all it contained would not survive. Well, that was months ago; and I have since come to know that his cheerfulness was not so much a careless acceptance of the world's smiles, as it was a courageous cheerfulness of principle which could "meet with triumph or disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same." Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re that is he. A combination of Irish brilliancy, amiability and adaptability, with Scotch gravity and determina- tion ; and somewhere in the background a bit of true British hauteur and reserve that well-bred barrier beyond which none may penetrate. The character is simple and extremely trans- parent just about as transparent as the Great Wall of China. MY AIN LADDIE Did you ever tackle a problem, in Geometry for instance, and after casually running it through and scribbling your statement on paper, say to yourself : "How perfectly easy!" then all at once find yourself puzzled, and then more puzzled, until you ended by owning that you were unexpectedly and discon- certingly stuck? Just how it happened you could not tell ; but the fact remained, you were stuck. Maybe it is because he has the art of camouflage developed to the nth power. Just about the time you have managed to convince yourself that he really is something or other, you suddenly discover that he isn't. Not that he lacks genuineness oh, never that ! but rather that no one is quite worth at least to him the sharing of his genuineness. I often think that should he have known one whom he liked well enough to reveal himself to, a totally different person than the one we, casual acquaintances, are permitted to know would stand disclosed to view. Should you happen in a moment of imbecility to ask him for a candid and unvarnished opinion on any but the most commonplace and immaterial sub- ject, like the weather, the crops, or the real cause of the Great War, he will look at you with the frankest, most confidential gaze, and reply some- thing after this fashion: "Well, since there exists a difference of opinion as to whether Mars is inhabited or not, you may, if you like, believe that the moon is or is not made of green cheese." Or else in more weighty matters, if you corner ii SKETCH OF "THE MAN" him with tears in your eyes, and beseech him in accents of life and death to tell you whether he honestly prefers pink or blue, he will smile charm- ingly that's the word and reply. "Yes." His is a character that, like a mirror, presents a polished surface in which you see reflected yourself, or any one in the vicinity : while of what really lies beneath the surface you see little and you know still less. Of the possibilities and potentialities you may know very much. Truth, courage, high honor, and all that sort of thing are matters of "noblesse oblige." You don't give him any credit for possessing these commend- able traits, because he cannot help manifesting them on every occasion. Therefore, take these for granted and let them pass. Here is another trait or shall we say gift? that of Impressing each one of his vast circle of friends and acquaintances with the idea that she is in some way the object of his special solicitude, that her welfare lies a bit nearer his heart than that of the others. Often, when they can find a sympathetic listener, they will pour forth with soulful look something like this: "Yes, you know he was so worried about me. He tells me I ought not try to do so much, but you know. . " Or like this : "Oh, I've always wanted to be a nurse, but he just gets wild when I speak of it; so I'll have to give that up. ..." Or perchance like this: "Oh, I don't know how I would have gotten on iii MY AIN LADDIE if he had not thought so much of me. ..." (mental reservation understood "To the exclusion of the less favored"). And so on ad infinitum. And the "one who thinks she knows better" smiles to herself, and recalls the hero or demigod of the Greeks of old, who was named Hercules. He was always courageous and always strong; and he walked through life doing good wherever he saw any good to be done. An English poet says of him, "He held his life out lightly on his hand for any man to take." So does our "man" hold his life lightly to be given bit by bit to any one who has need of him. But some of our set do not understand; they fancy he is exclusively for them, not realizing that he is a cosmopolitan, that the whole world is his home and his field of labor. I think it rather amuses him to be made a fuss over; but to be canonized that is different. For in proportion as he is worthy he naturally feels far otherwise. And the sense of so vast a discrepancy between what he considers his havings and his de- servings, produces a strangely saddening effect; yet ends by making him determined to shorten the dis- tance between what he is and what he thinks he ought to be. This is the finest trait in his character. One may expect great things of a person not too well contented with himself. CLAIRE The Oaks, Long Island, iv FEOM LADDIE TO CLAIEE Sunset Cottage Bear Paw Mountains May 16, 1918 My dear Claire, Can you picture me on the veranda of a little cottage, far up in the Bear Paw Mountains, forty miles from the nearest post-office? Don't be startled ! I know that you will find it rather difficult to place me in such pastoral surroundings, me, the ardent lover of crowded thoroughfares, and the mad, gay life of the city. It is true, however; your oft- repeated words of warning have had their effect, and I am now a voluntary exile. Silently like the proverbial Arab I folded my tent (pitched for a number of years on the Great White Way), and came West. I trust it is not too late. Speaking of "pastoral surroundings," the couple I am staying with own a large sheep ranch and are "pastors" in the literal sense of the word. Wish I could exactly depict to you what a charming couple they are! Both are Scotch. The husband, a rather short, hard-working, honest fellow; the wife, a tall, happy woman, with a heart of pure gold. She finished training as a nurse previous to her mar- riage; and showers every possible attention on me. I have a comforable bed on the veranda, which I MY AIN LADDIE have occupied almost constantly since my advent: and one faithful companion, a large, Maltese cat, answering to the name of Eory. Shall I be frank? We promised to have no secrets. Well, I am very, very lonesome. On my arrival here, the change from my former position was so radical that my senses were numbed I did not seem to feel anything. Now I yearn for the old haunts, old associates, old mother, old you. Not that you are old as far as years are numbered, but I like to give that title to those I reverence and hold dear. Oftentimes I catch myself speaking in this manner of those characters I love in fiction. I talk of "old" Tom Newcome, of "old" Scrooge. Some- how the word rings true. Don't you think so? It connotes reliability; one on whom we may depend, you. Nurse just arrived with my supper, and bids me put away the writing tablet for the rest of the evening. Good night ! May 17, 1918. When you read the above (which may not be for some time; since we post and receive mail about once every six weeks up here), I suppose you will condemn me for not being brave. Pal, dear, it is not a question of bravery in this case. You know I am determined to do all in my power to regain health and strength; yet that resolve does not ex- clude my feeling this separation. One is not neces- FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE sarily less brave because he keenly feels the difficu- ties of the task he has set himself to perform. I do not believe in lying, in calling a hard proposition easy. No, this trial of mine or, rather, of ours (since you are generously bearing it with me) is hard. It is hard in the prime of life to give up practically everything, home, friends, aspirations; to be obliged, like the lepers of old, to go forth and wander in the desert places the desert places where no flower blooms, and one thirsts and pants for the things he cannot have. Of course, I have not admitted this weakness to others. With you I feel that I am not obliged to keep up appearances, you understand. Even mother does not yet know the whole truth ; and I trust she never will until the time comes. The day I left, she appeared more than usually worried: so I laughingly told her at the station that my sojourn would be a short one ; that I was only run down and soon would be home with her once more. But you and I know better, Pal. We know that this * ' scout ' ' may never find the home trail again, that he may be lost on the Divide. I feel better for having "fessed up" to you. This readjustment of conditions is terrible. I am im- patient, and at times even rebellious. Pardon, dear Pal, if in the days to come, I lean rather heavily upon your brave, little shoulders. I am utterly exhausted, spiritually and physically, and filled with a sense of entire abandonment, like a shipwrecked sailor cast up by the sea on an uninhabited island. So, Claire, [3] MY AIN LADDIE Claire! do not desert me in this crisis; for, though physically frail, you are morally able to support ten like me, and I need your assistance, oh, so much ! God love you, as the Irish say. May 19, 1918. My efforts of the last few days in writing to you proved too much, and caused quite a relapse in my condition. Monday was a wretched day for me, and my temperature did not improve with the coming of evening I tossed and tossed with fever during the whole night. Next morning I did not care whether school kept or not. Naturally Mrs. McDonnell became rather pro- voked because of my inability to take the accus- tomed milk and eggs for breakfast. She scolded for a while and finally said : "There is no choice you must swallow your eggs or die!" In reply, I asked: "Did you ever hear the story of your namesake, Angus McDonnell?" "No! "rather curtly. "Well," I continued, "Angus went one day to see an oculist about his eyes. After a thorough exami- nation, the doctor said, 'McDonnell, it's like this you either have to stop the whiskey or lose your eye- sight, and you must choose.' " 'Ah, weel, doctor,' replied the old Scotsman, 'I'm an auld mon noo, an' I was thinkin' I hae seen aboot everything worth seein' !' ' Her hearty laugh rang clear; and, perceiving she [4] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE was somewhat mollified, I took advantage of her good humor and added : "Nurse, don't be angry with me. I am in very much the same frame of mind as our friend Angus, this morning. ' ' However, before leaving me to go about her work, she exacted a promise that I would do all in my power to avoid a like condition in the future. This I readily gave. So, because my strength at present does not permit me to pen more than a stray thought or two at a time, I have resolved that these lines shall be more in the nature of a diary than of a letter some- thing I may not feel obliged to finish, but may pick up or east aside as the inclination prompts me. What shall we call this opus magnum, Pal? How do you like, Reveries of a Lunger? I am afraid that word, lunger, would prove my undoing were I to write for publication, and not for your eyes alone. In our modern civilization a rather rigid rule pre- vails of shunning not only one infected with tuber- culosis, but even the name itself. To speak of this particular disease except perhaps in medical cir- cles is not considered good form. It makes one's hearers, though outwardly they smile benignly upon you and appear tremendously interested in your subject, it makes them shudder at heart. Im- perceptibly they straighten up, draw a deep breath (a sure preventive against all attack), and, inci- dentally, determine to change the conversation at the first opportunity. [5] Then again, that word reveries does not seem to fit either. A revery, to me, always connotes two distinct objects: a cheery, open fireplace, with blaz- ing logs within ; and a well-filled pipe as companion of the idle hours. Both of these comforts are denied me under present conditions. I am obliged to live out of doors, and forget that there ever existed such a potent soother of one's sorrows as the fragrant weed. Nevertheless unless you fancy another title Keveries of a Lunger it shall be. "Quod scripsi, scripsi." What I have written remains. As ever, Ladd. P. S. Good news ! Nurse McDonnell just came in to say that John, her husband, would leave to-morrow for Chicago. He is shipping a few cars of sheep, and will accompany them to their destination, re- turning in about three weeks. I am sending these notes with him. If he mails them on his arrival in Havre, I may have a reply from you by the time he returns again to the Bear Paw. Please do not fail me. L. May 29, 1918. The battle rages, Pal, or is it the fever? We have turned on the enemy, and are holding our ground. Now let us talk of something more cheerful; for I am beginning to realize that I have been very selfish, that I and my woes have occupied the stage entirely too long. [6] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE Apropos of the above, I recall a rather pithy say- ing from one of Kipling's sea stories. The scene is laid on board a merchantman bound for England; and the author pictures quite vividly a number of rough, old tars watching the antics of a caged mon- key. The animal keeps up a continual chatter, and appears bent on attracting as much attention as possible. Finally one weather-beaten sea-dog takes the pipe from his mouth; and turning to his com- panions, points to the cage and sagely remarks: "Too much of the Ego, and too little of the Cosmos!" That sailor was somewhat of a natural philosopher he was able to read below the surface: but he forgot to add that it was because the animal was in captivity that he was self-centred. In all probability, had the monkey been in his natural surroundings, in the jungle, he would have been thinking of some- thing other than himself. It was confinement that emphasized the Ego. Now, it seems to me that, for many years past, I have been in very much the same position as that captive animal. Though living in the metropolis, I have been as closely confined by unnatural surround- ings, false criteria of conduct, as the monkey by his iron cage. As a matter of course, then, my Ego has become abnormally developed. This I perceive in the few lines I wrote shortly after my arrival here. Nothing but I and me recurring every little while. Honestly, were it not for our mutual promise, nothing would remain but torn-up, scattered scraps of paper. [7] MY AIN LADDIE But the spirit of the mountains, the spirit of the pines, the spirit of the broad, wind-swept plains in the dim distance, these are hovering about me, per- meating my very being, fashioning the man you knew in broader, nobler lines. One cannot long remain selfish under such influ- ences, or rather under such influence, for the lesson nature teaches is ever the same generosity. "Give, and it shall be given to you." These are the words she never tires of dinning into our untuned ears. When I awoke this morning, from the poplar tree that overshadows my veranda, a brave-hearted phoebe favored me with a song; while the breezes brought me a gift from the pine trees west of Sun- set Cottage, and oh, thank Heaven ! it was not doled out as the doctor's prescription. I just filled and refilled every air cell in my lungs, until a bright ray of light coming over my shoulder distracted me. It was the old sun. Even he had not forgotten "the pilgrim," but was bringing his substance of warmth and good cheer to lay at my feet. And Beaver Creek (a madcap stream that rushes pellmell down the mountain side, not over fifty yards from the house) well, he hardly waited long enough to mumble a hurried "Good morning!" so eager was he to reach the town on the prairies below, and, in- cidentally, to assist some dry-land farmers he would pass on the way. Who was it wrote the following "To a Mountain Stream"? The author could cer- tainly not have given a better description of Beaver Creek. [8] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE "Oh, he tumbles adown, past the little gray town, And sings a bright song on the way. On meadows and woods, he gives of his goods, Like a prodigal, here for a day. He asks no returns for the wages he earns, Yet each blade on the soft, dewy lea, Begs a blessing of love to fall from above On the traveler who goes to the sea. "Oh, gay little stream ! I have caught from thy gleam How nobly and truly to live. I must journey along in the lilt of a song, And gladly and freely to give. Nor ask on the way for guerdon or pay, Save the blessings men shower on me, Till I hear the deep lave of the broad, ocean wave, And the River at last meets the Sea," " Those horrid mountains!" I hear you say. "They are making Laddie more and more egotistical. He's as bad as Mrs. Poyser's bantam cock, who fancied the sun got up every morning to hear him crow." No indeed! I'm not more egotistical. I'm just awakening to the spirit of generosity, to the spirit of giving that pervades all nature. And, Claire, I am becoming more trustful. "As weak, yet as trustful as ever For the whole year round I see All the wonders of faithful nature Still worked for the love of me." I do hope John McDonnell will bring me a letter from you. He ought to return within a few days, so Mrs. McD. tells me. Adios! The rebellious feeling is fast disappearing. [9] MY AIN LADDIE On board H. M. S. Steamer chair. June 10, 1918. A rather dramatic incident occurred to me the day I arrived in Havre : and, as far as I recall, I have not mentioned it to you. I had just been assisted down the Pullman steps, and was giving directions to the porter relative to the disposal of my baggage, when a grimy individual crept out from underneath the very car I had been traveling in. For the frac- tion of a second he looked stealthily about, as if fearing detection; then he walked rapidly away. In that brief space, I recognized the tramp, it was Jack Carter, valedictorian of our class the fellow I had often spoken to you about, who came from be- hind and ended by making such a fine record in my last year. The porter must have noticed me watch- ing the stranger, for he quickly dropped my valises, and started in pursuit of Jack. Realizing that the negro meant to have our friend arrested, I decided upon a ruse. As the colored man returned with his prisoner, stepping up to the two, I extended my hand to Jack and said "Old fellow, what would your millionaire father say if he knew you were roaming around the country like a tramp? and all for the sake of gathering a little experience!" Claire, dear, I cannot just decide which of the two Jack or the porter showed the most astonish- ment. The negro's manner immediately changed; he was more obsequious to Jack than to me, who had [10] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE given him five dollars but a few moments before. As to Jack, it was some time before he recognized me on account of my altered appearance; at last, after a long, searching look, he sought my hand in a vice- like grip and said : ''How d'ye! Ladd, how d'ye!" The simple words rang true; for Jack was never more in need of a friend than at that moment : while I, an exile, was happy too in meeting one from the home land one, who understood. We talked far into the night; and the following morning, just before parting to continue my journey into the Bear Paw, I drew him aside, and slipped some money into his hand. He accepted it grate- fully, and I, somewhat anxious about his future, questioned : "Are you broke, Jack?" "No! Ladd," he answered, "I'm not broke, but badly bent." These were his last words. To-day, I fear Mrs. McDonnell fancies I, too, am "badly bent" and on the verge of being broke; for, though allowing me to sit on a steamer-chair on the veranda, she has, nevertheless, wrapped me about like one of those Egyptian mummies that are often seen in museums. The day is a glorious one, Pal ! A soft mild wind blows from the West a chinook, men call it out here; and the far-off Rockies are dreaming in the afternoon sun. Somehow I cannot forget that parting with Jack. His words still haunt me like a fever dream. "Not MY AIN LADDIE broke, but badly bent!" that's my case. Not only physically but morally I'm "badly bent." In childhood, I remember going up sometimes to the attic on an exploring trip. On one particular day I was successful in forcing a door that had long resisted my efforts. I peeped cautiously in. The shutters were drawn; the windows all closed; a damp, musty odor pervaded the whole room. There were cob-webs everywhere, and the dust of years, like a gray mantle, covered furniture and floor. To conquer my fear, I opened the door a little wider. It creaked on its hinges, and a mouse scuttled across the open towards an old bureau. That was sufficient for me; I quickly withdrew. The appearance of that room remains indelibly imprinted on my memory, and, in a way, it best describes to you my spiritual condition in the past. Since coming here, however, some fairy god- mother has worked a miracle. The shutters are thrown back, the windows are wide open, and God's bright sunshine, and God's pure air are mine once more. And strange as it may seem, though I now see the dust, the cob-webs, and the general disorder, I am not at all discouraged. I'm just thankful that I do see things as they really are. "When the time comes for house cleaning, He will be on hand to lend assistance. At present I am content to leave myself in His keeping, content to imitate Jack Carter and his utter lack of solicitude. Like the birds of the air, and the lilies of the field, he neither sows nor reaps, [12] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE yet somehow God provided for him. Poor Jack! Poor Jack! . ... I've been asleep, Pal. The afternoon has glided by, the shadows are lengthening, and Rory has leaped up on my chair to tell me I may expect supper soon. He generally arrives on the scene three or four minutes before Nurse McDonnell. Those blessed eggs! I'm beginning to hate the very sight of them. Some night I'll wake up and begin to crow. What an ungrateful wretch I am! Mrs. McD. says I owe a huge debt to her hens already. Perhaps that is the very reason I have taken an aversion to them. One does not exactly love and cultivate the friendship of Shylock, especially if he has your name on the books for a few hundred dollars. On the contrary, I was accustomed to avoid such an individual, and was not a bit sorry when some of my less fortunate friends left New York for other parts with their debts to Shylock unpaid. I was like the man who was asked by his minister if he forgave his enemies. "Well," he replied, "I can not say that I exactly forgive them, but I do my best to put them in a position where I can sympathize with them!" What childish talk, Laddie! Why not, Claire? It's the evening hour, the children's hour. "Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. [13] MY AIN LADDIE Nurse is coming, the writing tablet must dis- appear. Good night, Claire ! P. S. Before leaving me to my supper, Mrs. McDonnell pointed to two lonely horsemen traveling across the prairie towards the mountains. Nurse thinks they are her "unco guid" husband, and Charlie (the second in command up here), returning from their trip to Chicago. I may have a letter from you to-night, Claire! I'm going to pretend to sleep, but just as soon as I hear the "guid mon," John, creeping back to his Lar, I shall begin to cough, and he, in his goodness of heart, will come out and see if I wish anything. I shall then incidentally of course ask if there be any mail for me. Wish I had a cigar to help me pass the time until his arrival ; yet what's the use of wishing, like the Carthaginian general, I've burnt all my ships behind me. No! That's a lie, Pal. I did not burn them the cigars, I mean I just simply stowed them away in the cupboard, when the doctor denied me. They will be all dried up. Well, Mashallah ! what's the difference? I try to be stoical, but oftentimes I fail miserably. For instance, to-night I am far from being indifferent as to receiving or not receiving a letter from you. This postscript will soon be longer than the letter itself, if I do not stop at once. [14] FROM CLAIRE TO LADDIE 62 Madison Avenue, New York, 12:21 AM. Ladd, dear, I've just come in; and, after all these centuries, find your blessed bundle of letters. It's just like a chat with you, and somehow I can't realize that you really are away off in those mountains with the queer name. You almost make me see the sheep ranch and its owner, and already I love the nurse who takes such good care of you. Tell me next time all about her, what she says and does, even what she feeds you, and also how often she scolds. There were tears in my eyes, when I read and then read again the part where you said you need me. Little useless me ! Why, Ladd, you do not need any one to help you to be strong and brave. Don't you suppose I know "it takes more courage to sheathe the sword when one is all on fire for action than to go forth against the greatest foe," as the jester said in the little tale you used to like? No, you don't need me, but it is good to be told that you do. At the play to-night, I tried to watch and listen, but the scenery would keep fading away and letting me see a thousand ( ?) miles beyond, to where there were some mountains with pines. Then I was no [is] MY AIN LADDIE longer in the theatre, but out there on the veranda in the moonlight with you. You were laughing at what you termed my mock sentimentality as I quoted our old friend, Omar : "Yon rising moon who looks for us again, How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same Garden and for one in vain !" The curtain went down, and I was back on your beloved Great "White Way. We never thought in the old days that my favorite quotation was a prophesy, Did we? But where is your "cheerful" little Pal? Dear me ! you will need a tonic to counteract the effects of this if I don't stop. Perhaps to-morrow no, it's to-day when the sun is shining, I may do better. It may be this gloom is inspired by the fact that on our way home we stopped at that funny little cafe, where the orchestra always played the things I like, Remember? I forgot to tell you we were just the old crowd with mother chaperoning. When they played the Kreutzer Sonata, I dropped my glass. I couldn't help it; to-night more than usual everything reminded me of you. We aren 't going to give up hoping, Ladd, you and I. But when I think of you, who have everything to live for, you whom the world needs, preparing to give it all up, how I hate my own perfect strength ! How I wish I might change places with you! Oh, Laddie, Laddie! What a topsy-turvy world this is! [16] FROM CLAIRE TO LADDIE 10 A. M. Good morning, Ladd ! The sun is shining, and all last night's gloom has melted beneath his dazzling smile; so I want to ask you about those pines. I remember being in some pine woods long ago, and I shall never, never for- get what the odor was like after a rain, nor the wonderful things the pines whispered about. What do they say to you? Do they tell you they are glad you are up there with them above the trivialities of the busy, thoughtless world; and do they ever tell you that, if you will only bend as willingly as they to the storms heaven sends, you will not be hurt by their violence? They must have done that, because in your later messages I glimpse something that means more, much more than a passive resignation. Rather it 's like a calm after a tempest. Have you been out in a storm yet? A real one with the wind all about you, and you were alone and it was dark; but you didn't care, because the pines lent you some of their strength, and you lifted your face to them and loved them. Then the storm died away, and the sun was shining again. Some- where a bird sang. After awhile, it was sunset the loveliest sunset, all purple and gold and and then quite suddenly you realized that you were hungry. For, after all, it is a prosaic world, and one cannot always stay on the mountain top. So you hurried down to find out if there were muffins for tea that nice fluffy kind and strawberries with cream. Oh, now you are laughing ! t'7] I almost forgot to tell you how my heart sank when I read about your mail arriving and departing only once in six weeks, but perhaps after all it will not be such an endless interval, thanks to your idea of the Reveries. How like you to think of them! Nothing could so nearly make up for having to get on without you as this sharing your thoughts in the old way. So you will write me what you are think- ing, and I shall write back ; and, somehow, the time will pass. But please, you are never to write when you don't feel quite like it. Yours with the most loving of good wishes, Claire. At Home, 5 P. M. My dear Ladd, It is raining this afternoon, so I'm going to invite you to sit in the huge armchair just across the fire- place from me, while I make tea and talk to you. I do hope you will notice that I am wearing that little gray gown and the big yellow rose. You used to like that particular gown, I remember noticing. Presently I should be saying, "One lump or two?" if I did not know you always take three. Just a moment I 'm going to toss this crimson cushion to tuck behind your head. Ready? Catch! Now isn't that cosy? What shall we talk about? Let me see, I've been reading your letters again. I've read holes in some of them; and more than ever they impress me with the courageous way you are giving up your [18] FROM CLAIRE TO LADDIE plans for the immediate future, and facing the un- certainty of taking up your work again. It has meant a fight, of course, but you've won; and I really think you might say with Stevenson's Alan Breck Stewart, ' ' Am I no ' a bonny fighter ? ' ' For after all, Ladd, what is more worth fighting for than just the strength to accept things as they are and smile? You and I learned long ago to trust the Eternal Wisdom which maps out our little destinies, so we need make no question now. Some one, I forget who, said that, when we come to summing up the actual values of life and counting the things that have molded our characters, we shall count those things which at the time of their happening seemed like great losses. So perhaps one day we too shall see that God's benediction rested upon our disappoint- ments. In the meantime, like you, I shall try to be busy and brave and gay. Recently, I've been having some interesting and inspiring letters from the boys we know in France. Forgive me for recalling your own blighted hopes at being unable to do your part with these volunteers; but I've been thinking that you have been called to a broader battle-field than theirs, on which there is the inestimable service of those who must "stand and wait." If it has been your fortune to be chosen for this special service, why then salute your Com- mander; and, again, smile! As for heroism, we cannot say exactly in what it consists; I suppose because it is always relative. Even if these boys of ours do not return, will they [19] MY AIN LADDIE not have escaped long, dreary years of struggle, and come all the sooner to the final triumph of the death- less soul ? In any event, you are not going to grieve if the Commander's orders seem hard to obey, nor waste time in mourning over the demolition of your air-castles. At best a lifetime is very brief, and we shall not be like him "who never sees the stars shine through his cypress trees"; for we are sure that "Love will dream, and Faith will trust (Since He Who knows our need is just), That somehow, somewhere, meet we must." Have I been too serious? Why, Laddie, I believe you're asleep! Then I have tired you. Well, never mind, I'll try to slip out without waking you. Please don't open your eyes, I want to look at you. It is strange, but you don't look ill, dear. Except for the tired lines, you are such a model of health and energy that I can't, I won't believe you are not going to be well again, soon. My love to the Bear Paw, and everything that belongs to them, from the dear good nurse down to the tiniest sheep. Your ever and ever devoted little Pal, Claire. [20] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE Sunset Cottage, June 11, 1918. Dear Claire : Everything went off as per schedule. When John McDonnell arrived home in the wee hours of the morning, I heard his rough, but gentle steps inside the house ; and, immediately, I proceeded to develop a violent fit of coughing. I had not mistaken his kindness of heart ; for, as I surmised, he came out to inquire if I desired a fresh glass of water from Beaver Creek; and God bless him! fumbled in his pocket and handed me your letters. By the first gray streaks of dawn I read and reread them ; then, the suspense over, a reaction set in, and I slept like a little child until the sun was high in the heavens, until (to be exact) eleven A. M. Nurse McDonnell is wise wondrously wise, Pal. She said that John and I needed a long sleep, and did not wake us up even for breakfast. It seems to me she has an uncanny way of knowing one's mental and physical condition, a power of delving into the soul ; or is it only her innate goodness, her watchful- ness and considerateness of the wants and the feel- ings of others, that infallible mark of the true gentleman or gentlewoman ? [21] MY AIN LADDIE June 13, 1918. Claire, do you remember that rather pathetic soliloquy of Billy Heffernan in the charming novel of Irish life, Knocknagow, or the Homes of Tippe- rary? Heffernan was in love with a young colleen, and one night, after taking her to a dance, was obliged to leave her in order to gather his creel of turf and have it in the town of Clonmel by early morning. Before parting his sweetheart remarked that it must be lonesome all alone out there in the bog, to which Billy readily assented. " Wisha, begor ! 'tis thrue for her," he soliloquized, as he plodded up the hill. " 'Tis lonesome enough. The road is lonesome, and the house is lonesome, an' the bog is lonesome, an' begor, the main street of Clonmel is the lonesomest in all. No matter where I am, I'm lonesome, so that I believe it isn't the road, or the house, or the bog, or the town, but the heart that's lonesome, and whin the heart's lonesome, the world is lonesome." Since the advent of your letters, I have been living more than ever in the past, thinking of the friends and scenes of former days. This afternoon, however, for the first time I began analyzing this feeling of loss, of lonesomeness. In the beginning when I first came to the Bear Paw, I fancied I could never live away from that mad, reckless coterie of college men with whom I was accustomed to associate while in the City. In our wild moments we were pleasure seekers. Like Omar we cried : [22] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE "Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter garment of Repentance fling: The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter and the Bird is on the Wing." Now things are changed. There is a world of capability for joy spread about me up here in nature. As yet, I can tell you little ; I am a novice, and am just beginning to delve into this inexhaustible mine, but already I realize that the balance is not always on the side of sin that illicit joys are not the only ones on earth that there are others which somehow do not leave a bad taste in the mouth, and remorse in the heart. So, Pal, it is not this I crave. Nor do I miss that semblance of intellectual pur- suit, which our clique assumed in their saner periods. I, as the acknowledged leader of these dilettanti, was considered clever, and a young man of "great ex- pectations." And why, Claire? Because, forsooth, I had greater temerity than the rest, and would advance a startling theory irrespective of whether it were false or true. There is a common instrument of destruction in daily use on the battle fields of France cannon ball. I perceive now that for years I have been firing similar black devils of destruction into hearts that looked up to me for guidance. And I even mistook for success and fame the noise caused by the discharge of those theories. Not so clever as I imagined ! Eh, Claire ? How well I recall your earnestness in fighting this intellectual vandalism ; and how ill repaid you were, Pal, for all your trouble ! One evening in particular [23] MY AIN LADDIE it was a week-end party at Kestler's on Long Island I remember being especially bitter in con- demning your position. Your cool way of seeing beneath appearances, of tearing away the veneer, rather irritated me that night, and I retorted to one of your remarks that, because of your religious views, you were not allowed to think for yourself. I regretted my assertion almost instantaneously, it was so unwarranted, and, coming from me, cut doubly deep. You flushed with anger, then bit your lips to stem the torrent of words that was swelling up from your heart, and finally, after a long pause, you replied in a voice ominously calm : "Ladd, were it not for the old Church neither you nor I would be able to think at all to her we owe everything we have intellectually. And and Ladd, she is your Mother too ; for you were baptized in her bosom." Then you left me. It took a long time to heal the wound I inflicted that summer evening. But to know that I now con- fess to have been entirely in the wrong may oblit- erate everything, even the scar itself. It has been given me to see that, just as liberty of speech and license in the use of words are not synonymous, so also there is a marked difference between liberty of thought and license in thought. We have no more right to think falsely than to speak falsely. The old Church in prohibiting her children from delving into dangerous books acts wisely, as she is thus pre- FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE venting them from thinking wrongly, and, as a con- sequence, from speaking falsely. I begin now to tread on rather thin ice. Not only my quondam coterie and their foibles do not appeal to me, but even you, Claire, I view from a different coigne of vantage. Please do not misunderstand me. Letters are such inadequate substitutes for the spoken word that a misconstruing of my meaning might result in a severance of that ideal friendship which has always existed between us. Let me en- deavor to explain. In the olden days I regarded you not so much as a creature like myself, but as one far off apart from the rest one who, for me constituted the end of things. I never saw beyond your blessed self. You were like a beacon on the highest mountain top; only, unlike little Paul Dombey, I never asked any questions about what was on the other side of the horizon my undivided attention was centered on the beacon itself. Now you are changed no, not you, but my view point of you has undergone a subtle transformation. You are no longer an end in yourself a being to be met only when the journey is over a will-o'-the-wisp; you are now a means to the end, a real, live, human companion, one who will travel with me "adown life's hill together," sharing the burdens of the day and its heats; one to solace though not entirely to fill the human heart. So, since former associates since not even precious Claire is destined to satisfy entirely that restless longing, what must my conclusion be ? With MY AIN LADDIE our mutual friend in the quaint story of Irish life, I must finally admit that it must be "the heart that's lonely," the human heart craving for something to satisfy it to the full. Do you remember those ex- quisite lines in Charles Phillip's poem, "Music"? "There is a hunger in my heart to-night, A longing in my soul, to hear The voice of heaven o'er the noise of earth That doth assail my ear: For we are exiled children of the skies, Lone and lost wanderers from home. The stars come out like lamps in windows lit Far from where we roam; Like candles lit to show the long late way, Dear kindly beacons sure and bright; But O, the heavy journeying, and The silence of the night !" The sun is slowly setting in the west, Pal, making the gaunt trees to stand out clear and distinct on the far-off horizon. Somehow, Claire, I cannot get away from the presentiment that my life too is slowly setting. Things that before were muddled and con- fused now appear in a clearer, truer light. Would it not be the irony of fate if this self-constituted iconoclast bent his knees before an image the image of God I see mirrored in the works of His hand nature ? Should this happen, I know one rather lovable in- dividual, who, nevertheless, would not refrain from saying: "I told you so!" [26] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE Can you, by any possible manner of means, guess who this person is? Back to earth again supper. No, I made a mis- take, milk and eggs. Good night ! Sunset Cottage, June 17, 1918. Dear Claire, It's rather difficult to compress into one short letter all the happenings of to-day. Don't laugh, please! Oh, it's useless! You are already smiling good humoredly on being told that remarkable inci- dents occur in the Bear Paw. What! an unusual event take place on a large sheep ranch, forty miles from the frontiers of civilization impossible! Did one of John's lambkins die? Guess again. Did Rory fall into Beaver Creek ? Stop kidding the gold- fish. No, indeed! cats are entirely too cautious and too correct in their deportment to commit any such flagrant violation of social conventionalities as fall- ing into a stream. They are careful of appearances ; even in their wildest moments of intense excitement when stalking a bird, for instance cats never lose sight of the fact that they are cats, everything is done according to set rules and with an eye to elegance and grace of action. For the above reason I do not believe that the tabby Gray laments about, was ever so indiscreet as to allow her desire for goldfish to get the better of her judgment. If that particular cat actually fell [27] MY AIN LADDIE into a bowl, there is but one explanation a dog was after its precious scalp. That's the only time a cat becomes confused and may be depended upon to act foolishly. Are you now thoroughly satisfied that Rory is not the cause and the subject of these lines? All levity aside, Claire, nothing occurred here to- day externally worthy of record. The incidents I refer to were mostly internal psychological. When I awoke this morning, it had been raining for some time. It was a steady cold downpour that chilled the bones and warped one's outlook on life, obliterating from the memory everything of a pleasant nature. After breakfast, (much against my inclination, and wearing, in all probability, the countenance of a martyr) I began to perform out- post duty from the front veranda, or, as Nurse would phrase it, "to take the cure." It was too cold to write; and (I'll blame this on the condition of the weather too, though it's de- fenceless) my imagination refused to work. I tried oh so hard, to convince myself of the many advantages I enjoyed at Sunset, climatical advan- tages, physical advantages, and social advantages. But it was of no avail. Like the light-hearted fellow who sat at his desk in a cold room, and who by plac- ing an oil-painting of a glowing fire-place before his gaze endeavored to persuade himself that he felt tolerably warm, I, too, found that there is such a thing as working the imagination overtime; then, when it is necessary for it to function normally, it refuses to operate at all. For, when I came to ponder my social [28] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE advantages that was the last reason for content- ment I had set myself to consider my imagination refused to respond. As a matter of course, I was obliged to eliminate John and Mrs. McDonnell : they had their work to occupy them and one could not expect that they leave it and entertain me. Who was left, Claire? (Recollect the chillness of the weather conditions and the lethargy of my imagination) ! Simply Rory ! And, hang it all (though Jerome K. Jerome spent five or six valuable pages in describing the good qualities of cats; how trustful they are, never failing you in time of need; how discreet, never repeating any gossip you may chance to let slip in their hearing ; how forgiving, never holding a harsh word against a fellow; and dozens of other perfec- tions I will not tire you by repeating), hang it all, cats is cats. I, at least, desire another species of confidant. To-day, with each pitter-patter of rain on the roof above me, this utter lack of human com- panionship was borne in upon me with renewed force. My social advantages were nil absolutely nil. Suddenly the door of the house opened and Nurse approached. There must have been something utterly forlorn in my appearance, for her sympathy was quickly aroused. Nevertheless, though her eyes glistened suspiciously, no newly commissioned officer was ever more stern in commanding me to go in- doors, and no command was ever more welcome than the one she imposed on me. [29] MY AIN LADDIE I have never described to you the cosy, little home the McDonnells have erected here : nor shall I do so now, except to say that it is thoroughly modern, and was planned and built entirely by John himself. The design of the fireplace in the living-room is quite original, and, though chaste and plain in the ex- treme, accords well with the unpretentious sur- roundings of the room itself. To-day the bright warm glow from the burning logs permeated the entire room, contrasting favorably with the cold bleak day without. A large comfortable Morris chair (another proof of John's fabrile skill) stood close by the "fireplace, waiting to welcome me to its bosom. Nurse McD., after bringing in my blanket, closed the door and remarked : ' ' This is your first vacation day make the most of it, Mr. Mr. Ladd!" Then (would you believe it?) she went to the mantel-piece and brought forth a little red box of Pall Mall cigarettes, king's size, and presented them to me. It seems that John, on his last trip to Chicago, was solemnly warned not to return home without this precious cargo, as Nurse just knew I enjoyed smoking, and had foreseen this occasion. How little it takes to make the human heart sing, Claire ! A few moments in front of that cheery fire- place banished all dour thoughts and forebodings. Almost unconsciously those lines of Tibullus, so appropriate to the occasion began running through my mind : [30] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIEE "Quam juvat immites ventos audire cubantem Aequore ab indomito dum sibi nauta timet, Aut gelidas hibernas aquas cum fuderit Auster . Securum somnos imbre juvante sequi." It was the nurse who interrupted my reverie. With eyes closed, I was listening to the rain beating against the window, and, at the same time, was en- deavoring to recall Tibullus' picture of the old sailor battling on just such a day as this with moun- tainous waves on the briny deep. Vividly I saw it all. The sinking ship, the rough old sea-dog a short distance off clinging to a broken spar, dark night descending with the rain over the whole ghastly scene, when I heard my name called in a faint, far-away tone. "Ladd! are you really beginning to sleep?" Of course I immediately began to look indignant. The very idea me sleeping! However, before I could frame an absolute denial (or alibi I don't recall which) to her question, she interrupted me with: "Listen, Ladd, I have great news to tell you. John and I are going to adopt a youngster from Helena. Last fall, when hubby was in that city on business, he paid a visit to the orphanage to see a neighbour's child. Since then the idea of our caring for one of those tots has steadily grown upon John. The lad he chose is an unusually bright boy of about nine years of age. Physically, however, he has one defect a withered leg, the effect of a severe attack of infantile paralysis contracted some four or five [31] MY AIN LADDIE years previous. The superintendent confided to John that the child would have been accepted long ago into a good home were it not for this deformity. Still the youngster's gentle manners, his whole- hearted trust in all those he came in contact with, and especially his old-fashioned ways these won John's heart. 'That's the boy for me,' he said. "Naturally the superintendent was pleased too; his eyes beamed Albert was to have a home at last." "John has pestered the life out of me ever since that trip. Whenever we are alone, he begins to speak of Albert and questions me as to when we should bring him to Sunset. "Would you believe it? on his way back from Chicago, he went to Helena, then back again to Havre just for the privilege of a few hours interview with King Albert. To-morrow he makes the final trip to bring the youngster home with him. "So, Ladd," -this with a mock sigh of resigna- tion "Ladd, prepare your soul for tribulation. Solitude is a thing of the past." Entre nous, Claire, Mrs. McDonnel is camouflaging. Despite appearances, I am convinced she is the arch instigator she is even more anxious than her guid mon for the arrival of Albert. Ah, those women ! How much guile there is even in the best of them ! "Ladd, you are making fun of me! That cigar- ette smoke cannot hide the twinkle in your eyes. [32] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE You are engaged in the delightful pastime of reading my thoughts!" And she pointed an accusing finger at me. ""Well, I must go, I have neglected my dinner." A moment later I was alone by the fireside, listen- ing to the crackling of the logs and the pitter-patter of the rain outside. It is with a grateful heart that I pen these lines. Grateful that in my forced journey from Jerusalem to Jericho I, too, have met some good Samaritans people, who not only took me into their homes hut into their hearts also, gently binding up my wounds and pouring therein oil and wine. And I trust Claire that these remembrances of good deeds and kind words will cling to me and become ever more vivid, so that the rainy days of life my sickness and my misfortunes may not sour me, but that my heart may ever remain thankful, ever happy until "I hear the deep lave of the broad ocean wave, and the River at last meets the Sea." A little child shall lead them; a little child shall lead them ! I now admit that I am beginning to sleep. Adios, Claire ! Adios ! [33] FROM CLAIRE TO LADDIE At Home, June 22, 1918. My Ain Laddie : I knew those mountains would do that for you! Even had the evidence of some of your earlier letters been lacking, I could not have doubted that almost unconsciously you were coming to look from nature up to nature's God. Such surroundings as yours simply force one's spiritual growth. The man who said : "I need not shout my faith: thrice eloquent Are the quiet trees and the green listening sod. Hushed are the stars, whose power is never spent; The hills are mute yet how they speak of God!" must have experienced the same potent influence. So, too, did the author of those exquisite lines ' ' To a Mountain Stream" which you quoted for me. He was blessed with a true ear, or he never would have caught the message it called to him in passing. Truly, everything in Nature does stimulate us to generosity. She is so prodigal of her gifts; and I wish that I could realize, as you have done, the length and breadth of application of the lesson she would impart. It occurs to me that we should all find the path through life infinitely less toilsome if we could take to heart the significance of that one word [34] FROM CLAIRE TO LADDIE generosity. I think it must be the key-note of real happiness. No wonder you and your Beaver Creek were friends at first sight. It is a perfect expression of what your own life has been, one glad whole- hearted giving of self, unmindful of the cost. But it pays, dear ! "Give to the world the best you have, and the best will come back to you." The best is coming back to you now in the unquenchable courage with which you are holding yourself down to a deliberate facing of the truth, and a splendid accep- tance of things as they are. The return will be yours in full abundance when ' ' the River at last meets the Sea." It is a pity those dry-land farmers you spoke of can not get the brook's message too, and understand that its help in changing their barren brown fields into feathery green gardens is the very least service it can render. Why can't they know that it will per- form the same unbelievable wonder in their souls if they will only hear it aright ? Perhaps some of them do, but I fear that to most of them it is only water, and that "a beaufield is only a beaufield. " Do you remember all the lovely things Thoreau said about his beaufield? Well, they are true, be- cause if a garden isn't a veritable wonderland, then I'd like to know what is. You see, I have one myself a war-garden. There is a tiny space out by the garage that I persuaded the gardener to let me have. He made an awful row about it at first because he had some roses there that [35] MY AIN LADDIE he thought a lot of; but after I had explained that nobody could be expected to eat roses and that they wouldn't help our soldier boys any, he gave in. Of course, I scratched my hands dreadfully when I pulled up the bushes; after doing a lot of digging up and setting out, naturally I expect a successful harvest. I've been doing a lot of thinking too. Somehow a garden makes you think. There are so many different ways in which one may love all those beautiful, green, growing things; but it seems that the love of a gardener for the things he has planted and reared is something like the love of parent for child. Maybe that is why Andrew was so grieved about his roses. I remember one day down in Panama we went into a florist's shop to buy some orchids. You know the orchids there are perfectly marvelous. The shopkeeper who came to serve us seemed such a great rough fellow that one wondered to see him in those beautiful sur- roundings. But when he took us into the room where the growing and flowering plants were, I wish you could have seen the transformation! He was no longer the same individual. His face softened and brightened, his touch became so gentle, and his voice so caressing as he arranged his orchids and spoke to them, that I was sure he believed each blossom knew and loved him. He handed us our flowers as if he were intrusting us with a great treasure. And so he was. It was just a little, every-day incident, but it im- pressed me inasmuch as it awakened me with a shock [36] FROM CLAIRE TO LADDIE to the fact that I had been ignoring and missing some of the loveliest things in the world just because I had been too careless and too blind to see them. It brought home to me the meaning of these words : "Flowers are thoughts of the Spirit of God, Their love is the love of His grace, Their fragrance is breath of divinity, Their beauty, the light of His face." Only, Ladd, I should wish to make them include my lettuce, artichokes, radishes, and even my weeds. Now, what my little garden has done for me, God's great out-of-doors is doing for you. I knew all along that the real you felt its influence, even though I feared you were dwarfing your soul by yielding to the fascination of the purely intellectual. Your association during college life with men whose brilliant minds made companionship rather like a series of mental fencing-contests each regarding the other as an opponent worthy of his steel; and all on the lookout for the slightest advantage in this war of wits was responsible for your developing a pas- sion for original and startling theories, which you never could have accepted in your heart. This was less a matter of personal inclination, I think, than a result of hypercriticism which prevailed among your set. A long-continued association of this kind was, assuredly having its effect; yet there was in your character too much of pure gold to be substantially altered by admixture of baser metal. [37] MY AIN LADDIE I know it is a popular pose to pretend that while virtue is to be commended in the abstract, in the con- crete it makes rather dull reading and still more prosaic living. I cannot help being amazed at this point of view, because I always felt that even if virtue had nothing more to recommend it than its very attractiveness, that would be sufficient. There is an irresistible loveliness in "whatsoever things are good, whatsoever things are pure," a loveliness which sooner or later all must acknowledge, whether they want to or not. Why, Ladd, isn't the difference between good and evil something like the contrast between one of those charming cafes where we spent an hour after the theatre, with its lights softly shaded, with all its at- mosphere perfumed with American Beauties, with its music somewhere behind the palms; and the night outside the cool pure air, the sky a glorious field of daisies against a background of blue, and the moon sailing gently over all, such a sky and moon as you see from your veranda. Tell me, dear, which scene will pall first? Yes, I recall the incident on Long Island, and it did hurt more deeply than you could know; not because of the wound to my own feelings, but rather because of the fact that you could think such things, you whose faith should have been your most precious heritage. I knew though, even at the time, that it was only your pride of intellect which resented any restric- tions being placed upon it that led you to condemn [38] FROM CLAIRE TO LADDIE the authorities whose sacred duty it is to safeguard that faith. You j T ourself have said, ' ' As we think, so we are. ' ' Therefore is it not for us to think the highest and noblest thoughts, that our words and actions may be the natural outgrowth of them? Pardon, dearest, taking advantage of my woman's prerogative to use the time-honored, or dishonored, "I told you so," as per your prophecy. In doing this I am not attributing to myself any special clever- ness of insight; but merely am insisting upon my undying faith in that ideal, which was, is, and ever shall be you. Do you know when you hinted at the possibility that your having changed with regard to me might weaken or sever the tie between us, I wondered for a moment if you had ever gauged the depth of my affection for you ? It would be a poor and selfish thing if it rested upon your devotion to me. I cannot hope to make you understand the happi- ness your altered angle of vision has brought to me. But know this, dear, I have so longed and prayed that you would come to feel that there is nothing in this little life of ours which can completely satisfy our heart, that, now the realization has come to you, you seem more than ever mine. You were never so nearly my beloved as you will be when the sunset hour of your life has passed, and I shall know that somewhere you have fulfilled the ideal of all you wished to be in your highest and finest moods. Just now, however, it gives me a bit of a heartache [39] MY AIN LADDIE to think of your being such a long way off, and I wish I were with you to lend you some of my strength when you are lonely and need help. But such a wish availeth me nothing, so I too must learn to be content with things as they are. As ever, Claire. [40] FEOM LADDIE TO CLAIEE Bear Paw Mountains, June 25, 1918. Dear Claire : John left early this morning for Helena to fetch his little comrade from the orphan asylum. Nurse is indoors washing the supper dishes, or attending to her various other household affairs ; while the idle one is sitting on the veranda with Rory, the faithful, watching the sun sink slowly behind the far-off, Western Rockies. I shall find it hard to leave this abode. It is so peaceful, so restful. It is well named Sunset Cottage, for being high up it catches the last rays of the dying sun, which seems somehow to cast supernatural spell about all the surroundings, illu- linating this humble dwelling much as the halo does le countenance of a saint, hovering and lingering >ver it as if in sign of God's special benediction, 'erhaps some day when the summit is reached, we 70 shall return, and spend a few weeks in this de- jhtful spot. Perhaps ! ! ! Perhaps ! ! ! Ah, what a builder I am of Spanish castles! 3 are the music makers and we are the dreamers of dreams, r andering by lone sea-breakers or sitting by desolate streams ; losers and world forsakers on whom the pale moon gleams, [41] MY AIN LADDIE Yet we are the makers and shakers of the world forever it seems." I suppose you know what I am thinking about? Yes, Claire, the old, old finis omnium pallida mors. "Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me, And may there be no moaning at the bar when I put out to sea." Why is it that we invariably link the closing of day with death? It may be simply because the twi- light hour, the lengthening shadows, the approach of night forcibly remind us that, in like manner, our day's work shall speedily come to a close, that soon "the night cometh in which no man shall work." Or perhaps it is because the toil and labor of the day have predisposed us for rest and sleep ; and is not sleep the twin-brother of death? However, be the causes what they may, the fact remains evening lends itself to recollection, to reviewing the past, to meditating on the things to come. To-night, like yonder trees on the western horizon, my past life looms up vivid, distinct. Failure seems to be the predominant note of it. Failure to reach the ideals set for myself long years ago; failure to perform the things determined upon; failure even to reach the physical standard set by the nation, which would have enabled me to enter the Army, and, at least, end well a career otherwise so unsuccessful; for the finish of the race, Claire, is what counts. Naturally, then, one becomes rather depressed and sad at times over such a past. What a wondrously [43] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE wise doctor Thomas a Kempis was! He diagnosed my case and thousands of others when he said: "A joyous going forth bringeth a sad return." How happy we were in the morning of life! How bravely we set forth on the quest ! But, ah, me ! the sadness of the return in the evening because, because of the mistakes, the failures of the day; for 'It is not the things you do, dear, But the things you've left undone That causes many a heartache At the setting of the sun." And yet, Pal, because these reminiscences tend to humble one, please do not infer that this cross I bear is making me a misanthrope, that it is souring me against life and men. No, I would not have you think this. It's a glorious place to be in this grand, old, work-a day world of ours ! And I am oh ! so happy to be part and parcel of it. Still, Claire dear, should my sojourn be rather a short one, I would not chafe under the sentence ; for it seems to me one misses the main benefit of adversity who does not become sub- missive under its chastening strokes: while, on the other hand, people who have become gentle and kind under great suffering wield a strange, invisible power, they are magnetic and are well-worth meeting. Haven't you found this so? I have; and often spec- ulate as to the reason behind this phenomenon. It appears to me the solution is that God desires real men and women to do His work; and no one can be considered worthy of the appellation who has not [43] MY AIN LADDIE passed through the crucible. Francis Thompson ex- pressed it well : "Ah! must Designer infinite! Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn With it?" However, even disregarding the natural advantages that accrue to one from adversity bravely borne, there is a thought that over-shadows all else and sustains me in the present crisis in spite of the waves of lone- someness and tediousness that at times threaten to engulf me. Of late it is forcing itself upon me with renewed vigor, and colors all my ideas. It is the simple fact of the Providence of God. Not long ago a party of surveyors enlisted the ser- vices of a half-breed from this neighborhood to assist them in locating a new road to the Missouri River. These men intrusted themselves entirely to their newly- acquired guide, submitting to his judgment as to the best way of accomplishing the object they had in view. There is an Infallible Guide Who knows all the trails that lead Home. He chooses for each of us the highway best suited to our strength and en- durance. Some speed along a broad, smooth thor- oughfare; others move by painful stages over the stony road of sickness and disease. Yet what matters it provided we meet at last at the journey 's end, provided our epitaph be : "The soldier is home from the battle's din, The traveler is safe in the Master's inn." [44] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE Safe at last ! The toil and the heat of the day are over. "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes: and death shall be no more, nor mourning, nor crying, nor sorrow shall be any more, for the former things are passed away." In the meantime, Claire, let us steadfastly journey on, trusting always in our Guide, in our Lux in tenebris. "The night is dark and I am far from Home, Lead Thou me on!" It may seem rather strange, but these reflections of mine on the failures of the past do not discourage me as to the future. The past is gone ! God forgive and wipe away all its mistakes. There is one good result springs from our misdeeds they make us more humble, more diffident of ourselves in the future. And for this very reason I have greater hopes in what is before me. Oh! I may stumble again! I may not attain that literary success I long for ! But what of that ? If all the old, broken-down actors, bankrupt business men and discarded clerks were to come together, and one were privileged to hear their life's song, what a glorious harmony it would make in praise of better things in men. Success is a rather variable factor. Robert Lewis, literary editor of the Times, was once asked to name the most successful man in New York City. He singled out a decrepit priest, some eighty years old, who had spent most of his life ministering to the poor on the East Side ; and who, after years of hardship and toil, had scarcely [45] MY AIN LADDIE / enough to sustain himself in old age. Lewis was right that man had been a success in life ! I may not attain success, Claire, but I shall strive very hard to deserve it. I shall fight in the years to come. How vividly the words of big-hearted Cyrano come back to me to-night! ...... "To work without one thought of gain or fame, To realize that journey to the moon !" And that wonderful last scene where, propped against a tree in the convent garden, he awaits death, sword in hand. "What say you? It is useless? Ay, I know But who fights ever hoping for success? I fought for lost cause, and for fruitless quest!" "Parley? No, never! You too, Folly, you? I know that you will lay me low at last ; Let be! Yet I fall fighting, fighting still! You strip from me the laurel and the rose! Take all ! Despite you there is yet one thing I hold against you all, and when, to-night, I enter Christ's fair court, and lowly bowed, Sweep with doffed casque the heaven's threshold blue; One thing is left that, void of stain or smutch I bear away despite you My plume !" That's all that counts, Claire, to keep one's plume unstained, to await the end with snow-white heart. [46] FROM LADDIE TO CLAIRE Have I been too serious? Blame it on that gorgeous sunset it made me forget myself. Good night ! Ladd. P. S. It 's growing dark. I just now looked around ; and, behold ! the moon crept up out of the east. That same old moon whither de Bergerac yearned to go. Oh, those hearts of ours ! Those hearts of ours ! How they sigh after the infinite ! Shall we, Claire, realize our journey toward the moon? In God's good time I trust so. Good night again! L. [47] FROM CLAIEE TO LADDIE 92nd Street, New York Ladd Dear, How could you accuse me of laughing at your account of that eventful day which brought you a blazing fire, a box of Pall Malls, and the promise of a new interest in life? Why, there are three occurences with a thrill in each one! What more could you ask? I sat for a long time thinking about the beautiful things these friends of yours are doing in taking into their hearts and home the little crippled lad from Helena; and I rejoice with you that one is allowed now and then to have his faith in the innate goodness of human nature confirmed. How rich these good Samaritans are, away off up there, far from the things which our world counts as worth while, but so near the real values of life. 1 think I envy them with all my heart. They have their lovely mountains, their dear little home, their love for each other, and the opportunity of making others happy. All those beautiful gifts we can bestow like love, or friendship, or kindness, will come back after many days to adorn and enrich our own lives. For after all it is only by our own giving that we are enriched. [48] FROM CLAIRE TO LADDIE Wasn't it Watts, the English painter, who made these words the motto for the picture of the death of a rich man: