7 
 
<:2-T>-x.^^><<^ ^/^^/^T>>t^ ^4-t<^ 
 
 o-<^ 
 
Zbc movJue of je. p, "Roe 
 
 yOLUME ELEVEN 
 
 TAKEN ALIVE 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 WITH AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
 
 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 P. P. COLLIER & SON 
 
Copyright, 1883, 1889, 
 Bv DODD, MEAD, & COMPANY, 
 
 Copyright, 1888, 
 By J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 *'A Native Author called Eoe" 9 
 
 Taken Alive: 
 Chap. I. Something before Unknown .... 35 
 
 II. A Visitor at the Mine .41 
 
 III. Thwarted 46 
 
 lY. Taken Alive 54 
 
 Y. What Brandt saw Christmas Eve . . 61 
 Found Yet Lost: 
 Chap. I. Love in the Wilderness ..... 63 
 
 II. Lovfi AT Home 68 
 
 IIL "Disabled" 74 
 
 lY. Martine seeks an Antidote .... 81 
 
 Y. Second Bloom .87 
 
 YI. More than Eeward 95 
 
 YIL Yankee Blank . 102 
 
 YIIL "How CAN I?" 110 
 
 IX. Shadows of coming Events .... 118 
 X. "You CANNOT Understand" .... 126 
 
 XL Mr. Kemble's Appeal 133 
 
 XII. "You MUST Eemember" . . . . . .139 
 
 XIIL "I'm Helen" 146 
 
 XIY. "Forward! Company A" 156 
 
 Queen of Spades 165 
 
 An Unexpected Kesult 191 
 
 Ml5,5'76 (^> 
 
 ^>? 
 
4 CONTENTS 
 
 A Christmas-Eve Suit 217 
 
 Three Thanksgiving Kisses 235 
 
 Susie Eolliffe's Christmas 265 
 
 Jeff's Treasure: 
 
 Chap. I. Its Discovery 283 
 
 11. Its Influence 291 
 
 Caught on the Ebb-tide 301 
 
 Christmas Eve in War Times 314 
 
 A Brave Little Quakeress ....,,.. 334 
 
"A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 
 
A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE 
 
 Two or three years ago the editor of "Lippincott's Maga- 
 zine" asked me, with many others, to take part in the 
 very interesting "experience meeting" begun in the pages 
 of that enterprising periodical. I gave my consent without 
 much thought of the effort involved, but as time passed, felt 
 slight inclination to comply with the request. There seemed 
 little to say of interest to the general public, and I was distinctly 
 conscious of a certain sense of awkwardness in writing about 
 myself at all. The question, Why should I.^ always confronted 
 me. 
 
 When this request was again repeated early in the current 
 year, I resolved at least to keep my promise. This is done with 
 less reluctance now, for the reason that floating through the 
 press I meet with paragraphs concerning myself that are in- 
 correct, and often absurdly untrue. These literary and personal 
 notes, together with many questioning letters, indicate a certain 
 amount of public interest, and I have concluded that it may be 
 well to give the facts to those who care to know them. 
 
 It has been made more clear to me that there are many who 
 honestly do care. One of the most prized rewards of my lit- 
 erary work is the ever-present consciousness that my writings 
 have drawn around me a circle of unknown yet stanch friends, 
 who have stood by me unfalteringly for a number of years. I 
 should indeed be lacking if my heart did not go out to them in 
 responsive friendliness and goodwill. If I looked upon them 
 merely as an aggregation of customers, they would find me out 
 speedily. A popular mood is a very different thing from an 
 abiding popular interest. If one could address this circle of 
 friends only, the embarrassment attendant on a certain amount 
 
10 *'A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 
 
 of egotism would be banished by the assurance of sympathetic 
 regard. Since, from the nature of circumstances, this is im- 
 possible, it seems to me in better taste to consider the "author 
 called Roe" in an objective, rather than in a friendly and sub- 
 jective sense. In other words, I shall try to look at him from 
 the public point of view, and free myself from some predisposi- 
 tion in his favor shared by his friends. I suppose I shall not 
 succeed in giving a colorless statement of fact, but I may avoid 
 much special pleading in his behalf. 
 
 Like so many other people, I came from a very old family, 
 one from which there is good proof of an unbroken line through 
 the Dark Ages, and all ages, to the first man. I have never 
 given any time to tracing ancestry, but have a sort of quiet 
 satisfaction that mine is certainly American as far as it well 
 can be. My forefathers (not "rude," to my knowledge) were 
 among the first settlers on the Atlantic seaboard. My paternal 
 and maternal grandfathers were stanch Whigs during the Revo- 
 lution, and had the courage of their convictions. My grand- 
 mother escaped with her children from the village of Kingston 
 almost as the British entered it, and her home was soon in 
 ashes. Her husband, James Roe, was away in the army. My 
 mother died some years before I attained my majority, and I 
 cannot remember when she was not an invalid. Such literary 
 tendencies as I have are derived from her, but I do not possess a 
 tithe of her intellectual power. Her story-books in her youth 
 were the classics; and when she was but twelve years of age she 
 knew "Paradise Lost" by heart. In my recollections of her, 
 the Bible and all works tending to elucidate its prophecies were 
 her favorite themes of study. The retentiveness of her memory 
 was very remarkable. If any one repeated a verse of the New 
 Testament, she could go on and finish the chapter. Indeed, she 
 could quote the greater part of the Bible with the ease and ac- 
 curacy of one reading from the printed page. The works of 
 Hugh Miller and the Arctic Explorations of Dr. Kane afforded 
 her much pleasure. Confined usually to her room, she took 
 unfailing delight in wandering about the world with the great 
 travellers of that day, her strong fancy reproducing the scenes 
 they described. A stirring bit of history moved her deeply. 
 Well do I remember, when a boy, of reading to her a chapter 
 from Motley's "Dutch Republic," and of witnessing in her 
 
''A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE'' 11 
 
 flushed cheeks and sparkling black eyes proof of an excitement 
 all too great for one in her frail health. She had the unusual 
 gift of relating in an easy, simple way what she read; and many 
 a book far too abstruse and dull for my boyish taste became an 
 absorbing story from her lips. One of her chief characteristics 
 was the love of flowers. I can scarcely recall her when a flower 
 of some kind, usually a rose, was not within her reach; and only 
 periods of great feebleness kept her from their daily care, win- 
 ter and summer. Many descendants of her floral pets are now 
 blooming in my garden. 
 
 My father, on the other hand, was a sturdy man of action. 
 His love for the country was so strong that he retired from busi- 
 ness in New York as soon as he had won a modest competence. 
 For forty-odd years he never wearied in the cultivation of his 
 little valley farm, and the square, flower-bordered garden, at one 
 side of which ran an unfailing brook. In this garden and un- 
 der his tuition I acquired my love of horticulture — acquired it 
 with many a backache — heartache too, on days good for fishing 
 or hunting; but, taking the bitter with the sweet, the sweet pre- 
 dominated. I find now that I think only of the old-fashioned 
 roses in the borders, and not of my hands bleeding from the 
 thorns. If I groaned over the culture of many vegetables, it 
 was much compensation to a boy that the dinner-table groaned 
 also under the succulent dishes thus provided. I observed that 
 my father's interest in his garden and farm never flagged, thus 
 proving that in them is to be found a pleasure which does not 
 pall with age. During the last summer of his life, when in his 
 eighty-seventh year, he had the delight of a child in driving over 
 to my home in the early morning, long before I was up, and in 
 leaving a basket of sweet corn or some other vegetable which he 
 knew would prove his garden to be ahead of mine. 
 
 My father was very simple and positive in his beliefs, always 
 openly foremost in the reform movements of his day and in his 
 neighborhood, yet never, to my knowledge, seeking or taking 
 any office. His house often became a station of the "under- 
 ground railroad" in slavery times, and on one night in the depth 
 of winter he took a hotly-pursued fugitive in his sleigh and drove 
 him five miles on the ice, diagonally across the Hudson, to Fish- 
 kill, thence putting the brave aspirant for freedom on the way to 
 other friends. He incurred several risks in this act. It is 
 
12 "^ NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE'' 
 
 rarely safe to drive on the river off the beaten tracks at night, 
 for there are usually air-holes, and the strong tides are continu- 
 ally making changes in the ice. When told that he might be sent 
 to jail for his defiance of the Fugitive Slave Law, he quietly an- 
 swered, "I can go to jail." The thing he could not do was to 
 deny the man's appeal to him for help. Before the war he was 
 known as an Abolitionist — after it, as a Conservative, his sym- 
 pathy with and for the South being very strong. During the 
 draft riots in 1863 the spirit of lawlessness was on the point of 
 breaking out in the river towns. I happened to be home from 
 Virginia, and learned that my father's house was among those 
 marked for burning on a certain night. During this night the 
 horde gathered; but one of their leaders had received such em- 
 pathetic warning of what would happen the following day should 
 outrages be perpetrated, that he persuaded his associates to de- 
 sist. I sat up that night at my father's door with a double-bar- 
 relled gun, more impressed with a sense of danger than at any 
 other time in my experience; he, on the contrary, slept as quietly 
 as a child. 
 
 He often practiced close economy in order to give his sons 
 a good education. The one act of my life which I remember 
 with unalloyed pride and pleasure occured while I was at board- 
 ing-school in Vermont, preparing for college. I learned through 
 my mother that my father had denied himself his daily news- 
 paper; and I knew well how much he would miss it. We burned 
 wood in the large stone seminary building. Every autumn great 
 ranks of hard maple were piled up, and students who wished to 
 earn a little money were paid a dollar a cord for sawing it into 
 three lengths. I applied for nine cords, and went at the unac- 
 customed task after study hours. My back aches yet as I recall 
 the experiences of subsequent weeks, for the wood was heavy, 
 thick, and hard as bone. I eventually had the pleasure of send- 
 ing to my father the subscription price of his paper for a year. 
 If a boy reads these lines, let me assure him that he will never 
 know a sweeter moment in his life than when he receives the 
 thanks of his parents for some such effort in their behalf. No 
 investment can ever pay him better. 
 
 In one of my books, "Nature's Serial Story," my father and 
 mother appear, slightly idealized. 
 
 Toward the close of my first year in Williams College a mis- 
 
**A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 13 
 
 fortune occurred which threatened to be very serious. Study- 
 ing by defective light injured my eyes. They quickly became 
 so sensitive that I could scarcely endure lamplight or the heat of 
 a stove, only the cold out-door air relieving the pain; so I spent 
 much time in wandering about in the boisterous weather of early 
 spring in Williamstown. At last I became so discouraged that I 
 went to President Hopkins and told him that I feared I must 
 give up the purpose of acquiring an education. Never can I 
 forget how that grand old man met the disheartened boy. 
 Speaking in the wise, friendly way which subdued the heart and 
 strengthened the will, he made the half -hour spent with him the 
 turning-point of my life. In conclusion, he advised me to enter 
 the Senior class the following fall, thus taking a partial course 
 of study. How many men are living to-day who owe much of 
 the best in their lives to that divinely inspired guide and teacher 
 of youth ! 
 
 I next went to another man great in his sphere of life — Dr. 
 Agnew, the oculist. He gave my eyes a thorough examination, 
 told me that he could do nothing for them; that rest and the 
 vigor acquired from out-door life would restore them. He was 
 as kind and sympathetic in his way as the college president, and 
 charged but a trifle, to relieve m6 from the sense of taking char- 
 ity. Dr. Agnew's words proved correct; and the following 
 autumn I entered the class of '6l, and spent a happy year. Some 
 of my classmates were very kind in reading aloud to me, while 
 Dr. Hopkins's instruction was invaluable. By the time I en- 
 tered Auburn Theological Seminary, my eyes were quite re- 
 stored, and I was able to go through the first year's course of 
 study without difficulty. In the summer of 1862 I could no 
 longer resist the call for men in the army. Learning that the 
 Second New York (Harris's Light) Cavalry was without a chap- 
 lain, I obtained the appointment to that position. General Kil- 
 patrick was then lieutenant-colonel, and in command of the regi- 
 ment. In December, 1862, I witnessed the bloody and disas- 
 trous battle of Fredericksburg, and can never forget the ex- 
 periences of that useless tragedy. I was conscious of a sensa- 
 tion which struck me as too profound to be merely awe. Early 
 in the morning we crossed the Rappahannock on a pontoon 
 bridge and marched up the hill to an open plain. The roar of 
 the battle was simply terrific, shading off from the sharp con- 
 
14 'M NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE'' 
 
 tinuous thunder immediately about us to dull, heavy mutterings 
 far to the right and left. A few hundred yards before us, where 
 the ground began to slope up to the fatal heights crowned with 
 Confederate works and ordnance, were long lines of Union bat- 
 teries. From their iron mouths puffs of smoke issued inces- 
 santly, followed by tremendous reverberations. Back of these 
 batteries the ground was covered with men lying on their arms, 
 that they might present a less obvious target. Then a little fur- 
 ther to the rear, on the level ground above the bluff, stood our 
 cavalry. Heavy guns on both sides of the river were sending 
 their great shrieking shells back apd forth over our heads, and 
 we often "ducked" instinctively when the missile was at least 
 forty feet above us. Even our horses shuddered at the sound. 
 
 I resolved to learn if the men were sharing in my emotions — 
 in brief, what effect the situation had upon them — and rode 
 slowly down our regimental line. So vivid was the impression 
 of that long array of awed, pallid faces that at this moment I 
 can recall them distinctly. There were strange little touches of 
 mingled pathos and humor. Meadow-larks were hemmed in on 
 every side, too frightened to fly far beyond the rude alarms. 
 They would flutter up into the sulphurous air with plaintive cries, 
 then drop again into the open "spaces between the troops. At 
 one time, while we were standing at our horses' heads, a startled 
 rabbit ran to us for cover. The poor little creature meant a 
 dinner to the fortunate captor on a day when a dinner was 
 extremely problematical. We engaged in a sharp scramble, the 
 prize being won by the regimental surgeon, who kindly shared 
 his game with me. 
 
 General Bayard, commanding our brigade, was mortally 
 wounded, and died like a hero. He was carried to a fine man- 
 sion near which he had received his injury. Many other des- 
 perately wounded men were brought to the spacious rooms of 
 this abode of Southern luxury, and the surgeons were kept busy 
 all throught the day and night. It was here I gained my first 
 experience in hospital work. This extemporized hospital on the 
 field was so exposed as to be speedily abandoned. In the morn- 
 ing I recrossed the Rappahannock with my regiment, which had 
 been ordered down the river on picket duty. Soon after we 
 went into winter quarters in a muddy cornfield. In February I 
 resigned, with the purpose of completing my studies, and spent 
 
**A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 15 
 
 the remainder of the term at the Union Theological Seminary of 
 New York. My regiment would not get another chaplain, so I 
 again returned to it. In November I received a month's leave 
 of absence, and was married to Miss Anna P. Sands, of New 
 York City. Our winter quarters in 1864 were at Stevensburg, 
 between the town of Culpeper and the Rapidan River. During 
 the pleasant days of late February several of the officers were 
 enjoying the society of their wives. Mrs. Roe having expressed 
 a willingness to rough it with me for a week, I sent for her, and 
 one Saturday afternoon went to the nearest railroad station to 
 meet her. The train came, but not my wife; and, much dis- 
 appointed, I found the return ride of five miles a dreary one in 
 the winter twilight. I stopped at our colonel's tent to say to 
 him and his wife that Mrs. Roe had not come, then learned for 
 the first time very startling tidings. 
 
 "Chaplain," said the colonel, "we are going to Richmond to- 
 morrow. We are going to wade right through and past every- 
 thing in a neck-or-nothing ride, and who will come out is a 
 question." 
 
 His wife was weeping in her private tent, and I saw that for 
 the first time in my acquaintance with him he was downcast. 
 He was one of the bravest of men, yet now a foreboding of evil 
 oppressed him. The result justified it, for he was captured during 
 the raid, and never fully rallied after the war from the physical 
 depression caused by his captivity. He told me that on the 
 morrow General Kilpatrick would lead four thousand picked 
 cavalry men in a raid on Richmond, having as its special object 
 the release of our prisoners. I rode to the headquarters of the 
 general, who confirmed the tidings, adding, "You need not go. 
 Non-combatants are not expected to go." 
 
 It was most fortunate that my wife had not come. I had re- 
 cently been appointed chaplain of Hampton Hospital, Virginia, 
 by President Lincoln, and was daily expecting my confirmation 
 by the Senate. I had fully expected to give my wife a glimpse 
 of army life in the field, and then to enter on my new duties. To 
 go or not to go was a question with me that night. The raid cer- 
 tainly offered a sharp contrast with the anticipated week's out- 
 ing with my bride. I did not possess by nature that kind of 
 courage which is indifferent to danger; and life had never of- 
 fered more attractions than at that time. I have since enjoyed 
 
16 "4 NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 
 
 Southern hospitality abundantly, and hope to again, but then its 
 prospect was not alluring. Before morning, however, I reached 
 the decision that I would go, and during the Sunday forenoon 
 held my last service in the regiment. I had disposed of my 
 horse, and so had to take a sorry beast at the last moment, the 
 only one I could obtain. 
 
 In the dusk of Sunday evening four thousand men were 
 masked in the woods on the banks of the Rapidan. Our scouts 
 opened the way by wading the stream and pouncing upon the 
 unsuspecting picket of twenty Confederates opposite. Then 
 away we went across a cold, rapid river, marching all that night 
 through the dim woods and openings in a country that was em- 
 phatically the enemy's. Lee's entire army was on our right, 
 the main Confederate cavalry force on our left. The strength 
 of our column and its objective point could not remain long un- 
 known. 
 
 In some unimportant ways I acted as aid for Kilpatrick. A 
 few hundred yards in advance of the main body rode a van- 
 guard of two hundred men, thrown forward to warn us should 
 we strike aily considerable number of the enemy's cavalry. As 
 is ever the case, the horses of a small force will walk away from 
 a much larger body, and it was necessary from time to time to 
 send word to the vanguard, ordering it to "slow up." This or- 
 der was occasionally intrusted to me. I was to gallop over the 
 interval between the two columns, then draw up by the roadside 
 and sit motionless on my horse till the general with his staff 
 came up. The slightest irregularity of action would bring a shot 
 from our own men, while the prospect of an interview with the 
 Johnnies while thus isolated was always good. I saw one of 
 our officers shot that night. He had ridden carelessly into the 
 woods, and rode out again just before the head of the column, 
 without instantly accounting for himself. As it was of vital im- 
 portance to keep the movement secret as long as possible, the 
 poor fellow was silenced in sad error as to his identity. 
 
 On we rode, night and day, with the briefest possible halts. 
 At one point we nearly captured a railroad train, and might 
 easily have succeeded had not the station and warehouses been 
 in flames. As it was, the train approached us closely, then 
 backed, the shrieking engine itself giving the impression of be- 
 ing startled to the last degree. 
 
'*A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 17 
 
 On a dreary, drizzling, foggy day we passed a milestone on 
 which was lettered, "Four miles to Richmond." It was still "on 
 to Richmond" with us what seemed a long way further, and then 
 came a considerable period of hesitancy, in which the command 
 was drawn up for the final dash. The enemy shelled a field near 
 us vigorously, but fortunately, or unfortunately, the fog was so 
 dense that neither party could make accurate observations or do 
 much execution. 
 
 For reasons that have passed into history, the attack was 
 not made. We withdrew six miles from the city and went into 
 camp. 
 
 I had scarcely begun to enjoy much-needed rest before the 
 Confederates came up in the darkness and shelled us out of 
 such quarters as we had found. We ha^ to leave our boiling 
 coiFee behind us — one of the greatest hardships I have ever 
 known. Then followed a long night-ride down the Peninsula, 
 in driving sleet and rain. 
 
 The next morning the sun broke out gloriously, warming and 
 drying our chilled, wet forms. Nearly all that day we main- 
 tained a line of battle confronting the pursuing enemy. One 
 brigade would take a defensive position, while the other would 
 march about five miles to a commanding point, where it in turn 
 would form a line. The first brigade would then give way, pass 
 through the second, and take position well to the rear. Thus, 
 although retreating, we were always ready to fight. At one 
 point the enemy pressed us closely, and I saw a magnificent cav- 
 alry charge down a gentle descent in the road. Every sabre 
 seemed tipped with fire in the brilliant sunshine. 
 
 In the afternoon it became evident that there was a body 
 of troops before us. Who or what they were was at first un- 
 known, and for a time the impression prevailed that we should 
 have to cut our way through by a headlong charge. We soon 
 learned, however, that the force was a brigade of colored in- 
 fantry, sent up to cover our retreat. It was the first time we 
 had seen negro troops, but as the long line of glistening bay- 
 onets and light-blue uniforms came into view, prejudices, if any 
 there were, vanished at once, and a cheer from the begrimed 
 troopers rang down our line, waking the echoes. It was a pleas- 
 ant thing to march past that array of faces, friendly though 
 black, and know we were safe. They represented the F.F.V/s 
 
18 *'A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE** 
 
 of Old Virginia, we then wished to see. On the last day of the 
 march my horse gave out, compelling me to walk and lead him. 
 
 On the day after our arrival at Yorktown, Kilpatrick gave me 
 despatches for the authorities at Washington. President Lin- 
 coln, learning that I had just returned from the raid, sent for 
 me, and I had a memorable interview with him alone in his 
 private room. He expressed profound solicitude for Colonel 
 Dahlgren and his party. They had been detached from the 
 main force, and I could give no information concerning them. 
 We eventually learned of the death of that heroic young officer. 
 Colonel Dahlgren. Although partially helpless from the loss of 
 a leg, he led a daring expedition at the cost of his life. 
 
 I expressed regret to the President that the object of the raid 
 had not been accomplished. **Pick the flint, and try it again,'* 
 said Mr. Lincoln, heartily. I went out from his presence awed 
 by the courage and sublime simplicity of the man. While he 
 gave the impression that he was bearing the nation on his heart, 
 one was made to feel that it was also large enough for sympathy 
 with all striving with him in the humblest way. 
 
 My wife joined me in Washington, and few days later ac- 
 companied me to the scene of my new labors at Hampton Hos- 
 pital, near Fortress Monroe. There were not many patients at 
 that time (March, 1864) in the large barrack wards; but as soon 
 as the Army of the Potomac broke through the Wilderness and 
 approached our vicinity, transports in increasing numbers, laden 
 with desperately wounded men, came to our wharf. During 
 the early summer the wooden barracks were speedily filled, and 
 many tent wards were added. Duty became constant and se- 
 vere, while the scenes witnessed were often painful in the last 
 degree. More truly than on the field, the real horrors of war 
 are learned from the long agonies in the hospital. While in the 
 cavalry service, I gained in vigor daily; in two months of hos- 
 pital work I lost thirty pounds. On one day I buried as many 
 as twenty-nine men. Every evening, till the duty became like 
 a nightmare, I followed the dead-cart, filled up with coffins, once, 
 twice, and often thrice, to the cemetery. Eventually an associ- 
 ate chaplain was appointed, who relieved me of this task. 
 
 Fortunately, my tastes led me to employ an antidote to my 
 daily work as useful to me as to the patients. Surrounding the 
 hospital was much waste land. This, with the approval of the 
 
''A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE'' l9 
 
 surgeon in charge, Dr. Ely McMillan, and the aid of the con-^ 
 valescents, I transformed into a garden, and for two successive 
 seasons sent to the general kitchen freslv vegetables by the 
 wagon-load. If reward were needed, the wistful delight witlt 
 which a patient from the front would regard a raw onion was 
 ample; while for me the care of the homely, growing vegetables 
 and fruit brought a diversion of mind which made life more en- 
 durable. 
 
 One of the great needs of the patients who had to fight the 
 winning or losing battle of life was good reading, and I speedily 
 sought to obtain a supply. Hearts and purses at the North re- 
 sponded promptly and liberally; publishers threw off fifty per 
 cent from their prices; and I was eventually able to collect, by 
 gift and purchase, about three thousand volumes. In gathering 
 this library, I provided what may be distinctly termed religious 
 reading in abundance; but I also recognized the need of diver- 
 sion. Long wards were filled with men who had lost a leg or an 
 arm, and who must lie in one position for weeks. To help them 
 get through the time was to help them to live. I therefore made 
 the library rich in popular fiction and genial books of travel and 
 biography. Full sets of Irving, Cooper, Dickens, Thackeray, 
 Scott, Marryat, and other standard works were bought; and 
 many a time I have seen a poor fellow absorbed in their pages 
 while holding his stump lest the jar of a footstep should send a 
 dart of agony to the point of mutilation. My wife gave much 
 assistance in my hospital duties, often reaching and influencing 
 those beyond me. I recall one poor fellow who was actually six 
 months in dying from a very painful wound. Profanity ap- 
 peared to be his vernacular, and in bitter protest at his fate, he 
 would curse nearly every one and everything. Mrs. Roe's sym- 
 pathy and attentions changed him very much, and he would lis- 
 ten quietly as long as she would read to him. Some of the hos- 
 pital attendants, men and women, had good voices, and we or- 
 ganized a choir. Every Sunday afternoon we went from ward 
 to ward singing familiar hymns. It was touching to see rough 
 fellows drawing their blankets over their heads to hide the emo- 
 tion caused by words and melodies associated, in many instances, 
 with home and mother. 
 
 Northern generosity, and, in the main, convalescent labor en- 
 abled me to build a large commodious chapel and to make great 
 
20 **A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE'' 
 
 improvements in the hospital farm. The site of the hospital and 
 garden is now occupied by General Armstrong's Normal and 
 Agricultural Institute for Freedmen, and the chapel was oc- 
 cupied as a place of worship until very recently. Thus a noble 
 and most useful work is being accomplished on the ground con- 
 secrated by the life-and-death struggles of so many Union 
 soldiers. 
 
 In 1865 the blessed era of peace began, bringing its many 
 changes. In October the hospital became practically empty, 
 and I resigned. The books were sent to Fortress JMonroe for 
 the use of the garrison, and I found many of them there long 
 years after, almost worn out from use. 
 
 After a little rest and some candidating for a church, I took a 
 small parish at Highland Falls, about a mile from West Point, 
 New York, entering on my labors in January, 1866. In this 
 village my wife and I spent nine very happy years. They were 
 full of trial and many cares, but free from those events which 
 bring the deep shadows into one's life. We soon became en- 
 gaged in building a new stone church, whose granite walls are 
 so thick, and hard-wood finish so substantial that passing cen- 
 turies should add only the mellowness of age. The effort to 
 raise funds for this enterprise led me into the lecture-field and 
 here I found my cavalry-raid and army life in general exceed- 
 ingly useful. I looked around for a patch of garden-ground as 
 instinctively as a duck seeks water. The small plot adjoin- 
 ing the parsonage speedily grew into about three acres, from 
 which eventually came a book entitled "Play and Profit in my 
 Garden." 
 
 Up to the year 1871 I had written little for publication be- 
 yond occasional contributions to the New York "Evangelist," 
 nor had I seriously contemplated a literary life. I had always 
 been extremely fond of fiction, and from boyhood had formed 
 a habit of beguiling the solitary hours in weaving crude fancies 
 around people who for any reason interested me. I usually had 
 a mental serial running, to which I returned when it was my 
 mood; but I had never written even a short story. In October, 
 1871, I was asked to preach for a far uptown congregation in 
 New York, with the possibility of a settlement in view. On 
 Monday following the services of the Sabbath, the officers of 
 the church were kind enough to ask me to spend a week with 
 
"^ NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 21 
 
 them and visit among the people. Meantime, the morning 
 papers laid before us the startling fact that the city of Chicago 
 was burning and that its population were becoming homeless. 
 The tidings impressed me powerfully, waking the deepest sym- 
 pathy. I said to myself, "Here is a phase of life as remarkable 
 as any witnessed during the war." I obeyed the impulse to 
 be on the scene as soon as possible, stated my purpose to my 
 friends, and was soon among the smoking ruins, finding an 
 abiding-place with throngs of others in a partially finished ho- 
 tel. For days and nights I wandered where a city had been, and 
 among the extemporized places of refuge harboring all classes 
 of people. Late one night I sat for a long time on the steps 
 of Robert CoUyer's church and watched the full moon through 
 the roofless walls and shattered steeple. There was not an 
 evidence of life where had been populous streets. It was there 
 and then, as nearly as I can remember, that the vague outlines 
 of my first story, "Barriers Burned Away," began to take form in 
 my mind. I soon returned home, and began to dream and write, 
 giving during the following year such hours as could be with- 
 drawn from many other duties to the construction of the story. 
 I wrote when and where I could — on steamboats, in railway 
 cars, and at all odd hours of leisure, often with long breaks in 
 the work of composition, caused by the pressure of other affairs, 
 again getting up a sort of white heat from incessantly dwelling 
 upon scenes and incidents that had become real to me. In brief, 
 the story took possession of my mind, and grew as naturally as 
 a plant or a weed in my garden. 
 
 It will thus be obvious that at nearly middle age, and in obe- 
 dience to an impulse, I was launched as an author; that I had 
 very slight literary training; and that my appearance as a novel- 
 ist was quite as great a surprise to myself as to any of my 
 friends. The writing of sermons certainly does not prepare one 
 for the construction of a novel; and to this day certain critics 
 contemptuously dismiss my books as "preaching." During 
 nearly four years of army life, at a period when most young men 
 are forming style and making the acquaintance of literature, I 
 scarcely had a chance to read at all. The subsequent years of 
 the pastorate were too active, except for an occasional dip into 
 a favorite author. 
 
 While writing my first story, I rarely thought of the public. 
 
22 'M NATIVE AUTHOR GALLED ROE"" 
 
 the characters and their experiences absorbing me wholly. When 
 my narrative was actually in print, there was wakened a very 
 deep interest as to its reception. I had none of the confidence 
 resulting from the gradual testing of one's power or from asso- 
 ciation with literary people, and I also was aware that, when 
 published, a book was far away from the still waters of which 
 one's friends are the protecting headlands. That I knew my 
 work to be exceedingly faulty goes without saying; that it was 
 utterly bad, I was scarcely ready to believe. Dr. Field, noted 
 for his pure English diction and taste, would not publish an 
 irredeemable story, and the constituency of the New York 
 "Evangelist" is well known to be one of the most intelligent in 
 the country. Friendly opinions from serial readers were re- 
 assuring as far as they went, but of course the great majority of 
 those who followed the story were silent. A writer cannot, like 
 a speaker, look into the eyes of his audience and observe its 
 mental attitude toward his thought. If my memory serves me, 
 Mr. R. R. Bowker was the earliest critic to write some friendly 
 words in the "Evening Mail;" but at first my venture was very 
 generally ignored. Then some unknown friend marked an in- 
 fluential journal published in the interior of the State and mailed 
 it so timely that it reached me on Christmas eve. I doubt if a 
 book was ever more unsparingly condemned than mine in that re- 
 view, whose final words were, "The story is absolutely nauseat- 
 ing." In this instance and in my salad days I took pains to find 
 out who the writer was, for if his view was correct I certainly 
 should not engage in further efforts to make the public ill. I 
 discovered the reviewer to be a gentleman for whom I have ever 
 had the highest respect as an editor, legislator, and honest 
 thinker. My story made upon him just the impression he ex- 
 pressed, and it would be very stupid on my part to blink the fact. 
 Meantime, the book was rapidly making for itself friends and 
 passing into frequent new editions. Even the editor who con- 
 demned the work would not assert that those who bought it 
 were an aggregation of asses. People cannot be found by thou- 
 sands who will pay a dollar and seventy-five cents for a dime 
 novel or a religious tract. I wished to learn the actual truth 
 more sincerely than any critic to write it, and at last I ven- 
 tured to take a copy to Mr. George Ripley, of the New York 
 "Tribune." "Here is a man," I thought, "whose fame and po- 
 
•'A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE'' 23 
 
 sition as a critic are recognized by all. If he deigns to notice 
 the book, he will not only say what he thinks, but I shall have 
 much reason to think as he does." Mr. Ripley met the diffident 
 author kindly, asked a few questions, and took the volume. A 
 few weeks later, to my great surprise, he gave over a column to 
 a review of the story. Although not blind to its many faults, 
 he wrote words far more friendly and inspiring than I ever 
 hoped to see; it would seem that the public had sanctioned his 
 verdict. From that day to this these two instances have been 
 types of my experience with many critics, one condemning, 
 another commending. There is ever a third class who prove 
 their superiority by sneering at or ignoring what is closely re- 
 lated to the people. Much thought over my experience led to a 
 conclusion which the passing years confirm: the only thing for 
 a writer is to be himself and take the consequences. Even those 
 who regard me as a literary offender of the blackest dye have 
 never named imitation among my sins. 
 
 As successive books appeared, I began to recognize more 
 and more clearly another phase of an author's experience. A 
 writer gradually forms a constituency, certain qualities in his 
 book appealing to certain classes of minds. In my own case, I 
 do not mean classes of people looked at from the social point 
 of view. A writer who takes any hold on popular attention in- 
 evitably learns the character of his constituency. He appeals, 
 and minds and temperaments in sympathy respond. Those he 
 cannot touch go on their way indifferently; those he offends 
 may often strike back. This is the natural result of any strong 
 assertion of individuality. Certainly, if I had my choice, I 
 would rather write a book interesting to the young and to the 
 common people, whom Lincoln said **God must love, since He 
 made so many of them.'* The former are open to influence; 
 the latter can be quickened and prepared for something better. 
 As a matter of fact, I find that there are those in all classes 
 whom my books attract, others who are repelled, as I have 
 said. It is perhaps one of the pleasantest experiences of an 
 author's life to learn from letters and in other ways that he is 
 forming a circle of friends, none the less friendly because per- 
 sonally unknown. Their loyalty is both a safeguard and an 
 inspiration. On one hand, the writer shrinks from abusing 
 such regard by careless work; on the other, he is stimulated 
 
24 **A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 
 
 and encouraged by the feeling that there is a group in waiting* 
 who will appreciate his best endeavor. While I clearly recog- 
 nize my limitations, and have no wish to emulate the frog in the 
 fable, I can truthfully say that I take increasing pains with each 
 story, aiming to verify every point by experience — ^my own or 
 that of others. Not long since, a critic asserted that changes 
 in one of my characters, resulting from total loss of memory, 
 were preposterously impossible. If the critic had consulted 
 Ribot's "Diseases of Memory," or some experienced physician, 
 he might have written more justly. I do not feel myself com- 
 petent to form a valuable opinion as to good art in writing, and 
 I cannot help observing that the art doctors disagree wofuUy 
 among themselves. Truth to nature and the realities, and not 
 the following of any school or fashion, has ever seemed the 
 safest guide. I sometimes venture to think I know a little about 
 human nature. My active life brought me in close contact 
 with all kinds of people; there was no man in my regiment who 
 hesitated to come to my tent or to talk confidentially by the 
 campfire, while scores of dying men laid bare to me their hearts. 
 I at least know the nature that exists in the human breast. It 
 may be inartistic, or my use of it all wrong. That is a ques- 
 tion which time will decide, and I shall accept the verdict. Over 
 twelve years ago, certain oracles, with the voice of fate, pre- 
 dicted my speedy eclipse and disappearance. Are they right 
 in their adverse judgment? I can truthfully say that now, 
 as at the first, I wish to know the facts in the case. The mo- 
 ment an author is conceited about his work, he becomes absurd 
 and is passing into a hopeless condition. If worthy to write at 
 all, he knows that Ke falls far short of his ideals; if honest, he 
 wishes to be estimated at his true worth, and to cast behind 
 him the mean little Satan of vanity. If he walks under a con- 
 scious sense of greatness, he is a ridiculous figure, for behold- 
 ers remember the literary giants of other days and of his own 
 time, and smile at the airs of the comparatively little man. On 
 the other hand, no self-respecting writer should ape the false 
 deprecating " *umbleness" of Uriah Heep. In short, he wishes 
 to pass, like a coin, for just what he is worth. Mr. Matthew 
 Arnold was ludicrously unjust to the West when he wrote, "The 
 Western States are at this moment being nourished and formed, 
 we hear, on the novels of a native author called Roe." Why 
 
''A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 25 
 
 could not Mr. Arnold have taken a few moments to look into 
 the bookstores of the great cities of the West, in order to ob- 
 serve for himself how the demand of one of the largest and 
 most intelligent reading publics in the world is supplied? He 
 would have found that the works of Scott and Dickens were 
 more liberally purchased and generally read than in his own 
 land of "distinction." He should have discovered when in this 
 country that American statesmen {}) are so solicitous about the 
 intelligence of their constituents that they give publishers so 
 disposed every opportunity to steal novels describing the no- 
 bility and English persons of distinction ; that tons of such novels 
 have been sold annually in the West, a thousand to one of the 
 "author called Roe." The simple truth in the case is that in 
 spite of this immense and cheap competition, my novels have 
 made their way and are being read among multitudes of others. 
 No one buys or reads a book under compulsion; and if any one 
 thinks that the poorer the book the better the chance of its be- 
 ing read by the American people, let him try the experiment. 
 When a critic condemns my books, I accept that as his judg- 
 ment; when another critic and scores of men and women, the 
 peers of the first in cultivation and intelligence, commend the 
 books, I do not charge them with gratuitous lying. My one 
 aim has become to do my work conscientiously and leave the 
 final verdict to time and the public. I wish no other estimate 
 than a correct one; and when the public indicate that they have 
 had enough of Roe, I shall neither whine nor write. 
 
 As a rule, I certainly stumble on my stories, as well as stum- 
 ble through them perhaps. Some incident or unexpected im- 
 pulse is the beginning of their existence. One October day I 
 was walking on a country road, and a chestnut burr lay in my 
 path. I said to myself, "There is a book in that burr, if I could 
 get it out." With little volition on my part, the story "Opening 
 a Chestnut Burr" took form and was written. 
 
 One summer evening, when in New York, I went up to 
 Thomas's Garden, near Central Park, to hear the delicious music 
 he was educating us to appreciate. At a certain point in the 
 programme I noticed that the next piece would be Beethoven's 
 Fifth Symphony, and I glanced around with a sort of congratu- 
 latory impulse, as much as to say, "Now we shall have a treat." 
 My attention was immediately arrested and fixed by a young girl 
 
26 **A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE'' 
 
 ■who, with the gentleman escorting her, was sitting near by. My 
 first impression of her face was one of marvellous beauty, fol- 
 lowed by a sense of dissatisfaction. Such was my distance that 
 I could not annoy her by furtive observation; and I soon dis- 
 covered that she would regard a stare as a tribute. Why was it 
 that her face was so beautiful, yet so displeasing? Each feature 
 analyzed seemed perfection, yet the general effect was a mock- 
 ing, ill-kept promise. The truth was soon apparent. The ex- 
 pression was not evil, but frivolous, silly, unredeemed by any 
 genuine womanly grace. She giggled and flirted through the 
 sublime symphony, till in exasperation I went out into the prom- 
 enade under the open sky. In less than an hour I had my story, 
 **A Face Illumined.'* I imagined an artist seeing what I had 
 seen and feeling a stronger vexation in the wounding of his 
 beauty loving nature; that he learned during the evening that 
 the girl was a relative of a close friend, and that a sojourn at a 
 summer hotel on the Hudson was in prospect. On his return 
 home he conceives the idea of painting the girl's features and 
 giving them a harmonious expression. Then the fancy takes him 
 that the girl is a modern Undine and has not yet received her 
 woman's soul. The story relates his effort to beautify, illumine 
 the face itself by evoking a mind. I never learned who was the 
 actual girl with the features of an angel and the face of a fool. 
 
 In the case of **He Fell in Love with His Wife," I merely 
 saw a paragraph in a paper to the effect that a middle-aged 
 widower, having found it next to impossible to carry on his 
 farm with hired help, had gone to the county poorhouse and said, 
 "If there's a decent woman here, I'U marry her." For years the 
 homely item remained an ungerminating seed in my mind, then 
 started to grow, and the story was written in two months. 
 
 My war experience has naturally made the picturesque phases 
 of the Great Conflict attractive material. In the future I hope 
 to avail myself still further of interesting periods in American 
 history. 
 
 I find that my love of horticulture and outdoor life has grown 
 with the years. I do not pretend to scientific accuracy or knowl- 
 edge. On the contrary, I have regarded plants and birds rather 
 as neighbors, and have associated with them. When giving up 
 my parish, I bought a place in the near vicinity of the house in 
 which I had spent my childhood. The front windows of our 
 
•M NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED BOE^ 27 
 
 house command a noble view of the Hudson, while on the east 
 and south the Highlands are within rifle-shot. For several years 
 I hesitated to trust solely to literary work for support. As I 
 have said, not a few critics insisted that my books should not 
 be read, and would soon cease to be read. But whether the pre- 
 diction should prove true or not, I knew in any case that the 
 critics themselves would eat my strawberries; so I made the cul- 
 ture of small fruits the second string to my bow. This busi- 
 ness speedily took the form of growing plants for sale, and was 
 developing rapidly, when financial misfortune led to my failure 
 and the devotion of my entire time to writing. Perhaps it was 
 just as well in the end, for my health was being undermined by 
 too great and conflicting demands on my energy. In 1878, at 
 Dr. Holland's request, I wrote a series of papers on small fruits 
 for "Scribner's Magazine" — ^papers that were expanded into a 
 book entitled "Success with Small Fruits." I now aim merely 
 at an abundant home supply of fruits and vegetables, but in se- 
 curing this, find pleasure and profit in testing the many varieties 
 catalogued and offered by nurserymen and seedsmen. About 
 three years ago the editor of "Harper's Magazine" asked me to 
 write one or two papers entitled "One Acre," telling its possessor 
 how to make the most and best of it. When entering on the 
 task, I found there was more in it than I had at first supposed. 
 Changing the title to "The Home Acre," I decided to write a 
 book or manual which might be useful in many rural homes. 
 There are those who have neither time nor inclination to read 
 the volumes and journals devoted to horticulture, who yet have 
 gardens and trees in wfiich they are interested. They wish to 
 learn in the shortest, clearest way just what to do in Order to 
 secure success, without going into theories, whys, and wherefores, 
 or concerning themselves with the higher mysteries of garden- 
 lore. This work is now in course of preparation. In brief, my 
 aim is to have the book grow out of actual experience, and not 
 merely my own, either. As far as possible, well-known experts 
 and authorities are consulted on every point. As a natural con- 
 sequence, the book is growing, like the plants to which it relates. 
 It cannot be written "offTiand" or finished "on time" to suit any 
 one except Dame Nature, who, being feminine, is often inscru- 
 table and apparently capricious. The experience of one season 
 is often reversed in the next, and the guide in gardening of whom 
 
28 *'A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 
 
 I am most afraid is the man who is always sure he is right. It 
 was my privilege to have the late Mr. Charles Downing as one of 
 my teachers, and well do I remember how that honest, sagacious, 
 yet docile student of nature would "put on the brakes" when I 
 was passing too rapidly to conclusions. It has always been one 
 of my most cherished purposes to interest people in the cultivation 
 of the soil and rural life. My effort is to "boil down" information 
 to the simplest and most practical form. Last spring, hundreds 
 of varieties of vegetables and small fruits were planted. A care- 
 fully written record is being kept from the time of planting un- 
 til the crop is gathered. 
 
 My methods of work are briefly these: I go into my study 
 immediately after breakfast — usually about nine o'clock — and 
 write or study until three or four in the afternoon, stopping 
 only for a light lunch. In the early morning and late after- 
 noon I go around my place, giving directions to the men, and ob- 
 serving the condition of vegetables, flowers, and trees, and the 
 general aspect of nature at the time. After dinner, the evening 
 is devoted to the family, friends, newspapers, and light reading. 
 In former years I wrote at night, but after a severe attack of 
 insomnia this practice was almost wholly abandoned. As a rule, 
 the greater part of a year is absorbed in the production of a 
 novel, and I am often gathering material for several years In ad- 
 vance of writing. 
 
 For manuscript purposes I use bound blankbooks of cheap 
 paper. My sheets are thus kept securely together and in place 
 — important considerations in view of the gales often blowing 
 through my study and the habits of a careless man. This 
 method offers peculiar advantages for interpolation, as there is 
 always a blank page opposite the one on which I am writing. 
 After correcting the manuscript, it is put in typewriting and 
 again revised. There are also two revisions of the proof. While 
 I do not shirk the tasks which approach closely to drudgery, es- 
 pecially since my eyesight is not so good as it was, I also obtain 
 expert assistance. I find that when a page has become very 
 familiar and I am rather tired of it, my mind wanders from the 
 close, fixed attention essential to the best use of words. Perhaps 
 few are endowed with both the inventive and the critical faculty. 
 A certain inner sense enables one to know, according to his lights, 
 whether the story itself is true or false; but elegance of style is 
 
*'A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 29 
 
 due chiefly to training, to a cultivation like that of the ear for 
 music. Possibly we are entering on an age in which the people 
 care less for form, for phraseology, than for what seems to them 
 true, real — for what, as they would express it, "takes hold of 
 them." This is no plea or excuse for careless work, but rather a 
 suggestion that the day of prolix, fine, flowery writing is passing. 
 The immense number of well-written books in circulation has 
 made success with careless, slovenly manuscripts impossible. 
 Publishers and editors will not even read, much less publish them. 
 Simplicity, lucidity, strength, a plunge in medias res, are now the 
 qualities and conditions chiefly desired, rather than finely turned 
 sentences in which it is apparent more labor has been expended 
 on the vehicle than on what it contains. The questions of this 
 eager age are. What has he to say? Does it interest us? As 
 an author, I have felt that my only chance of gaining and keep- 
 ing the attention of men and women was to know, to understand 
 them, to feel with and for them in what constituted their life. 
 Failing to do this, why should a line of my books be read? 
 Who reads a modern novel from sense of duty? There are 
 classics which all must read and pretend to enjoy whether 
 capable of doing so or not. No critic has ever been so daft as 
 to call any of my books a classic. Better books are unread be- 
 cause the writer is not en rapport with the reader. The time 
 has passed when either the theologian, the politician, or the 
 critic can take the American citizen metaphorically by the 
 shoulder and send him along the path in which they think he 
 should go. He has become the most independent being in the 
 world, good-humoredly tolerant of the beliefs and fancies of 
 others, while reserving, as a matter of course, the right to think 
 for himself. 
 
 In appealing to the intelligent American public, choosing for 
 itself among the multitude of books now ofi*ered, it is my creed 
 that an author should maintain completely and thoroughly his 
 own individuality, and take the consequences. He cannot con- 
 jure strongly by imitating any one, or by representing any school 
 or fashion. He must do his work conscientiously, for his read- 
 ers know by instinct whether or not they are treated seriously 
 and with respect. Above all, he must understand men and 
 women sufficiently to interest them; for all the "powers that be' 
 cannot compel them to read a book they do not like. 
 
30 ''A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE'' 
 
 My early experience in respect to my books in the British 
 Dominions has been similar to that of many others. My first 
 stories were taken by one or more publishers without saying 
 "by your leave," and no returns made of any kind. As time 
 passed, Messrs. Ward, Locke & Co., more than any other house, 
 showed a disposition to treat me fairly. Increasing sums were 
 given for successive books. Recently Mr. George Locke visited 
 me, and offered liberal compensation for each new novel. He 
 also agreed to give me five per cent copyright on all my old 
 books published by him, no matter how obtained, in some in- 
 stances revoking agreements which precluded the making of 
 any such request on my part. In the case of many of these 
 books he has no protection, for they are published by others; but 
 he takes the simple ground that he will not sell any of my 
 books without giving me a share in the profit. Such honorable 
 action should tend to make piracy more odious than ever, on 
 both sides of the sea. Other English firms have offered me the 
 usual royalty, and I now believe that in spite of our House of 
 Mis-Representatives at Washington, the majority of the British 
 publishers are disposed to deal justly and honorably by Ameri- 
 can writers. In my opinion, the Lower House in Congress has 
 libelled and slandered the American people by acting as if their 
 constituents, with thievish instincts, chuckled over pennies saved 
 when buying pirated books. This great, rich, prosperous nation 
 has been made a "fence," a receiver of stolen goods, and shame- 
 lessly committed to the crime for which poor wretches are sent 
 to jail. Truly, when history is written, and it is learned that 
 the whole power and statesmanship of the government were en- 
 listed in behalf of the pork interest, while the literature of the 
 country and the literary class were contemptuously ignored, it 
 may be that the present period will become known as the Pork 
 Era of the Republic. It is a strange fact that English publish- 
 ers are recognizing our rights in advance of our own lawmakers. 
 
 In relating his experience in the pages of this magazine, Mr. 
 Julian Hawthorne said in effect that one of the best rewards of 
 the literary life was the friends it enabled the writer to make. 
 When giving me his friendship, he proved how true this is. In 
 my experience the literary class make good, genial, honest 
 friends, while their keen, alert minds and knowledge of life in 
 many of its most interesting aspects give an unfailing charm to 
 
''A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 81 
 
 their society. One can maintain the most cordial and intimate 
 relations with editors of magazines and journals if he will recog- 
 nize that such relations should have no influence whatever in the 
 acceptance or declination of manuscripts. I am constantly re- 
 ceiving letters from literary aspirants who appear to think that if 
 I will use a little influence their stories or papers would be taken: 
 and paid for. I have no such influence, nor do I wish any, in 
 regard to my own work. The conscientious editor's first duty 
 is to his periodical and its constituents, and he would and should 
 be more scrupulous in accepting a manuscript from a friend than 
 from a stranger. To show resentment because a majiuscript is 
 returned is absurd, however great may be our disappointment. 
 
 Perhaps one of the most perplexing and often painful expe- 
 riences of an author comes from the appeals of those who hope 
 through him to obtain immediate recognition as writers. One 
 is asked to read manuscripts and commend them to publishers, 
 or at least to give an opinion in regard to them, often to revise 
 or even to rewrite certain portions. I remember that during 
 one month I was asked to do work on the manuscripts of 
 strangers that would require about a year of my time. The maker 
 of such request does not realize that he or she is but one among 
 many, and that the poor author would have to abandon all hope 
 of supporting his family if he tried to comply. The majority 
 who thus appeal to one know next to nothing of the literary life 
 or the conditions of success. They write to the author in perfect 
 good faith, often relating circumstances which touch his sympa-- 
 thies ; yet if you tell them the truth about their manuscript, or say 
 you have not time to read it, adding that you have no influence 
 with editors or publishers beyond securing a careful examination 
 of what is written, you feel that you are often set down as a 
 churl, and your inability to comply with their wishes is regarded 
 as the selfishness and arrogance of success. The worried author 
 has also his own compunctions, for while he has tried so often and 
 vainly to secure the recognition requested, till he is in despair of 
 such eff'ort, he still is haunted by the fear that he may overlook 
 some genius whom it would be a delight to guide through what 
 seems a thorny jungle to the inexperienced. 
 
 In recalling the past, one remembers when he stood in such 
 sore need of friends that he dislikes even the appearance of pass- 
 ing by on the other side. There are no riches in the world like 
 
82 ''A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 
 
 stanch friends who prove themselves to be such in your need, 
 your adversity, or your weakness. I have some treasured let- 
 ters received after it had been telegraphed throughout the land 
 that I was a bankrupt and had found myself many thousands of 
 dollars worse off than nothing. The kindly words and looks, the 
 cordial grasp of the hand, and the temporary loan occasionally, 
 of those who stood by me when scarcely sane from overwork, 
 trouble, and, worse than all, from insomnia, can never be for- 
 gotten while a trace of memory is left. Soon after my insol- 
 vency there came a date when all my interests in my books then 
 published must be sold to the highest bidder. It seemed in a 
 sense like putting my children up at auction; and yet I was 
 powerless, since my interests under contracts were a part of my 
 assets. These rights had been well advertised in the New York 
 and county papers, as the statute required, and the popularity of 
 the books was well known. Any one in the land could have pur- 
 chased these books from me forever. A friend made the highest 
 bid and secured the property. My rights in my first nine novels 
 became his, legally and absolutely. There was even no verbal 
 agreement between us — nothing but his kind, honest eyes to re- 
 assure me. He not only paid the sum he had bidden, but then 
 and there wrote a check for a sum which, with my other assets, 
 immediately liquidated my personal debts, principal and inter- 
 est. The children of my fancy are again my children, for they 
 speedily earned enough to repay my friend and to enable him to 
 compromise with the holders of indorsed notes in a way satis- 
 factory to them. It so happened that most of these creditors re- 
 sided in my immediate neighborhood. I determined to fight out 
 the battle in their midst and under their daily observation, and to 
 treat all alike, without regard to their legal claims. Only one 
 creditor tried to make life a burden; but he did his level best. 
 The others permitted me to meet my obligations in my own time 
 and way, and I am grateful for their consideration. When all 
 had received the sum mutually agreed upon, and I had shaken 
 hands with them, I went to the quaint and quiet little city of 
 Santa Barbara, on the Pacific coast, for a change and partial rest. 
 While there, however, I wrote my Charleston story, "The Earth 
 Trembled." In September, 1887, I returned to my home at 
 Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, and resumed my work in a region made 
 
"4 NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE' 33 
 
 dear by the memories of a lifetime. Just now I am completing a 
 Southern story entitled "Miss Lou." 
 
 It so happens in my experience that I have discovered one 
 who appears willing to stick closer to me than a brother, and 
 even to pass as my "double/* or else he is so helplessly in the 
 hands of his publishers as to be an object of pity. A certain 
 "Edward R. Roe** is also an author, and is suffering cruelly in 
 reputation because his publishers so manage that he is identified 
 with me. By strange coincidence, they hit upon a cover for his 
 book which is almost a facsimile of the cover of my pamphlet 
 novel, "An Original Belle,'* previously issued. The R in the 
 name of this unfortunate man has been furnished with such a 
 diminutive tail that it passes for a P, and even my friends sup- 
 posed that the book, offered everywhere for sale, was mine. In 
 many instances I have asked at news stands, "Whose book is 
 that?** The prompt and invariable answer has been, "E. P. 
 Roe*s.** I have seen book notices in which the volume was as- 
 cribed to me in anything but flattering terms. A distinguished 
 judge, in a carefully written opinion, is so uncharitable as to 
 characterize the coincidence in cover as a "fraud,** and to say, 
 "No one can look at the covers of the two publications and fail to 
 see evidence of a design to deceive the public and to infringe 
 upon the rights of the publisher and author" — ^that is, the rights 
 of Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co. and of E. P. Roe. Some well- 
 known journalists show honest indignation, and also employ the 
 terms "fraud** and "trading on another man's reputation;" others 
 condescend to explain, to state the case; and others still, with 
 coruscations of wit, point out that one Roe is as bad as the other, 
 and so it doesn't matter much. Now, all this places the said 
 "Edward R. Roe** in a pitiable plight. He is either regarded 
 as the victim, perhaps the accomplice of his publishers, or else is 
 identified with a "native author called Roe.'* My publishers, 
 Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co., with their lawyers, are coming to his 
 aid in a suit to enjoin the publication in its present guise of the 
 book which is perilling his reputation, if not mine. Let me sug- 
 gest to the Western Roe that he find publishers -vho will permit 
 him to shine undimmed by the shadows cast by my literary sins. 
 
 Let me close with yet one more bit of experience. My books 
 from the first have been substantially in the hands of one pub- 
 lishing house. I believe that it has been to my advantage; and it 
 
34 **A NATIVE AUTHOR CALLED ROE" 
 
 would be well, as a rule, for other writers to begin with reputable, 
 honorable publishers and to remain with them. A publisher can 
 do more and better with a line of books than with isolated vol- 
 umes. When an author's books are scattered, there is not suffi- 
 cient inducement for any one to push them strongly, nor, as in 
 the case above related, to protect a writer against a "double,'* 
 should one appear. Authors often know little about business, 
 and should deal with a publisher who will look after their inter- 
 ests as truly as his own. Unbusinesslike habits and methods are 
 certainly not traits to be cultivated, for we often suffer griev- 
 ously from their existence; yet as far as possible the author 
 should be free from distracting cares. The novelist does his best 
 work when abstracted from the actual world and living in its 
 ideal counterpart which for the time he is imagining. When his 
 creative work is completed, he should live very close to the real 
 world, or else he will be imagining a state of things which neither 
 God nor man had any hand in bringing about. 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SOMETHING BEFORE UNKNOWN 
 
 CLARA HEY WARD was dressed in deep mourning, 
 and it was evident tliat the emblems of bereavement 
 were not worn merely in compliance with a social 
 custom. Her face was pallid from grief, and her dark beau- 
 tiful eyes were dim from much weeping. She sat in the little 
 parlor of a cottage located in a large Californian city, and 
 listened with apathetic expression as a young man pleaded 
 for the greatest and most sacred gift that a woman can be- 
 stow. Ralph Brandt was a fine type of young vigorous 
 manhood; and we might easily fancy that his strong, reso- 
 lute face, now eloquent with deep feeling, was not one upon 
 which a girl could look with indifference. Clara's words, 
 however, revealed the apparent hopelessness of his suit. 
 
 ''It's of no use, Ralph," she said; "I'm in no mood for 
 such thoughts." 
 
 "You don't believe in me; you don't trust me," he re- 
 sumed sadly. "You think that because I was once wild, 
 and even worse, that I'll not be true to my promises and 
 live an honest life. Have I not been honest when I knew 
 that being so might cost me dear? Have I not told you of 
 my past life and future purposes when I might have con- 
 cealed almost everything?" 
 
 "It's not that, Ralph. I do believe you are sincere; and 
 if the dreadful thing which has broken me down with sor- 
 row had not happened, all might have been as you wish. 
 1 should have quite as much confidence in a young man 
 
 (36) 
 
S6 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 who, like you, has seen evil and turned resolutely away 
 from it, as in one who didn't know much about the world 
 or himself either. What's more, father — " 
 
 At the word "father" her listless manner vanished, and 
 she gave way to passionate sobs. "His foul murder ie al- 
 ways before me," she wailed. "Oh, we were so happy! he 
 was so kind, and made me his companion! I don't see how 
 I can live without him. I can't think of love and marriage 
 when I remember how he died, and that the villain who 
 killed him is at large and unpunished. What right have 
 I to forget this great wrong and to try to be happy ? No, 
 no! the knife that killed him pierced my heart; and it's 
 bleeding all the time. I'm not fit to be any man's wife; 
 and I will not bring my great sorrow into any man's home," 
 
 Brandt sprang up and paced the room for a few moments, 
 his brow contracted in deep thought. Then, apparently com- 
 ing to a decision, he sat down by his companion and took her 
 cold, unresisting hand. 
 
 "My poor little girl," he said, kindly, "you don't half 
 understand me yet. I love you all the more because you 
 are heart-broken and pale with grief. That is the reason I 
 have spoken so earnestly to-night. You will grieve your- 
 self to death if left alone; and what good would your 
 death do any one ? It would spoil my life. Believe me, I 
 would welcome you to my home with all your sorrow — all 
 the more because of your sorrow; and I'd be so kind and 
 patient that you'd begin to smile again some day. That's 
 what your father would wish if he could speak to you, and 
 not that you should grieve away your life for what can't be 
 helped now. But I have a plan. It's right in my line to 
 capture such scoundrels as the man who murdered your 
 father; and what's more, I know the man, or rather I used 
 to in old times. I've played many a game of euchre with 
 him in which he cheated me out of money that I'd be glad to 
 have now; and I'm satisfied that he does not know of any 
 change in me. I was away on distant detective duty, yon 
 know, when your father was killed. I won't ask you to go 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 37 
 
 over the painful circumstances; I can learn them at the 
 prison. I shall try to get permission to search out Bute, 
 desperate and dangerous as he is — " 
 
 "Oh, Kalph, Kalph," cried the girl, springing up, her 
 eyes flashing through her tears, "if you will bring my 
 father's murderer to justice, if you will prevent him from 
 destroying other lives, as he surely will, you will find that 
 I can refuse you nothing." 
 
 Then she paused, shook her head sadly, and withdrew 
 the hand she had given him. "No," she resumed, "I 
 shouldn't ask this; I don't ask it. As you say, he is des- 
 perate and dangerous; and he would take your life the mo- 
 ment he dreamed of your purpose. I should only have an- 
 other cause for sorrow. ' ' 
 
 Brandt now smiled as if he were master of the situation,. 
 "Why, Clara," he exclaimed, "don't you know that run- 
 ning down and capturing desperadoes is now part of my 
 business ?" 
 
 "Yes; but you can get plenty of work that isn't so 
 dangerous. ' ' 
 
 "I should be a nice fellow to ask you to be my wife and 
 yet show I was afraid to arrest your father's murderer. 
 You needn't ask me to do this; you are not going to be 
 responsible for my coarse in the least. I shall begin opera- 
 tions this very night, and have no doubt that I can get a 
 chance to work on the case. Now don't burden your heart 
 with any thoughts about my danger. I myself owe Bute as 
 big a grudge as I can have against any human being. He 
 cheated me and led me into deviltry years ago, and then I 
 lost sight of him until he was brought to the prison of which 
 your father was one of the keepers. I've been absent for 
 the last three months, you know; but I didn't forget you or 
 your father a day, and you remember I wrote you as soon 
 as I heard of your trouble. I think your father sort of be- 
 lieved in me; he never made me feel I wasn't fit to see you 
 or to be with you, and I'd do more for him living or dead 
 than for any other man. ' ' 
 
88 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "He did believe in you, Ralph, and he always spoke well 
 of you. Oh, you can't know how much I lost in him! Af- 
 ter mother died he did not leave me to the care of strangers, 
 but gave me most of his time when off duty. He sent me to 
 the best schools, bought me books to read, and took me 
 out evenings instead of going off by himself, as so many 
 men do. He was so kind and so brave ; oh, oh ! you know 
 he lost his life by trying to do his duty when another man 
 would have given up. Bute and two others broke jail. 
 P'ather saw one of his assistants stabbed, and he was 
 knocked down himself. He might have remained quiet 
 and escaped with a few bruises; but he caught Bute's foot, 
 and then the wretch turned and stabbed him. He told me 
 all with his poor pale lips before he died. Oh, oh! when 
 shall I forget?" 
 
 "You can never forget, dear; I don't ask anything con- 
 trary to nature. You were a good daughter, and so I believe 
 you will be a good wife. But if I bring the murderer to 
 justice, you will feel that a great wrong has been righted 
 — that all has been done that can be done. Then you'll 
 begin to think that your father wouldn't wish you to grieve 
 yourself to death, and that as he tried to make you happy 
 while he was living, so he will wish you to be happy now 
 he's gone." 
 
 "It isn't a question of happiness. I don't feel as if I 
 could ever be happy again; and so I don't see how I can 
 make you or any one else happy." 
 
 "That's my lookout, Clara. I'd be only too glad to take 
 you as you are. Come, now, this is December. If I bring 
 Bute in by Christmas, what will you give me ?" 
 
 She silently and eloquently gave him her hand; but her 
 lips quivered so she could not speak. He kissed her hand 
 as gallantly as any olden-time knight, then added a little 
 brusquely: 
 
 "See here, little girl, I'm not going to bind you by any- 
 thing that looks like a bargain. I shall attempt all I've 
 said; and then on Christmas, or whenever I get back, 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 39 
 
 I'll speak my heart to you again just as I have spoken 
 now." 
 
 ''When a man acts as you do, Ealph, any girl would find 
 it hard to keep free. I shall follow you night and day with 
 my thoughts and prayers. " 
 
 "Well, I'm superstitious enough to believe that I shall 
 be safer and more successful on account of them. Clara, 
 look me in the eyes before I go." 
 
 She looked up to his clear gray eyes as requested. 
 
 "I don't ask you to forget one who is dead; but don't 
 you see how much you are to one who is living? Don't 
 you see that in spite of all your sorrow you can still give 
 happiness? Now, be as generous and kind as you can. 
 Don't grieve hopelessly while I'm gone. That's what is 
 killing you; and the thought of it fills me with dread. 
 Try to think that you still have something and some one 
 to live for. Perhaps you can learn to love me a little if 
 you try, and then everything won't look so black. If you 
 find you can't love me, 1 won't blame you; and if I lose 
 you as my wife, you won't lose a true, honest friend." 
 
 For the first time the girl became vaguely conscious of 
 the possibility of an affection, a tie superseding all others; 
 she began to see how it was possible to give herself to this 
 man, not from an impulse of gratitude or because she liked 
 him better than any one else, but because of a feeling, new, 
 mysterious, which gave him a sort of divine right in her. 
 Something in the expression of his eyes had been more po- 
 tent than his words; something subtle, swift as an electric 
 spark had passed from him to her, awakening a faint, strange 
 tumult in the heart she thought so utterly crushed. A few 
 moments before, she could have promised resolutely to be 
 his wife ; she could have permitted his embrace with unre- 
 sponsive apathy. Now she felt a sudden shyness. A faint 
 color stole into her pale face, and she longed to be alone. 
 
 "Ealph/' she faltered, "you are so generous, I — I don't 
 know what to say." 
 
 "You needn't say anything till I come back. If pos- 
 
€0 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 sible, I will be here by Christmas, for you shouldn't be 
 alone that day with your grief. Good-by." 
 
 The hand she gave him trembled, and her face wto 
 averted now. 
 
 "You will try to love me a little, won't you?" 
 
 *'Yes," she whispered. 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 41 
 
 CHAPTEE II 
 
 A VISITOR AT THE MINE 
 
 RALPH BKANDT was admirably fitted for tlie task 
 lie had undertaken. With fearlessness he united 
 imperturbable coolness and unwearied patience in 
 pursuit of an object. Few knew him in his character of 
 detective, and no one would have singled him out as an 
 expert in his calling. The more difficult and dangerous 
 the work, the more careless and indifferent his manner, 
 giving the impression to superficial observers of being the 
 very last person to be intrusted with responsible duty. Bat 
 his chief and others on the force well knew that beneath 
 Brandt's careless demeanor was concealed the relentless per- 
 tinacity of a bloodhound on track of its victim. With the 
 trait of dogged pursuit all resemblance to the bloodthirsty 
 animal ceased, and even the worst of criminals found him 
 kind-hearted and good-natured after they were within his 
 power. Failure was an idea not to be entertained. If the 
 man to be caught existed, he could certainly be found, was 
 the principle on which our officer acted. 
 
 He readily obtained permission to attempt the capture of 
 the escaped prisoner, Bute; but the murderer had disap- 
 peared, leaving no clew. Brandt learned that the slums of 
 large cities and several mining camps had been searched in 
 vain, also that the trains running east had been carefully 
 watched. We need not try to follow his processes of 
 thought, nor seek to learn how he soon came to the con- 
 clusion that his man was at some distant mining station 
 
42 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 working under an assumed name. By a kind of instinct 
 his mind kept reverting to one of these stations with in- 
 creasing frequency. It was not so remote in respect to 
 mere distance; but it was isolated, off the lines of travel, 
 with a gap of seventy miles between it and what might be 
 termed civilization, and was suspected of being a sort of 
 refuge for hard characters and fugitives from justice. 
 Bute, when last seen, was making for the mountains in 
 the direction of this mine. Invested with ample authority 
 to bring in the outlaw dead or alive, Brandt followed this 
 vague clew. 
 
 One afternoon, Mr. Alford, the superintendent of the 
 mine, was informed that a man wished to see him. There 
 was ushered into his private office an elderly gentleman who 
 appeared as if he might be a prospecting capitalist or one of 
 the owners of the mine. The superintendent was kept in 
 doubt as to the character of the visitor for a few moments 
 while Brandt sought by general remarks and leading ques- 
 tions to learn the disposition of the man who must, from the 
 necessities of the case, become to some extent his ally in se- 
 curing the ends of justice. Apparently the detective was 
 satisfied, for he asked, suddenly : 
 
 "By the way, have you a man in your employ by the 
 name of Bute?" 
 
 "No, sir," replied Mr. Alford, with a little surprise. 
 
 "Have you a man, then, who answers to the following 
 description?" He gave a brief word photograph of the 
 criminal. 
 
 "You want this man ?" Mr. Alford asked in a low voice. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, really, sir, I would like to know your motive, 
 indeed, I may add, your authority, for — ' ' 
 
 "There it is," Brand smilingly remarked, handing the 
 superintendent a paper. 
 
 "Oh, certainly, certainly," said Mr. Alford, after a mo- 
 ment. "This is all right; and I am bound to do nothing to 
 obstruct you in the performance of your duty. ' ' He now 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 43 
 
 carefully closed the door and added, "What do you want 
 this man for?" 
 
 "It's a case of murder." 
 
 "Phew! Apparently he is one of the best men on the 
 force." 
 
 "Only apparently; I know him well." 
 
 Mr. Alford's brow clouded with anxiety, and after a 
 moment he said, "Mr. — how shall I address you?" 
 
 "You had better continue to call me by the name under 
 which I was introduced — Brown." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Brown, you have a very difficult and hazard- 
 ous task, and you must be careful how you involve me in 
 your actions. I shall not lay a straw in your way, but I 
 cannot openly help you. It is difficult for me to get labor 
 here at best; and it is understood that I ask no questions 
 and deal with men on the basis simply of their relations to 
 me. As long as I act on this understanding, I can keep 
 public sentiment with me and enforce some degree of dis- 
 cipline. If it were known that I was aiding or abetting you 
 in the enterprise you have in hand, my life would not be 
 worth a rush. There are plenty in camp who would shoot 
 me, just as they would you, should they learn of your de- 
 sign. I fear you do not realize what you are attempting. 
 A man like yourself, elderly and alone, has no better 
 chance of taking such a fellow as you describe Bute to be 
 than of carrying a ton of ore on his back down the moun- 
 tain. In all sincerity, sir, I must advise you to depart 
 quietly and expeditiously, and give no one besides myself 
 a hint of your errand. ' ' 
 
 "Will you please step into the outer office and make sure 
 that no one is within earshot?" said Brandt, quietly. 
 
 When Mr. Alford returned, the elderly man apparently 
 had disappeared, and a smiling smooth-faced young fellow 
 with short brown hair sat in his place. His host stared, 
 the transformation was so great. 
 
 "Mr. Alford," said the detective, "I understand my 
 business and the risks it involves. All I ask of you is that 
 
44 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 I may not be interfered with so far as you are concerned; 
 and my chief object in calling is to prevent you being sur- 
 prised by anything you may see or hear. About three miles 
 or thereabouts from here, on the road running east, there is 
 a fellow who keeps a tavern. Do you know him ?' ' 
 
 "1 know no good of him. He's the worst nuisance I have 
 to contend with, for he keeps some of my men disabled much 
 of the time. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I knew Bute years ago, and I can make him think 
 I am now what I was then, only worse; and I will induce 
 him to go with me to raid that tavern. If this plan fails, I 
 shall try another, for I am either going to take Bute alive 
 or else get ample proof that he is dead. There may be some 
 queer goings-on before I leave, and all I ask is that you will 
 neither interfere nor investigate. You may be as ignorant 
 and non-committal as you please. I shall report progress 
 to you, however, and may need your testimony, but will 
 see to it that it is given by you as one who had nothing to 
 do with the afiair. Now please show me your quarters, so 
 that I can find you at night if need be; also Bute's sleeping- 
 place and the lay of the land to some extent. You'll find 
 that I can take everything in mighty quick. See, I'm the 
 elderly gentleman again," and he resumed his disguise with 
 marvellous celerity. 
 
 Mr. Alford led the way through the outer office; and 
 the two clerks writing there saw nothing to awaken the 
 slightest suspicion. The superintendent's cottage stood on 
 the road leading to the mine and somewhat apart from the 
 other buildings. On the opposite side of the highway was 
 a thicket of pines which promised cover until one plunged 
 into the unbroken forest that covered the mountain-side. 
 
 Brandt observed this, and remarked, *'I've studied the 
 approaches to your place a little as I came along; but I sup- 
 pose I shall have to give a day or two more to the work 
 before making my attempt. ' ' 
 
 ''Well," rejoined Mr. Alford, who was of rather a social 
 turn and felt the isolation of his life, ''why not be my guest 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 45 
 
 for a time ? I'll take the risk if you will remain incog, and 
 keep aloof from the men." 
 
 "That I should do in any event till ready to act. Thank 
 you for your kindness, for it may simplify my task very 
 much. I will see to it that I do not compromise you. 
 When I'm ready to snare my bird, you can dismiss me a 
 little ostentatiously for New York." 
 
 Brandt's horse was now ordered to the stable. The two 
 men entered the cottage, and soon afterward visited the 
 different points of interest, Mr. Alford giving the natural 
 impression that he was showing an interested stranger the 
 appliances for working the mine. At one point he remarked 
 in a low tone, "That's Bute's lodging-place. A half-breed, 
 named Apache Jack, who speaks little English lives with 
 him." 
 
 Brandt's seemingly careless and transitory glance rested 
 on a little shanty and noted that it was separated from others 
 of its class by a considerable interval. 
 
 "Bute, you say, is on the day-shift." 
 
 "Yes, he won't be up till six o'clock." 
 
 "I'll manage to see him then without his knowing it." 
 
 ' ' Be careful. I take my risk on the ground of your good 
 fiiith and prudence." 
 
 "Don't fear." 
 
46 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 CHAPTEK III 
 THWAETED 
 
 BEANDT maintained his disguise admirably. His 
 presence caused little comment, and he was spoken 
 of as a visiting stockholder of the mine. During 
 his walk with Mr. Alford he appeared interested only in 
 machinery, ores, etc., but his trained eyes made a topo- 
 graphical map of surroundings, and everything centred 
 about Bute's shanty. In the evening, he amply returned 
 his host's hospitality by comic and tragic stories of criminal 
 life. The next day he began to lay his plans carefully, and 
 disappeared soon after breakfast with the ostensible purpose 
 of climbing a height at some distance for the sake of the 
 prospect. He soon doubled round, noting every covert ap- 
 proach to Bute's lodgings. His eye and ear were as quick 
 as an Indian's; but he still maintained, in case he was ob- 
 served, the manner of an elderly stranger strolling about to 
 view the region. 
 
 By noon he felt that he had the immediate locality by 
 heart. His afternoon task was to explore the possibilities 
 of a stream that crossed the mine road something o>er a 
 mile away, and for this purpose he mounted his horse. He 
 soon reached the shallow ford, and saw that the water was 
 backed up for a considerable distance, and that the shallows 
 certainly extended around a high, jutting rock which hid 
 the stream from that point and beyond from the road. The 
 bed appeared smooth, firm, and sandy, and he waded his 
 horse up the gentle current until he was concealed from 
 the highway. A place, however, was soon reached where 
 the water came tumbling down over impassable rooks; and 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 47 
 
 he was compelled to ascend the wooded shore. This he did 
 on the side nearest to the mine house, and found that with 
 care he could lead his horse to a point that could not be, he 
 thought, over half a mile from the superintendent's cottage. 
 Here there was a little dell around which the pines grew so 
 darkly and thickly that he determined to make it his covert 
 should he fail in his first attempt. His object now was to 
 see if his estimate of proximity to the mine was correct; 
 and leaving his horse, he pushed up the mountain-side. At 
 last be reached a precipitous ledge. Skirting this a short 
 distance, he found a place of comparatively easy ascent, and 
 soon learned with much satisfaction that he was not over 
 two hundred yards from the thicket opposite Mr. Alford's 
 quarters. These discoveries all favored possible future 
 operations; and he retraced his steps, marking his return- 
 ing path by bits of white paper, held in place by stones 
 against the high prevailing winds. Near the spot where 
 he had left his horse he found a nook among the rocks in 
 which a fire would be well hidden. Having marked the 
 place carefully with his eye and obtained his bearings, he 
 led his horse back to the stream and reached the unfre- 
 quented road again without being observed. 
 
 His next task was to discover some kind of a passageway 
 from the mine road to a point on the main highway, leading 
 to the west and out of the mountains. He found no better 
 resource than to strike directly into the forest and travel by 
 points of the compass. Fortunately, the trees were lofty and 
 comparatively open, and he encountered no worse diffi- 
 culties than some steep and rugged descents, and at last 
 emerged on the post road at least a mile to the west of the 
 tavern, which stood near its intersection with the mine road. 
 Returning, he again marked out a path with paper as he 
 had before. The sun was now low in the sky; and as 
 he trotted toward the mine, he had but one more precau- 
 tion to take, and that was to find a place where the trees 
 were sufficiently open to permit him to ride into their shade 
 at night in case he wished to avoid parties upon the road. 
 
48 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STOMIES 
 
 Having indicated two or three such spots by a single bit of 
 paper that would glimmer in the moonlight, he joined Mr. 
 Alford at supper, feeling that his preparations were nearly 
 complete. When they were alone, he told his host that it 
 would be best not to gratify his curiosity, for then he could 
 honestly say that he knew nothing of any detective's plans 
 or whereabouts. 
 
 **I cannot help feeling,'* said Mr. Alford, "that you are 
 playing with fire over a powder magazine. Now that I know 
 you better, I hate to think of the risk that you are taking. 
 It has troubled me terribly all day. I feel as if we were on 
 the eve of a tragedy. You had better leave quietly in the 
 morning and bring a force later that would make resistance 
 impossible, or else give it up altogether. Why should you 
 throw away your life ? I tell you again that if the men get 
 a hint of your character or purpose they will hunt you to 
 death." 
 
 *'It's a part of my business to incur such risks," replied 
 Brandt, quietly. "Besides, I have a motive in this case 
 which would lead me to take a man out of the jaws of hell." 
 
 "That's what you may find you are attempting here. 
 Well, we're in for it now, I suppose, since you are so 
 determined. " 
 
 "I don't think you will appear involved in the affair at 
 all. In the morning you give me a sack of grain for my 
 horse and some provisions for myself, and then bid farewell 
 to Mr. Brown in the most open and natural manner possi- 
 ble. You may not see me again. It is possible I may have 
 to borrow a horse of you if my scheme to-night don't work. 
 It will be returned or paid for very soon." 
 
 "Bute has a pony. He brought it with him, and he and 
 Apache Jack between them manage to keep it. They stable 
 it nights in a little shed back of their shanty. ' ' 
 
 "I had discovered this, and hope to take the man away 
 on his pony. I understand why Bute keeps the animal. 
 He knew that he might have to travel suddenly and fast. ' ' 
 
 The next morning Mr. Alford parted with Brandt as 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 4S 
 
 liad been arranged, the latter starting ostensibly for the 
 nearest railway station. All day long the superintendent 
 was nervous and anxious ; but he saw no evidences of sus- 
 picion or uneasiness among those in his employ. 
 
 Brandt rode at a sharp canter as long as he was in sight, 
 and then approached the stream slowly and warily. When 
 satisfied that he was unobserved, he again passed up its 
 shallow bed around the concealing rock, and sought his 
 hiding-place on the mountain-side. Aware that the coming 
 nights might require ceaseless activity, his first measure 
 was to secure a few hours of sound sleep; and he had so 
 trained himself that he could, as it were, store up rest 
 against long and trying emergencies. The rocks sheltered 
 him against the wind, and a fire gave all the comfort his 
 hardy frame required, as he reposed on his couch of pine- 
 needles. Early in the afternoon he fed his horse, took a 
 hearty meal himself, and concealed the remaining store so 
 that no wild creatures could get at it. At early twilight he 
 returned by way of the stream and hid his horse well back 
 in the woods near the mine. To this he now went boldly, 
 and inquired for Tim Atkins, Bute's assumed name, fle 
 was directed to the shanty with which he had already made 
 himself so familiar. 
 
 Bute was found alone, and was much surprised at sight 
 of his old gambling acquaintance of better days, for his bet- 
 ter days were those of robbery before he had added the 
 deeper stain of murder. Brandt soon allayed active fears 
 and suspicions by giving the impression that in his descensus 
 he had reached the stage of robbery and had got on the 
 scent of some rich booty in the mountains. 
 
 "Bat how did you know I was here?" demanded Bute. 
 
 "1 didn't know it," replied Brandt, adopting his old 
 vernacular; "but I guessed as much, for I knew there was 
 more'n one shady feller in this gang, and I took my chances 
 on findin' you, for, says I to myself, if I can find Bute, I've 
 found the right man to help me crack a ranch when there's 
 some risk and big plunder. ' ' 
 
 3— Roe— XI 
 
00 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 He then disclosed the fact of hearing that the keeper of 
 the tavern had accumulated a good sum of hard money, and 
 was looking out for a chance to send it to a bank. *' We can 
 save him the trouble, yer know," he concluded, facetiously. 
 
 "Well," said Bute, musingly, "I'm gittin' tired of this 
 dog's life, and I reckon I'll go snacks with yer and then put 
 out fer parts unknown. I was paid t'other day, and there 
 ain't much owin' me here. I guess it'll be safer fer me ter 
 keep movin' on, too." 
 
 "You may well say that, Bute. I heard below that there 
 was goin' to be some investigations inter this gang, and that 
 there was more'n one feller here whose pictur was on exhi- 
 bition." 
 
 "That so?" said Bute, hastily. "Well, I'll go with yer 
 ter-night, fer it's time I was movin'. I kin tell yer one 
 tiling, though — there'll be no investigations here unless a 
 fair-sized regiment makes it. Every man keeps his shooter 
 handy. ' ' 
 
 "Hanged if we care how the thing turns out. You and 
 me' 11 be far enough away from the shindy. Now make 
 your arrangements prompt, for we must be on the road by 
 nine o'clock, so we can get through early in the night and 
 have a good start with the swag. My plan is to ambush the 
 whiskey shop, go and demand drinks soon after everybody 
 is gone, and then proceed to business." 
 
 "Can't we let my mate, Apache Jack, in with us? I'll 
 stand for him." 
 
 "No, no, I don't know anything about Apache Jack; 
 and I can trust you. We can manage better alone, and I'd 
 rather have one- half than one-third." 
 
 "Trust me, kin you? you — fool," thought Bute. "So 
 ye thinks I'll sit down and divide the plunder socially with 
 you when I kin give yer a quiet dig in the ribs and take it 
 all. One more man now won't matter. I'm a-goin' ter try 
 fer enough ter-night ter take me well out of these parts." 
 
 Bute's face was sinister enough to suggest any phase of 
 evil, and Brandt well knew that he was capable of what he 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 51 
 
 meditated. It was now the policy of both parties, however, 
 to be very friendly, and Bute was still further mellowed by 
 a draught of liquor from Brandt's flask. 
 
 They had several games of cards in which it was managed 
 that Bute's winnings should be the larger; and at nine in 
 the evening they started on what was to Bute another expe- 
 dition of robbery and murder. Mr. Alford, who was on 
 the alert, saw them depart with a deep sigh of relief. The 
 night was cloudy, but the moon gave plenty of light for 
 travelling. Brandt soon secured his horse, and then ap- 
 peared to give full rein to his careless, reckless spirit. 
 
 As they approached the stream, he remarked, "I say, 
 Bute, it's too bad we can't use the pasteboards while on 
 the jog; but I can win a five out of you by an old game 
 of ours. I bet you 1 can empty my revolver quicker 'n 
 you can.'* 
 
 "We'd better save our amernition and make no noise.'* 
 
 *'0h, pshaw! I always have better luck when I'm free 
 and careless like. It's your sneaking fellers that always get 
 caught. Besides, who'll notice? This little game is com- 
 mon enough all through the mountains, and everybody 
 knows that there's no mischief in such kind of firing. 
 I want to win back some of my money." 
 
 ' 'Well, then, take you up ; go ahead. ' ' 
 
 Instantly from Brandt's pistol there were six reports fol- 
 lowing one another so quickly that they could scarcely be 
 distinguished. 
 
 "Now beat that if you can!" cried Brandt, who had a 
 second and concealed revolver ready for an emergency. 
 
 "The fool!" thought Bute, "to put himself at the marcy 
 of any man. I can pluck him to-night like a winged 
 pa'tridge;" but he too fired almost as quickly as his 
 companion. 
 
 "You only used five ca'tridges in that little game, my 
 friend," said Brandt. 
 
 "Nonsense! I fired so quick you couldn't count 'em." 
 
 "Now see here, Bute," resumed Brandt, in an aggrieved 
 
52 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 tone, "you've got to play fair with me. I've cut my eye- 
 teeth since you used to fleece me, and I'll swear you fired 
 only five shots. Let's load and try again." 
 
 "What the use of sich nonsense ? You'll swar that 
 
 you fired the quickest; and of course I'll swar the same, 
 and there's nobody here ter jedge. What's more, Ealpb 
 Brandt, I wants you and every man ter know that I always 
 keeps a shot in reserve, and that I never misses. So let's 
 load and jog on, and stop foolin'." 
 
 "That scheme has failed," thought Brandt, as he re- 
 placed the shells with cartridges. 
 
 His purpose was to find a moment when his companion 
 was completely in his power, and it came sooner than he 
 expected. When they drew near the brook, it was evident 
 that Bute's pony was thirsty, for it suddenly darted forward 
 and thrust its nose into the water. Therefore, for an in- 
 stant, Bute was in advance with his back toward the de- 
 tective. Covering the fellow with his revolver, Brandt 
 shouted: 
 
 "Bute, throw up your hands; surrender, or you are a 
 dead man!" 
 
 Instantly the truth flashed through the outlaw's mind. 
 Instead of complying, he threw himself forward over the 
 pony's neck and urged the animal forward. Brandt fired, 
 and Bute fell with a splash into the water. At that mo- 
 ment three miners, returning from the tavern, came shout- 
 ing to the opposite side of the stream. The frightened 
 pony, relieved of its burden, galloped homeward. Brandt 
 also withdrew rapidly toward the mine for some distance, 
 and then rode into the woods. Having tied his horse well 
 back from the highway, he reconnoitred the party that had 
 so inopportunely interfered with his plans. He discovered 
 that they were carrying Bute, who, from his groans and 
 oaths, was evidently not dead, though he might be mortally 
 • wounded. His rescuers were breathing out curses and threats 
 of vengeance against Brandt, now known to be an officer of 
 the law. 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 53 
 
 "The job has become a little complicated now, " muttered 
 Brandt, after they had passed; "and I must throw them off 
 the scent. There will be a dozen out after me soon. ' ' 
 
 He remounted his horse, stole silently down the road, 
 crossed the stream, and then galloped to the tavern, and 
 calling out the keeper, asked if there was any shorter road 
 out of the mountains than the one leading to the west. 
 Being answered in the negative, he rode hastily away. 
 On reaching the place where he had struck this road the 
 previous day, lie entered the woods, followed the rugged 
 trail that he had marked by bits of paper, and slowly ap- 
 proached the mine road again near the point where the 
 stream crossed it. He then reconnoitred and learned that 
 there was evidently a large party exploring the woods 
 between the stream and the mine. 
 
 At last they all gathered at the ford for consultation, 
 and Brandt heard one say : 
 
 "We're wastin' time beatin' round here. He'd naterly 
 put fer the lowlands as soon as he found he was balked in 
 takin' his man. I move we call on Whiskey Bob, and see 
 if a man's rode that way ter- night. " 
 
 A call on Whiskey Bob was apparently always accepta- 
 ble; and the party soon disappeared down the road— some 
 on horses and more on foot. Brandt then quietly crossed 
 the road and gained his retreat on the mountain-side. 
 
 "I must camp here now till the fellow dies, and I can 
 prove it, or until I can get another chance," was his conclu- 
 sion as he rubbed down and fed his horse. 
 
64 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 TAKEN ALIVE 
 
 AFTER taking some refreshment himself, Brandt de- 
 cided to go to the thicket opposite the superintend- 
 ent's house for a little observation. He soon reached 
 this outlook, and saw that something unusual was occurring 
 in the cottage. At last the door opened, and Bute was as- 
 sisted to his shanty by two men. They had scarcely disap- 
 peared before Brandt darted across the road and knocked 
 for admittance. 
 
 "Great Scott! you here?" exclaimed Mr. Alford. 
 
 "Yes, and here I'm going to stay till I take my man," 
 replied the detective, with a laugh. "Don't be alarmed. I 
 shall not remain in your house, but in the neighborhood. ' ' 
 
 "You are trifling with your life, and, I may add, with 
 mine." 
 
 "Not at all. Come up to your bedroom. First draw the 
 curtains close, and we'll compare notes. I won't stay but a 
 few moments." 
 
 Mr. Alford felt that it was best to comply, for some one 
 might come and find them talking in the hall. When 
 Brandt entered the apartment, he threw himself into a 
 chair and laughed in his low careless style as he said, 
 "Well, I almost bagged my game to-night, and would 
 have done so had not three of your men, returning from 
 the tavern, interfered." 
 
 "There's a party out looking for you now." 
 
 "I know it; but I've put them on the wrong trail. What 
 I want to learn is, will Bute live?" 
 
 "Yes; your shot made a long flesh-wound just above his 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 55 
 
 shoulders. A little closer, and it would have cut his verte- 
 brae and finished him. He has lost a good deal of blood, 
 and could not be moved for some days except at some 
 risk." 
 
 "You are sure of that ?' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, he may have to incur the risk. I only wish to 
 be certain that he will not take it on his own act at once. 
 You'll soon miss him in any event." 
 
 "The sooner the better. I wish your aim had been 
 surer. ' ' 
 
 "That wasn't my good luck. Next time I'll have to 
 shoot closer or else take him alive." 
 
 "But you can't stay in this region. They will all be on 
 the alert now. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, no. The impression will be general to-morrow that 
 I've made for the lowlands as fast as my horse could carry 
 me. Don't you worry. Till I move again, I'm safe enough. 
 All I ask of you now is to keep Bute in his own shanty, and 
 not to let him have more than one man to take care of him 
 if possible. Good-night. You may not see me again, and 
 then again you may." 
 
 "Well, now that you are here," said the superintendent, 
 who was naturally brave enough, "spend an hour or two, or 
 else stay till just before daylight. I confess I am becoming 
 intensely interested in your adventure, and would take a 
 hand in it if I could; but you know well enough that if 1 
 did, and it became known, I would have to find business 
 elsewhere very suddenly — that is, if given the chance. ' ' 
 
 "I only wish your passive co-operation. I should be 
 glad, however, if you would let me take a horse, if I must" 
 
 "Certainly, as long as you leave my black mare." 
 
 Brandt related what had occurred, giving a comical as- 
 pect to everything, and then, after reconnoitring the road 
 from a darkened window, regained his cover in safety. He 
 declined to speak of his future plans or to give any clew to 
 his hiding-place, to which he now returned. 
 
5g TAKEN ALIVE; AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Daring the few remaining hours of darkness and most 
 of the next day, he slept and lounged about his fire. The 
 next night was too bright and clear for anything beyond a 
 reconnoissance, and he saw evidences of an alertness which 
 made him very cautious. He did not seek another inter- 
 view with Mr. Alford, for now nothing was to be gained 
 by it. 
 
 The next day proved cloudy, and with night began a 
 violent storm of wind and rain. Brandt cowered over his 
 fire till nine o'clock, and then taking a slight draught from 
 his flask, chuckled, "This is glorious weather for my work. 
 Here's to Clara's luck this time!" 
 
 In little over an hour he started for the mine, near which 
 he concealed his horse. Stealing about in the deep shadows, 
 he soon satisfied himself that no one was on the watch, and 
 then approaching the rear of Bute's shanty, found to his joy 
 that the pony was in the shed. A chink in the board siding 
 enabled him to look into the room which contained his prey; 
 he started as he saw Apache Jack, instantly recognizing in 
 him another criminal for whom a large reward was offered. 
 
 "Better luck than I dreamed of," he thought. "I shall 
 take them both; but I now shall have to borrow a horse of 
 Alford;" and he glided away, secured an animal from the 
 stable, and tied it near his own. In a short time he was 
 back at his post of observation. It had now become evi- 
 dent that no one even, imagined that there was danger while 
 such a storm was raging. The howling wind would drown 
 all ordinary noises; and Brandt determined that the two 
 men in the shanty should be on their way to jail that night. 
 When he again put his eye to the chink in the wall, Bute 
 was saying: 
 
 ' ' Well, no one will start f er the mountings while this 
 storm lasts, but, wound or no wound, I must get out of 
 this as soon as it's over. There's no safety fer me here 
 now. ' ' 
 
 "Ef they comes fer you, like enough they'll take me," 
 replied Apache Jack, who, now that he was alone with his 
 
TAKEN ALIVE 57 
 
 confederate, could speak his style of English fast enough. 
 His character of half-breed was a disguise which his dark 
 complexion had suggested. "Ter-morrer night, ef it's clar, 
 we'll put out fer the easterd. I know of a shanty in the 
 woods not so very fur from here in which we kin put up 
 till yer's able ter travel furder. Come, now, take a swig of 
 whiskey with me and then we'll sleep; there's no need of 
 our watchin' any longer on a night like this. I'll jest step 
 out an' see ef the pony's safe; sich a storm's 'nuff ter scare 
 him off ter the woods. ' ' 
 
 "Well, jest lay my shooter on the cha'r here aside me 
 'fore you go. I feel safer with the little bull-dog in reach." 
 
 This the man did, then putting his own revolver on the 
 table, that it might not get wet, began to unbar the door. 
 Swift as a shadow Brandt glided out of the shed and around 
 on the opposite side of the shanty. 
 
 An instant later Bute was paralyzed by seeing his enemy 
 enter the open door. Before the outlaw could realize that 
 Brandt was not a feverish vision induced by his wound, the 
 detective had captured both revolvers, and was standing be- 
 hind the door awaiting Apache Jack's return. 
 
 "Hist!" whispered Brandt, "not a sound, or you will 
 both be dead in two minutes." 
 
 Bute's nerves were so shattered that he could scarcely 
 have spoken, even if he had been reckless enough to do so. 
 He felt himself doomed; and when brutal natures like his 
 succumb, they usually break utterly. Therefore, he could 
 do no more than shiver with unspeakable dread as if he had 
 an ague. 
 
 Soon Apache Jack came rushing in out of the storm, to 
 be instantly confronted by Brandt's revolver. The fellow 
 glanced at the table, and seeing his own weapon was gone, 
 instinctively half drew a long knife. 
 
 "Put that knife on the table!" ordered Brandt, sternly. 
 "Do you think I'd allow any such foolishness ?" 
 
 The man now realized his power lessness, and obeyed; 
 and Brandt secured this weapon also. 
 
§6 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "See here, Apache Jack, or whatever your name is, 
 don't you run your head into a noose. You know I'm 
 empowered to arrest Bute, and you don't know anything 
 about the force I have at hand. All you've got to do is to 
 obey me, an officer of the law, like a good citizen. If you 
 don't, I'll shoot you; and that's all there is about it. Will 
 you obey orders ?' ' 
 
 "I no understan'." 
 
 "Stop lying! You understand English as well as I do, 
 and I'll suspect you if you try that on again. Come, now! 
 I've no time to lose. It's death or obedience!" 
 
 "You can't blame a feller fer standin' by his mate," was 
 the sullen yet deprecatory reply. 
 
 "I can blame any man, and arrest or shoot him too, who 
 obstructs the law. You must obey me for the next half- 
 hour, to prove that you are not Bute's accomplice." 
 
 "He's only my mate, and our rule is ter stand by each 
 other; but, as you say, I can't help myself, and there's no 
 use of my goin' ter jail. ' ' 
 
 "I should think not," added Brandt, appealing to the 
 fellow's selfish hope of escaping further trouble if Bute was 
 taken. "Now get my prisoner out of bed and dress him as 
 soon as possible. ' ' 
 
 "But he ain't able ter be moved. The superintendcDt 
 said he wasn't." ♦ 
 
 "That's my business, not yours. Do as I bid you." 
 
 "Why don't yer yell fer help?" said Bute, in a hoarse 
 whisper. 
 
 "Because he knows I'd shoot him if he did," remarked 
 Brandt, coolly. 
 
 "Come, old man," said Jack, "luck's agin yer. Ef 
 there's any hoUerin' ter be done, yer's as able ter do that 
 as I be." 
 
 "Quick, quick! jerk him out of bed and get him into his 
 clothes. I won't permit one false move." 
 
 Jack now believed that his only means of safety was to 
 De as expeditious as possible, and that if Bute was taken 
 
Taken alive 59 
 
 safely lie would be left unmolested. People of their class 
 rarely keep faith with one another when it is wholly against 
 their interests to do so. Therefore, in spite of the wounded 
 man's groans, he was quickly dressed and his hands tied be- 
 hind him. As he opened his mouth to give expression to his 
 protests, he found himself suddenly gagged by Brandt, who 
 stood behind him. Then a strap was buckled about his feet, 
 and he lay on the floor helpless and incapable of making a 
 sound. 
 
 "Now, Jack," said Brandt, *'go before me and bridle 
 and saddle the pony; then bring him to the door." 
 
 Jack obeyed. 
 
 "Now put Bute upon him. I'll hold his head; but re- 
 member I'm covering you with a dead bead all the time." 
 
 "No need of that. I'm civil enough now." 
 
 "Well, you know we're sort of strangers, and it's no more 
 than prudent for me to be on the safe side till we part com- 
 pany. That's right, strap his feet underneath. Now lead 
 the pony in such directions as I say. Don't try to make off 
 till I'm through with you, or you'll be shot instantly. I 
 shall keep within a yard of you all the time. ' ' 
 
 They were not long in reaching the horse that Brandt 
 had borrowed, and Jack said, "I s'pose I kin go now." 
 
 "First untie Bute's hands so he can guide the pony." 
 
 As the fellow attempted to do this, and his two hands 
 were close together, Brandt slipped a pair of light steel 
 handcuffs over his wrists, and the man was in his power. 
 Almost before the new prisoner could recover from his sur- 
 prise, he was lifted on the borrowed horse, and his legs also 
 tied underneath. 
 
 "This ain't fa'r. You promised ter let me go when you 
 got Bute off." 
 
 "I haven't got him off yet. Of course I can't let you go 
 right back and bring a dozen men after us. You must be 
 reasonable. ' ' 
 
 ^he fellow yelled for help; but the wind swept the sound 
 away. 
 
t)0 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "If you do that again, I'll gag you too," said Brandt. 
 *'I tell you both once more, and I won*t repeat the caution, 
 that your lives depend on obedience." Then he mounted, 
 and added, **Bute, I'm going to untie your hands, and you 
 must ride on ahead of me. I'll lead Jack's horse." 
 
 In a moment he had his prisoners in the road, and was 
 leaving the mine at a sharp pace. Bute was so cowed and 
 dazed with terror that he obeyed mechanically. The stream 
 was no longer a shallow brook, but a raging torrent which 
 almost swept them away as Brandt urged them relentlessly 
 through it. The tavern was dark and silent as they passed 
 quickly by it. Then Brandt took the gag from Bute's 
 mouth, and he groaned, cursed, and pleaded by turns. 
 Hour after hour he urged them forward, until at last Bute 
 gave out and fell forward on the pony's neck. Brandt dis- 
 mounted and gave the exhausted man a draught from his 
 flask. 
 
 "Oh, shoot me and have done with it!" groaned Bute; 
 "I'd rather be shot than hanged anyhow." 
 
 "Couldn't think of it," replied the detective, cheerily. 
 "My rule is to take prisoners alive, so that they can have a 
 fair trial and be sure that they get justice. I'd take you the 
 rest of the way in a bed if I could, but if you can't sit up, 
 I'll have to tie you on. We'll reach a friend of mine by 
 daylight, and then you can ride in a wagon, so brace up." 
 
 This the outlaw did for a time, and then he gave out 
 utterly and was tied more securely to the pony. Out of 
 compassion, Brandt thereafter travelled more slowly; and 
 when the sun was an hour high, he led his forlorn captives 
 to the house of a man whom he knew could be depended 
 upon for assistance. After a rest sufficient to give Bute 
 time to recover somewhat, the remainder of the journey 
 was made without any incident worth mentioning, and the 
 prisoners were securely lodged in jail on the evening of the 
 24th of December. 
 
TAKEN ALIVE ^l 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 WHAT BRANDT SAW CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 BRANDT'S words and effort had had their natural effect 
 on the mind of Clara Heyward. They proved an in- 
 creasing diversion of her thoughts, and slowly dis- 
 pelled the morbid, leaden grief under which she had been 
 sinking. Her new anxiety in regard to her lover's fortune 
 and possible fate was a healthful counter-irritant. Half 
 consciously she yielded to the influence of his strong, hope- 
 ful spirit, and almost before she was aware of it, she too 
 began to hope. Chief of all, his manly tenderness and un- 
 bargaining love stole into her heart like a subtle balm; and 
 responsive love, the most potent of remedies, was renewing 
 her life. She found herself counting the days and then the 
 hours that must intervene before the 25th. On Christmas 
 eve her woman's nature triumphed, and she instinctively 
 added such little graces to her toilet as her sombre costume 
 permitted. She also arranged her beautiful hair in the style 
 which she knew he admired. He might come; and she de- 
 termined that his first glance should reveal that he was not 
 serving one who was coldly apathetic to his brave endeavor 
 and loyalty. 
 
 Indeed, even she herself wondered at the changes that 
 had taken place during the brief time which had elapsed 
 since their parting. There was a new light in her eyes, 
 and a delicate bloom tinged her cheeks. 
 
 ''Oh," she murmured, '*it's all so different now that I 
 feel that I can live for him and make him happy. ' ' 
 
 She was sure that she could welcome him in a way that 
 would assure him of the fulfilment of all his hopes; but 
 
62 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 when he did come with his eager, questioning eyes, she 
 suddenly found herself under a strange restraint, tongue- 
 tied and embarrassed. She longed to put her arms about 
 his neck and tell him all — the new life, the new hope which 
 his look of deep affection had kindled; and in effort for 
 self-control, she seemed to him almost cold. He therefore 
 became perplexed and uncertain of his ground, and took 
 refuge in the details of his expedition, meanwhile mentally 
 assuring himself that he must keep his word and put no con- 
 straint on the girl contrary to the dictates of her heart. 
 
 As his mind grew clearer, his keen observation began to 
 reveal hopeful indications. She was listening intently with 
 approval, and something more in her expression, he dared 
 to fancy. Suddenly he exclaimed, "How changed you are 
 for the better, Clara! You are lovelier to-night than ever 
 you were. What is it in your face that is so sweet and be- 
 wildering ? You were a pretty girl before; now you are a 
 beautiful woman." 
 
 The color came swiftly at his words, and she faltered as 
 she averted her eyes, "Please go od with your story, Ealph. 
 You have scarcely begun yet. I fear you were in danger. ' ' 
 
 He came and stood beside her. "Clara," he pleaded, 
 "look at me." 
 
 Hesitatingly she raised her eyes to his. 
 
 "Shall I tell you what I hope I see ?" 
 
 The faintest suggestion of a smile hovered about her 
 trembling lips. 
 
 "I hope I see what you surely see in mine. Come, 
 Clara, you shall choose before you hear my story. Am I 
 to be your husband or friend ? for I've vowed that you shall 
 not be without a loyal protector." 
 
 "Ralph, Ralph," she cried, springing up and hiding her 
 face on his shoulder, "I have no choice at all. You know 
 how I loved papa; but I've learned that there's another 
 and different kind of love. I didn't half understand you 
 when you first spoke; now 1 do. You will always see in 
 my eyes what you've seen to-night." 
 
FOUND YET LOST 
 
 CHAPTER T 
 
 LOVE IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 HOPELESS indeed must that region be whicli May 
 cannot clothe with some degree of beauty and em- 
 broider with flowers. On the 5th day of the month 
 the early dawn revealed much that would charm the eyes 
 of all true lovers of nature even in that section of Virginia 
 whose characteristics so grimly correspond with its name — 
 The Wilderness. The low pines and cedars, which abound 
 everywhere, had taken a fresh green; the deciduous trees, 
 the tangled thickets, impenetrable in many places by horse 
 or man, were putting forth a new, tender foliage, tinted 
 with a delicate semblance of autumn hues. Flowers bloomed 
 everywhere, humbly in the grass close to the soil as well as 
 on the flaunting sprays of shrubbery and vines, filling the air 
 with fragrance as the light touched and expanded the petals. 
 Wood -thrushes and other birds sang as melodiously and 
 contentedly as if they had selected some breezy upland 
 forest for their nesting-place instead of a region which has 
 become a synonym for gloom, horror, and death. 
 
 Lonely and uninhabited in its normal condition, this for- 
 bidding wilderness had become peopled with thousands of 
 men. The Army of the Potomac was penetrating and seek- 
 ing to pass through it. Vigilant General Lee had observed 
 the movement, and with characteristic boldness and skill 
 ordered his troops from their strong intrenchments on Mine 
 Run toward the Union flank. On this memorable morning 
 the van of his columns wakened from their brief repose but 
 a short distance from the Federal bivouac. Both parties 
 were unconscious of their nearness, for with the exception 
 of a few clearings the dense growth restricted vision to a 
 
 (63) 
 
64 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 narrow range. The Union forces were directed in their 
 movements by the compass, as if they were sailors on a fog- 
 enshrouded sea; but they well knew that they were seeking 
 their old antagonist, the Army of Northern Virginia, and 
 that the stubborn tug-of-war might begin at any moment. 
 
 When Captain Nichol shook off the lethargy of a brief 
 troubled sleep, he found that the light did not banish his 
 gloomy impressions. Those immediately around him were 
 still slumbering, wrapped in their blankets. Few sounds 
 other than the voices of the awakening birds broke the 
 silence. After a little thought he drew his notebook from 
 his pocket and wrote as follows: 
 
 "My Darling Helen — I obey an impulse to write to you this morning. 
 It is scarcely light enough to see as yet; but very soon we shall be on the 
 move again to meet — we known not what, certainly heavy, desperate fighting. 
 I do not know why I am so sad. I have faced the prospect of battles many 
 times before, and have passed through them unharmed, but now I am depressed 
 by an unusual foreboding. Naturally my thoughts turn to you. There was no 
 formal engagement between us when I said those words (so hard to speak\ 
 of farewell, nor have I sought to bind you since. Every month has made more 
 clear the uncertainty of life in my caUing; and I felt that I had no right to lay 
 upon you any restraint other than that of your own feelings. If the worst 
 happened you would be free as far as I was concerned, and few would know that 
 we had told each other of our love. I wish to tell you of mine once more — not 
 for the last time, I hope, but I don't know. I do love you with my whole 
 heart and soul; and if I am to die in this horrible wilderness, where so many 
 of my comrades died a year ago, my last thoughts will be of you and of the 
 love of God, which your love has made more real to me. I love you too well 
 1o wish my death, should it occur, to spoil your young life. I do not ask you 
 to forget me — that would be worse than death ; but I ask you to try to be 
 happy and to make others happy as the years pass on. This bloody war will 
 come to an end, will become a memory, and those who perish hope to be re- 
 membered ; but I do not wish my memory to hang like a cloud over the happy 
 days of peace. I close, my darling, in hope, not fear — hope for you, hope for 
 me, whatever may happen to-day or on coming days of strife. It only remains 
 for me to do my duty. I trust that you will also do yours, which may be even 
 harder. Do not give way to despairing grief if I cannot come back to you in 
 this world. Let your faith in Grod and hope of a future life inspire and 
 strengthen you in your battles, which may require more courage and unselfish, 
 ness than mine. 
 
 "Yours, either in life or death, Albert Niohol." 
 
FOUND YET LOST 65 
 
 He made another copy of this letter, put both in enve- 
 lopes, and addressed them, then sought two men of his 
 company who came from his native village. They were 
 awake now and boiling their coffee. The officer and the 
 privates had grown np as boys together with little differ- 
 ence of social standing in the democratic town. When off 
 duty, there still existed much of the old familiarity and 
 friendly converse, but when Captain Nichol gave an order, 
 his townsmen immediately became conscious that they were 
 separated from him by the iron wall of military discipline. 
 This characteristic did not alienate his old associates. One 
 of the men hit the truth fairly in saying: "When Cap 
 speaks as Cap, he's as hard and sharp as a bayonet- point; 
 but when a feller is sick and worn out 'tween times you'd 
 think your granny was coddlin' yer. " 
 
 It was as friend and old neighbor that Nichol approached 
 Sam and Jim Wetherby, two stalwart brothers who had en- 
 listed in his company. "Boys," he said, "I have a favor to 
 ask of you. The Lord only knows how the day will end for 
 any of us. We will take our chances and do our duty, as 
 usual. I hope we may all boil coffee again to-night; but 
 who knows? Here are two letters. If I should fall, and 
 either or both of you come out all right, as I trust you 
 will, please forward them. If I am with you again to-night, 
 return them to me. ' ' 
 
 "Come, Captain," said Jim, heartily, "the bullet isn't 
 molded that can harm you. You'll lead us into Richmond 
 yet." 
 
 "It will not be from lack of goodwill if I don't. I like 
 your spirit; and I believe the army will get there this time 
 whether I'm with it or not. Do as I ask. There is no harm 
 in providing against what may happen. Make your break- 
 fast quickly, for orders may come at any moment;" and he 
 strode away to look after the general readiness of his men. 
 
 The two brothers compared the address on the letters 
 and laughed a little grimly. "Cap is a-providing, sure 
 enough," Sam Wetherby remarked. "They are both writ- 
 
66 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 ten to the pretty Helen Kemble that he used to make eyes 
 at in the singing-school. I guess he thinks that you might 
 stop a bullet as well as himself, Jim." 
 
 "It's clear he thinks your chances for taking in lead are 
 just as good," replied Jim. "But come, I'm one of them 
 fellows that's never hit till I am hit. One thing at a time, 
 and now it's breakast." 
 
 "Well, hanged if I want to charge under the lead of any 
 other captain!" remarked Sam, meditatively sipping his 
 coffee. "If that girl up yonder knows Cap's worth, she'll 
 cry her eyes out if anything happens to him." 
 
 A few moments later the birds fled to the closest cover, 
 startled by the innumerable bugles sounding the note of 
 preparation. Soon the different corps, divisions, and bri- 
 gades were upon their prescribed lines of march. No move- 
 ment could be made without revealing the close proximity 
 of the enemy. Rifle-reports from skirmish lines and recon- 
 noitring parties speedily followed. A Confederate force was 
 developed on the turnpike leading southwest from the old 
 Wilderness Tavern ; and the fighting began. At about eight 
 o'clock Grant and Meade came up and made their head- 
 quarters beneath some pine-trees near the tavern. General 
 Grant could scarcely believe at first that Lee had left his 
 strong intrenchments to give battle in a region little better 
 than a jungle; but he soon had ample and awful proof of 
 the fact. Practically unseen by each other, the two armies 
 grappled like giants in the dark. So thick were the trees 
 and undergrowth that a soldier on a battle line could rarely 
 see a thousand men on either side of him, yet nearly two 
 hundred thousand men matched their deadly strength that 
 day. Hundreds fell, died, and were hidden forever from 
 human eyes. 
 
 Thinking to sweep away the rear-guard of Lee's retreat- 
 ing army, Grant ordered a strong advance on the pike in 
 the afternoon. At first it was eminently successful, and 
 if it had been followed up vigorously and steadily, as it 
 undoubtedly would have been if the commander had known 
 
FOUND YET LOST 67 
 
 what was afterward revealed, it might have resulted in 
 severe disaster to the Confederates. The enemy was pressed 
 back rapidly; and the advancing Union forces were filled 
 with enthusiasm. Before this early success culminated, 
 genuine sorrow saddened every one in Captain Nichol's 
 company. With his face toward the enemy, impetuously 
 leading his men, he suddenly dropped his sword and fell 
 senseless. Sam and Jim Wetherby heard a shell shrieking 
 toward them, and saw it explode directly over their be- 
 loved leader. They rushed to his side; blood was pouring 
 over his face, and it also seemed to them that a fragment 
 of the shell had fatally wounded him in the forehead. 
 
 "Poor Cap, poor, brave Cap!" ejaculated Sam. "He 
 didn't give us those letters for nothing." 
 
 "A bad job, an awfully bad job for us all! curse the eyes 
 that aimed that shell!" growled practicalJim. "Here, take 
 hold. We'll put him in that little dry ditch we just passed, 
 and bury him after the fight, if still on our pins. We can't 
 leave him here to be tramped on." 
 
 This they did, then hastily rejoined their company, which 
 had swept on with the battle line. Alas! that battle line 
 and others also were driven back with terrible slaughter 
 before the day closed. Captain Nichol was left in the ditch 
 where he had been placed, and poor Sam Wetherby lay on 
 his back, staring with eyes that saw not at a shattered bird's 
 nest in the bushes above his head. The letter in his pocket 
 mouldered with him. 
 
 Jim's begrimed and impassive face disguised an aching 
 heart as he boiled his coffee alone that night. Then, al- 
 though wearied almost to exhaustion, he gave himself no 
 rest until he had found what promised to be the safest 
 means of forwarding the letter in his pocket. 
 
68 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 LOVE AT HOME 
 
 LONG years before the war, bappy children were grow- 
 ing in the village of Alton. They studied the his- 
 tory of wars much as they conned their lessons in 
 geography. Scenes of strife belonged to the past, or were 
 enacted among people wholly unlike any who dwelt in their 
 peaceful community. That Americans should ever fight each 
 other was as undreamed of as that the minister should have 
 a pitched battle in the street with his Sunday-school super- 
 intendent. They rejoiced mildly when in their progress 
 through the United States history they came to pages 
 descriptive of Indian wars and the Revolutionary struggle, 
 since they found their lessons then more easily remembered 
 than the wordy disputes and little understood decisions of 
 statesmen. The first skating on the pond was an event which 
 far transcended in importance anything related between 
 the green covers of the old history book, while to Albert 
 Nichol the privilege of strapping skates on the feet of little 
 Helen Kemble, and gliding away with her over the smooth 
 ice, was a triumph unknown by any general. He was the 
 son of a plain farmer, and she the daughter of the village 
 banker. Thus, even in childhood, there was thrown around 
 her the glamour of position and reputed wealth— advantages 
 which have their value among the most democratic folk, 
 although slight outward deference may be paid to their 
 possessors. It was the charming little face itself, with vts 
 piquant smiles and still more piquant pouts, which won 
 Albert's boyish admiration. The fact that she was the 
 
FOUND YET LOST 69 
 
 banker's daughter only fired his ambition to be and to do 
 something to make her proud of him. 
 
 Hobart Martine, another boy of the village, shared all 
 his schoolmate's admiration for pretty Nellie, as she was 
 usually called. He had been lame from birth, and could 
 not skate. He could only shiver on the bank or stamp 
 around to keep himself warm, while the athletic Al and the 
 graceful little girl passed and repassed, quite forgetting 
 him. There was one thing he could do; and this pleasure 
 he waited for till often numb with cold. He could draw the 
 child on his sled to her home, which adjoined his own. 
 
 When it came his turn to do this, and he limped patiently 
 through the snow, tugging at the rope, his heart grew warm 
 as well as his chilled body. She was a rather imperious lit- 
 tle belle with the other boys, but was usually gentle with 
 him because he was lame and quiet. When she thanked 
 him kindly and pleasantly at her gate, he was so happy that 
 he could scarcely eat his supper. Then his mother would 
 laugh and say, "You've been with your little sweetheart." 
 He would flush and make no reply. 
 
 How little did those children dream of war, even when 
 studying their history lessons! Yet Albert JSIichol now lay 
 in the Wilderness jungle. He had done much to make his 
 little playmate proud of him. The sturdy boy developed 
 into a manly man. When he responded to his country's 
 call and raised a company among his old friends and neigh- 
 bors, Helen Kemble exulted over him tearfully. She gave 
 him the highest tribute within her power and dearest pos- 
 session — her heart. She made every campaign with him, 
 following him with love's untiring solicitude through the 
 scenes he described, until at last the morning paper turned 
 the morning sunshine into mockery and the songs of the 
 birds into dirges. Captain Nichol's name was on the list 
 of the killed. 
 
 With something of the same jealousy, developed and in- 
 tensified, which he had experienced while watching Albert 
 glide away on the ice with the child adored in a dumb, boy- 
 
70 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 ish way, Hobart had see his old schoolmate depart for the 
 front. Then his rival took the girl from him; now ke took 
 her heart. Martine's lameness kept him from being a sol- 
 dier. He again virtually stood chilled on the bank, with 
 a cold, dreary, hopeless feeling which he believed would 
 benumb his life. He did not know, he was not sure that 
 be had lost Helen beyond hope, until those lurid days when 
 men on both sides were arming and drilling for mutual 
 slaughter. She was always so kind to him, and her tones 
 so gentle when she spoke, that in love's fond blindness he 
 had dared to hope. He eventually learned that she was 
 only sorry for him. He did not, could not, blame her, for 
 he needed but to glance at Nichol's stalwart form, and re- 
 call the young soldier's record, in order to know that it 
 would be strange indeed if the girl had chosen otherwise. 
 He would have been more than human if there had not been 
 some bitterness in his heart; but he fought it down honestly, 
 and while pursuing his peaceful avocations engaged in what 
 he believed would be a lifelong battle. He smiled at the 
 girl across the garden fence and called out his cheery "Good- 
 morning." He was her frequent companion by the fireside 
 or on the piazza, according to the season; and he alone of the 
 young men was welcome, for she had little sympathy for 
 those who remained at home without his excuse. He was so 
 bravely her friend, keeping his great love so sternly re- 
 pressed that she only felt it like a genial warmth in his 
 tones and manner, and believed that he was becoming in 
 truth what he seemed, merely a friend. 
 
 On that terrible May morning he was out in the garden 
 and heard her wild, despairing cry as she read the fatal 
 words. He knew that a heavy battle had been begun, and 
 was going down to the gate for his paper, which the news- 
 boy had just left. There was no need of opening it, for the 
 bitter cry he had heard made known to him the one item of 
 Intelligence compared with which all else for the time be- 
 came insignificant. Was it the Devil that inspired a great 
 throb of hope in his heart ? At any rate he thought it was, 
 
FOUND YET LOST 71 
 
 and ground his heel into the gravel as if the serpent's head 
 was beneath it, then limped to Mr. Kemble's door. 
 
 The old banker came out to meet him, shaking his gray 
 head and holding the paper in his trembling hand. "Ah!" 
 he groaned, "I've feared it, I've feared it all along, but 
 hoped that it would not be. You've seen Nic hoi's name — " 
 but he could not finish the sentence. 
 
 "No, I have seen nothing; I only heard Helen's cry. 
 That told the whole story." 
 
 "Yes. Well, her mother's with her. Poor girl I poor 
 girl! God grant it isn't her death-blow too. She has suf- 
 fered too much under this long strain of anxiety." 
 
 A generous resolve was forming in Martine's mind, and 
 he said earnestly, "We must tide her through this terrible 
 shock. There may be some mistake; he may be onl^ 
 wounded. Do not let her give up hope absolutely. I'll 
 drop everything and go to the battlefield at once. If the 
 worst has in truth happened, I can bring home his remains, 
 and that would be a comfort to her. A newspaper report, 
 made up hastily in the field, is not final. Let this hope 
 break the cruel force of the blow, for it is hard to live with* 
 out hope. ' ' 
 
 "Well, Hobart, you are a true friend. God bless and 
 reward you ! If nothing comes of it for poor Nichol, as I 
 fear nothing will, your journey and effort will give a faint 
 hope to Nellie, and, as you say, break the force of the blow. 
 I'll go and tell her." 
 
 Martine went into the parlor, which Helen had decorated 
 with mementoes of her soldier lover. He was alone but a few 
 moments before he heard hasty steps. Helen entered with 
 hot, tearless eyes and an agonized, imploring expression. 
 
 "What!" she cried, "is it true that you'll go?" 
 
 "Yes, Helen, immediately. I do not think there's reason 
 for despair." 
 
 "Oh, God bless you! friend, friend! 1 never knew what 
 the word meant before. Oh, Hobart, no sister ever lav- 
 ished love on a brother as I will love you if you bring back 
 
72 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 my Albert;" and in the impulse of her overwhelming grati- 
 tude she buried her face on his shoulder and sobbed aloud. 
 Hope already brought the relief of tears. 
 
 He stroked the bowed head gently, saying, "God is my 
 witness, Helen, that I will spare no pains and shrink from 
 no danger in trying to find Captain Nichol. I have known 
 of many instances where the first reports of battles proved 
 incorrect;" and he led her to a chair. 
 
 "It is asking so much of you," she faltered. 
 
 "You have asked nothing, Helen. I have offered to go, 
 and 1 am going. It is a little thing for me to do. You 
 know that my lameness only kept me from joining Captain 
 Nichol's company. Now try to control your natural feel- 
 ings like a brave girl, while I explain my plans as far as 
 I have formed them." 
 
 "Yes, yes! Wait a few moments. Oh, this pain at my 
 heart! I think it would have broken if you hadn't come. 
 I couldn't breathe; I just felt as if sinking under a 
 weight" 
 
 ' ' Take courage, Helen. Eemember Albert is a soldier. ' ' 
 
 "/5, is/ Oh, thanks for that little word! You do not 
 believe that he is gone and lost to me ?" 
 
 "I cannot believe it yet. We will not^believe it. Now 
 listen patiently, for you will have your part to do. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, yes; if I could only do something! That would 
 help me so much. Oh, if I could only go with you!" 
 
 "That would not be best or wise, and might defeat my 
 efforts. I must be free to go where you could not — ^to visit 
 places unsafe for you. My first step must be to get letters 
 to our State Senator. Your father can write one, and I'll 
 get one or two others. The Senator will give me a letter to 
 the Governor, who in turn will accredit me to the authorities 
 at Washington and the officer in command on the battle- 
 field. You know I shall need passes. Those who go to 
 the extreme front must be able to account for themselves. 
 I will keep in telegraphic communication with you, and you 
 may receive additional tidings which will aid me in my 
 
FOUND YET LOST 73 
 
 search. Mr. Kemble!" he concluded, calling her father 
 from his perturbed pacing up and down the hall. 
 
 "Ah!" said the banker, entering, "this is a hundred-fold 
 better than despairing, useless grief. I've heard the gist 
 of what Hobart has said, and approve it. ^ow I'll call 
 mother, so that we may all take courage and get a good 
 grip on hope." 
 
 They consulted together briefly, and in the prospect of 
 action, Helen was carried through the first dangerous crisis 
 in her experience. 
 
 4— RoE—XI 
 
74 JTAKEN ALIVE AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 ''disabled" 
 
 MRS. MARTINE grieved over her son^s unexpected 
 resolve. In her estimation he was engaging in a 
 very dangerous and doubtful expedition. Proba- 
 bly mothers will never outgrow a certain jealousy when 
 they find that another woman has become first in the hearts 
 of their sons. The sense of robbery was especially strong 
 in this case, for Mrs. Martine was a widow, and Hobart an 
 only and idolized child. 
 
 The mother speedily saw that it would be useless to 
 remonstrate, and tearfully aided him in his preparations. 
 Before he departed, he won her over as an ally. "These 
 times, mother, are bringing heavy burdens to very many, 
 and we should help each other bear them. You know what 
 Helen is to me, and must be always. That is something 
 which cannot be changed. My love has grown with my 
 growth and become inseparable from my life. I have my 
 times of weakness, but think I can truly say that I love her 
 so well that I would rather make her happy at any cost to 
 myself. If it is within my power, I shall certainly bring 
 Nichol back, alive or dead. Prove your love to me, mother, 
 by cheering, comforting, and sustaining that poor girl. I 
 haven't as much hope of success as I tried to give her, but 
 she needs hope now; she mast have it, or there is no assur- 
 ance against disastrous effects on her health and mind. I 
 couldn't bear that." 
 
 "Well, Hobart, if he is dead, she certainly ought to re- 
 ward you some day." 
 
FOUND YET LOST 75 
 
 *'We must not think of that. The future is not in our 
 hands. We can only do what is duty now.'* 
 
 Noble, generous purposes give their impress to that index 
 of character, the human face. When Martine came to say 
 good-by to Helen, she saw the quiet, patient cripple in a 
 new light. He no longer secured her strong affection chiefly 
 on the basis of gentle, womanly commiseration. He was 
 proving the possession of those qualities which appeal 
 strongly to the feminine nature; he was showing himself 
 capable of prompt, courageous action, and his plain face, 
 revealing the spirit which animated him, became that of a 
 hero in her eyes. She divined the truth — the love so strong 
 and unselfish that it would sacrifice itself utterly for her. 
 He was seeking to bring back her lover when success in his 
 mission would blot out all hope for him. The effect of his 
 action was most salutary, rousing her from the inertia of 
 grief and despair. "If a mere friend," she murmured, 
 **can be so brave and self -forgetful, I have no excuse for 
 giving away utterly." 
 
 She revealed in some degree her new impressions in part- 
 ing. "Hobart," she said, holding his hand in both of hers, 
 ''you have done much to help me. You have not only 
 brought hope, but you have also shown -a spirit which 
 would shame me out of a selfish grief. I cannot now for- 
 get the claims of others, of my dear father and mother here, 
 and I promise you that I will try to be brave like you, like 
 Albert. I shall not become a weak, helpless burden, I shall 
 not sit still and wring idle hands when others are heroically 
 doing and suffering. Good-by, my friend, my brother. 
 God help us all!" 
 
 He felt that she understood him now as never before; 
 and the knowledge inspired a more resolute purpose, if this 
 were possible. That afternoon he was on his way. There 
 came two or three days of terrible suspense for Helen, re- 
 lieved only by telegrams from Martine as he passed from 
 point to point. The poor girl struggled as a swimmer 
 breasts pitiless waves intervening between him and the 
 
76 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 shore. She scarcely allowed herself an idle moment; but 
 her effort was feverish and in a measure the result of excite- 
 ment. The papers were searched for any scrap of intelli- 
 gence, and the daily mail waited for until the hours and 
 minutes were counted before its arrival. 
 
 One morning her father placed Nichol's letter in her 
 hands. They so trembled in the immense hope, the over- 
 whelming emotion which swept over her at sight of the 
 familiar handwriting, that at first she could not open it. 
 When at last she read the prophetic message, she almost 
 blotted out the writing with her tears, moaning, '*He's 
 dead, he's dead!" In her morbid, overwrought condition, 
 the foreboding that had been in the mind of the writer was 
 conveyed to hers; and she practically gave up hope for any- 
 thing better than the discovery and return of his remains, 
 fler father, mother, and intimate friends tried in vain to 
 rally her; but the conviction remained that she had read 
 her lover's farewell words. In spite of the most pathetic 
 and strenuous effort, she could not keep up any longer, and 
 sobbed till she slept in utter exhaustion. 
 
 On the following day, old Mr. Wetherby came into the 
 bank. The lines about his mouth were rigid with suppressed 
 feeling. He handed Mr. Kemble a letter, saying in a husky 
 voice, "Jim sent this. He says at the end 1 was to show it 
 to you." The scrawl gave in brief the details about Cap- 
 tain Nichol already known to the reader, and stated also 
 that Sam Wetherby was missing. "All 1 know is," wrote 
 the soldier, "that we were driven back, and bullets flew 
 like hail. The brush was so thick I couldn't see five yards 
 either way when 1 lost sight of Sam." 
 
 The colonel of the regiment also wrote to Captain 
 l^ichol's father, confirming Private Wetherby's letter. 
 The village had been thrown into a ferment by the tid- 
 ings of the battle and its disastrous consequences. There 
 was bitter lamentation in many homes. Perhaps the names 
 of Captain Nichol and Helen were oftenest repeated in the 
 little community, for the fact of their mutual hopes was no 
 
FOUND YET LOST , 77 
 
 longer a secret. Even thus early some sagacious people 
 nodded their heads and remarked, "Hobart Martine may 
 have his chance yet." Helen Kemble believed without 
 the shadow of a doubt that all the heart she had for love 
 had perished in the wilderness. 
 
 The facts contained in Jim Wetherby's letter were tele- 
 graphed to Martine, and he was not long in discovering con- 
 firmation of them in the temporary hospitals near the battle- 
 field. He found a man of Captain Nichol's company to 
 whom Jim had related the circumstances. For days the 
 loyal friend searched laboriously the horrible region of 
 strife, often sickened nearly unto death by the scenes he 
 witnessed, for his nature had not been rendered callous by 
 familiarity with the results of war. Then instead of return- 
 ing home, he employed the influence given by his letters 
 and passes, backed by his own earnest pleading, to obtain 
 permission for a visit to Nichol's regiment. He found it 
 under fire; and long afterward Jim Wetherby was fond of 
 relating how quietly the lame civilian listened to the shells 
 shrieking over and exploding around him. Thus Martine 
 learned all that could be gathered of Nichol's fate, and 
 then, ill and exhausted, he turned his face northward. He 
 felt that it would be a hopeless task to renew his search on 
 the battlefield, much of which had been burned over. He 
 also had the conviction it would be fatal to him to look 
 upon its unspeakable horrors, and breathe again its pesti- 
 lential air. 
 
 He ^as a sick man when he arrived at home, but was 
 able to relate modestly in outline the history of his efforts, 
 o^oftening and concealing much that he had witnessed. In 
 the delirium of fever which followed, they learned more 
 fully of what he had endured, of how he had forced himself 
 to look upon things which, reproduced in his ravings, almost 
 froze the blood of his watchers. 
 
 Helen Kemble felt that her cup of bitterness had been 
 filled anew, yet the distraction of a new grief, in which there 
 was a certain remorseful self-reproach, had the effect of 
 
78 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 blunting the sharp edge of her first sorrow. In this new 
 cause for dread she was compelled in some degree to forget 
 herself. She saw the intense solicitude of her father and 
 mother, who had been so readily accessory to Martine's ex- 
 pedition; she also saw that his mother's heart was almost 
 breaking under the strain of anxiety. His incoherent words 
 were not needed to reveal that his effort had been prompted 
 by his love. She was one of his watchers, patiently endur- 
 ing the expressions of regret which the mother in her sharp 
 agony could not repress. Nichol's last letter was now 
 known by heart, its every word felt to be prophetic. She 
 had indeed been called upon to exercise courage and forti- 
 tude greater than he could manifest even in the Wilderness 
 battle. Although she often faltered, she did not fail m 
 carrying out his instructions. When at last Martine, a 
 pallid convalescent, could sit in the shade on the piazza, 
 she looked older by years, having, besides, the expression 
 seen in the eyes of some women who have suffered much, 
 and can still suffer much more. In the matter relating to 
 their deepest consciousness, no words had passed between 
 them. She felt as if she were a widow, and hoped he would 
 understand. His full recognition of her position, and ac- 
 ceptance of the fact that she did and must mourn for her 
 lover, his complete self-abnegation, brought her a sense of 
 peace. 
 
 The old clock on the landing of the stairway measured 
 off the hours and days with monotonous regularity. Some 
 of the hours and days had been immeasurably longer than 
 the ancient timekeeper had indicated; but in accordance 
 with usual human experiences, they began to grow shorter. 
 Poignant sorrow cannot maintain its severity, or people 
 could not live. Vines, grasses, and flowers covered the 
 graves in Virginia; the little cares, duties, and amenities of 
 life began to screen at times the sorrows that were neverthe- 
 less ever present. 
 
 "Hobart," Helen said one day in the latter part of June, 
 **do you think you will be strong enough to attend the com- 
 
FOUND YET LOST 79 
 
 memorative services next week ? You know they have been 
 waiting for you. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," he replied quietly; '"and they should not have 
 delayed them so long. It is very sad that so many others 
 have been added since — since — " 
 
 "Well, you have not been told, for we have tried to 
 keep every depressing and disquieting influence from you. 
 Dr. Barnes said it was very necessary, because you had seen 
 so much that you should try to forget. Ah, my friend, I 
 can never forget what you suffered for me! Captain 
 Nichol's funeral sermon was preached while you were so 
 ill. I was not present — I could not be. I've been to see 
 his mother often, and she understands me. I could not 
 have controlled my grief, and I have a horror of displaying 
 my most sacred feeliugs in public. Father and the people 
 also wish you to be present at the general commemorative 
 services, when our Senator will deliver a eulogy on those 
 of our town who have fallen; but I don't think you should 
 go if you feel that it will have a bad effect on you." 
 
 "I shall be present, Helen. I suppose my mind has been 
 weak like my body; but the time has come when I must 
 take up life again and accept its conditions as others are 
 doing. You certainly are setting me a good example. I 
 admit that my illness has left a peculiar repugnance to 
 hearing and thinking about the war; it all seemed so very 
 horrible. But if our brave men can face the thing itself, I 
 should be weak indeed if I could not listen to a eulogy of 
 their deeds." 
 
 "I am coming to think," resumed Helen, thoughtfully, 
 "that the battle line extends from Maine to the Gulf, and 
 that quiet people like you and me are upon it as truly as 
 the soldiers in the field. I have thought that perhaps the 
 most merciful wounds are often those which kill out- 
 right." 
 
 "I can easily believe that," he said. 
 
 His quiet tone and manner did not deceive her, and she 
 looked at him wistfully as she resumed, "But if they do not 
 
80 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 kill, the pain must be borne patiently, even though we are 
 in a measure disabled.'* 
 
 "Yes, Helen; and you are disabled in your power to 
 give me what I can never help giving you. I know that. 
 I will not misjudge or presume upon your kindness. We 
 are too good friends to afiect any concealments from each 
 other." 
 
 *'You have expressed my very thought. When you 
 spoke of accepting the conditions of life, I hoped you had 
 in mind what you have said — the conditions of life as they 
 are, as we cannot help or change them. We both have got 
 to take up life under new conditions." 
 
 ** You have; not I, Helen." 
 
 Tears rushed to her eyes as she faltered, *'I would be 
 transparently false should I afiect not to know. What 1 
 wish you to feel through the coming months and years is 
 that I cannot — that I am disabled by my wound." 
 
 ''I understand, Helen. We can go on as we have begun. 
 You have lost, as I have not, for I have never possessed. 
 You will be the greater sufferer; and it will be my dear 
 privilege to cheer and sustain you in such ways as are pos- 
 sible to a simple friend." 
 
 She regarded him gratefully, and for the first time since 
 that terrible May morning the semblance of a smile briefly 
 illumined her face. 
 
FOUND yET LOST 81 
 
 CHAPTER lY 
 
 MARTINE SEEKS AN ANTIDOTE 
 
 IT can readily be understood that Martine in his expedi- 
 tion to the South had not limited his efforts solely to 
 his search for Captain Nichol. Wherever it had been 
 within his power he had learned all that he could of other 
 officers and men who had come from his native region; and 
 his letters to their relatives had been in some instances 
 sources of unspeakable comfort. In his visit to the front 
 he had also seen and conversed with his fellow-towDsmen, 
 some of whom had since perished or had been wounded. 
 As he grew stronger, Helen wrote out at his dictation all 
 that he could remember concerning these interviews; and 
 these accounts became precious heirlooms in many families. 
 
 On the Fourth of July the commemorative oration was 
 delivered by the. Senator, who proved himself to be more 
 than senator by his deep, honest feeling and good taste. 
 The "spread eagle*' element was conspicuously absent in 
 his solemn, dignified, yet hopeful words. He gave to each 
 their meed of praise. He grew eloquent over the enlisted 
 men who had so bravely done their duty without the in- 
 centive of ambition. When he spoke of the honor reflected 
 on the village by the heroism of Captain Nichol, the hearts 
 of the people glowed with gratitude and pride; but thoughts 
 of pity came to all as they remembered the girl, robed in 
 black, who sat with bowed head among them. 
 
 "1 can best bring my words to a close," said the Senator, 
 *'by reading part of a letter written by one of your towns- 
 
82 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 men, a private in the ranks, yet expressive of feelings in- 
 separable from our common human nature: 
 
 **Deab Father — You know I ain't much given to tine feelings or fine 
 words. Poor Sam beat me all holler in such things ; but I want you and all 
 the folks in Alton to know that you've got a regular soldier at home. 
 course we were all glad to see Bart Martine ; and we expected to have a good- 
 natured laugh at his expense when the shells began to fly. Soldiers laugh, as 
 they eat, every chance they get, 'cause they remember it may be the last 
 one. Well, we knew Bart didn't know any more about war than a chicken, 
 and we expected to see him get very nervous and limp off to the rear on the 
 double quick. He didn't scare worth a cent. When a shell screeched over 
 our heads, he just waited till the dinged noise was out of our ears and then 
 went on with his questions about poor Cap and Sam and the others from our 
 town. We were supporting a battery, and most of us lying down. He sat 
 there with us a good hour, telling about the folks at home, and how you were 
 all following us with your thoughts and prayers, and how you all mourned 
 with those who lost friends, and were looking after the children of the killed 
 and wounded. Fact is, before we knew it we were all on our feet cheering for 
 Alton and the folks at home and the little lame man, who was just as good a 
 soldier as any of us. I tell you he heartened up the boys, what's left of us. 
 I'm sorry to hear he's so sick. If he should die, bury him with a soldier's 
 honors. James Wetherbt." 
 
 "These plain, simple, unadorned words," concluded the 
 Senator, ''need no comment. Their force and significance 
 cannot be enhanced by anything I can say. I do not know 
 that I could listen quietly to shrieking and exploding shells 
 while I spoke words of courage and good cheer; but I do 
 know that J wish to be among the foremost to honor your 
 modest, unassuming townsman, who could do all this and 
 more. ' ' 
 
 Martine was visibly distressed by this unexpected fea- 
 ture in the oration and the plaudits which followed. He 
 was too sad, too weak in body and mind, and too fresh from 
 the ghastly battlefield, not to shrink in sensitive pain from 
 personal and public commendation. He evaded his neigh- 
 bors as far as possible and limped hastily away. 
 
 He did not see Helen again till the following morning, 
 Tor her wound had been opened afresh, and she spent the 
 remainder of the day an«d evening in the solitude of her 
 
FOUND YET LOST 83 
 
 room. Martine was troubled at this, and thought she felt 
 as he did. 
 
 In the morning she joined him on the piazza. She was 
 pale from her long sad vigil, but renewed strength and 
 a gentle patience were expressed in her thin face. 
 
 "It's too bad, Helen," he broke out in unwonted irrita- 
 tion. "I wouldn't have gone if 1 had known. It was a 
 miserable letting down of all that had gone before — that 
 reference to me." 
 
 Now she smiled brightly as she said, "You are the only 
 one present who thought so. Has this been worrying you ?" 
 
 "Yes, it has. If the speaker had seen what I saw, he 
 would have known better. His words only wounded me. ' * 
 
 ' ' He Judged you by other men, Hobart. His words would 
 not have wounded very many. I'm glad I heard that letter — 
 that I have learned what I never could from you. I'm very 
 proud of my friend. What silly creatures women are, any- 
 way! They want their friends to be brave, yet dread the 
 consequences of their being so beyond words." 
 
 "Well," said Martine, a little grimly, "I'm going to 
 my office to-morrow. I feel the need of a long course of 
 reading in Blackstone. " 
 
 "You must help keep me busy also," was her reply. 
 
 "I've thought about that; yes, a great deal. You need 
 some wholesome, natural interest that is capable of becom- 
 ing somewhat absorbing. Is it strange that I should recom- 
 mend one phase of my hobby, flowers? You know that 
 every tree, shrub, and plant on our little place is a sort 
 of a pet with me. You are fond of flowers, but have never 
 given much thought to their care, leaving that to your gar- 
 dener. Flowers are only half enjoyed by those who do not 
 cultivate them, nurse, or pet them. Then there is such an 
 infinite variety that before you know it your thoughts are 
 pleasantly occupied in experimenting with even one family 
 of plants. It is an interest which will keep you much in 
 the open air and bring you close to Mother Nature. ' ' 
 
 The result of this talk was that the sad- hearted girl first 
 
84 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 by resolute effort and then by a growing fondness for the 
 tasks, began to take a personal interest in the daily welfare 
 of her plants. Martine and her father were always on the 
 look-out for something new and rare; and as winter ap- 
 proached, the former had a small conservatory built on the 
 sunny side of the house. They also gave her several caged 
 song-birds, which soon learned to recognize and welcome 
 her. From one of his clients Martine obtained a droll- 
 looking dog that seemed to possess almost human intelli- 
 gence. In the daily care of living things and dependent 
 creatures that could bloom or be joyous without jarring 
 upon her feelings, as would human mirth or gayety, her 
 mind became wholesomely occupied part of each day; she 
 could smile at objects which did not know, which could 
 not understand. 
 
 Still, there was no effort on her part to escape sad mem- 
 ories or the acts and duties which revived them. A noble 
 monument had been erected to Captain Nichol, and one 
 of her chief pleasures was to decorate it with the flowers 
 grown under her own care. Few days passed on which she 
 did not visit one of the families who were or had been repre- 
 sented at the front, while Mrs. Nichol felt that if she had 
 lost a son she had in a measure gained a daughter. As the 
 months passed and winter was wellnigh spent, the wise 
 gossips of the village again began to shake their heads and 
 remark, "Helen Kemble and Bart Martine are very good 
 friends; but I guess that's all it will amount to — all, at any 
 rate, for a long time." 
 
 All, for all time, Helen had honestly thought. It might 
 easily have been for all time had another lover sought her, 
 or if Martine himself had become a wooer and so put her 
 on her guard. It was his patient acceptance of what she 
 had said could not be helped, his self-forgetfulness, which 
 caused her to remember his need — a need greatly increased 
 by a sad event. In the breaking up of winter his mother 
 took a heavy cold which ended in pneumonia and death. 
 
 The gossips made many plans for him and indulged in 
 
FOUND YET LOST 85 
 
 many surmises as to what lie would do; but lie merely en- 
 gaged the services of an old woman as domestic, and lived 
 on quietly as before. Perhaps he grew a little morbid after 
 this bereavement and clung more closely to his lonely 
 hearth. 
 
 This would not be strange. Those who dwell among 
 shadows become ill at ease away from them. Helen was 
 the first to discover this tendency, and to note that he was 
 not rallying as she had hoped he would. He rarely sought 
 their house except by invitation, and then often lapsed into 
 silences which he broke with an evident effort. He never 
 uttered a word of complaint or consciously appealed for 
 sympathy, but was slowly yielding to the steady pressure 
 of sadness which had almost been his heritage. She would 
 have been less than woman if, recalling the past and know- 
 ing so well the unsatisfied love in his heart, she had not felt 
 for him daily a larger and deeper commiseration. When 
 the early March winds rattled the casements, or drove the 
 sleety rain against the windows, she saw him in fancy sitting 
 alone brooding, always brooding. 
 
 One day she asked abruptly, *'Hobart, what are you 
 thinking about so deeply when you are looking at the fire ?" 
 
 A slow, deep flush came into his face, and he hesitated 
 in his answer. At last he said, "I fear I'm getting into a 
 bad mood, and think I must do something decided. Well, 
 for one thing, the continuance of this war weighs upon my 
 spirit. Men are getting so scarce that I believe they will 
 take me in some capacity. Now that mother is not here, 
 I think I ought to go." 
 
 *'0h, Hobart, we would miss you so!" she faltered. 
 
 He looked up with a smile. "Yes, Helen, I think you 
 would — not many others, though. You have become so 
 brave and strong that you do not need me any more. ' * 
 
 ''I am not so brave and strong as I seem. If I were, how 
 did I become so ? With the tact and delicacy of a woman, 
 yet with the strength of a man, you broke the crushing force 
 of the first blow, and have helped me ever since. ' ' 
 
86 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "You see everything through a very friendly medium. 
 At any rate I could not have been content a moment if I 
 had not done all in my power. You do not need me any 
 longer; you have become a source of strength to others. 
 I cannot help seeing crowded hospital wards; and the 
 thought pursues me that in one of them I might do some- 
 thing to restore a soldier to his place in the field or save 
 him for those at home. I could at least be a hospital nurse, 
 and I believe it would be better for me to be doing some 
 such work." 
 
 "I believe it would be better for me also," she answered, 
 her eyes full of tears. 
 
 "No, Helen — no, indeed. You have the higher mission 
 of healing the heart-wounds which the war is making in 
 your own vicinity. You should not think of leaving your 
 father and mother in their old age, or of filling their days 
 with anxiety which might shorten their lives." 
 
 **It will be very hard for us to let you go. Oh, I did not 
 think I would have to face this also!" 
 
 He glanced at her hastily, for there was a sharp distress 
 in her tone, of which she was scarcely conscious herself. 
 Then, as if recollecting himself, he reasoned gently and 
 earnestly: "You were not long in adopting the best antidote 
 for trouble. In comforting others, you have been com- 
 forted. The campaign is opening in Virginia; and I think 
 it would ^be a good and wholesome thing for me to be at 
 work among the wounded. If I can save one life, it will 
 be such a comfort after the war is over. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," she replied, softly; "the war will be over some 
 day. Albert, in his last letter, said the war would cease, 
 and that happy days of peace were coming. How they can 
 ever be happy days to some I scarcely know; but he seemed 
 to foresee the future when he wrote. ' ' 
 
 "Helen, I'm going. Perhaps the days of peace will be 
 a little happier if I go.' 
 
FOUND YET LOST 87 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER y 
 
 SECOND BLOOM 
 
 ARTINE carried out his purpose almost immediately, 
 seeking the temporary and most exposed hospitals 
 on the extreme left of Grant's army before Peters- 
 burg. Indeed, while battles were still in progress he would 
 make his way to the front and become the surgeon's tireless 
 assistant. While thus engaged, even under the enemy's fire, 
 he was able to render services to Jim Wetherby which 
 probably saved the soldier's life. Jim lost his right arm, 
 but found a nurse who did not let him want for anything 
 till the danger point following amputation had passed. 
 Before many weeks he was safe at home, and from him 
 Helen learned more of Martine's quiet heroism than she 
 could ever gather from his letters. In Jim Wetherby 's 
 estimation, Cap and Bart Mar tine were the two heroes of 
 the war. 
 
 The latter had found the right antidote. Not a moment 
 was left for morbid brooding. On every side were sharp 
 physical distress, deadly peril to life and limb, pathetic 
 efforts to hold ground against diseases or sloughing wounds. 
 In aiding such endeavor, in giving moral support and phys- 
 ical care, Martine forgot himself. Helen's letters also were 
 an increasing inspiration. He could scarcely take up one 
 of them and say, "Here her words begin to have a warmer 
 tinge of feeling;" but as spring advanced, imperceptibly 
 yet surely, in spite of pauses and apparent retrogressions, 
 just so surely she revealed a certain warmth of sympathy. 
 
88 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 He was engaged in a work which made it easy for her to 
 idealize him. His unselfish effort to help men live, to kee^ 
 bitter tears from the eyes of their relatives, appealed most 
 powerfully to all that was unselfish in her nature, and she 
 was beginning to ask, "If I can make this man happier, 
 why should I not do so?" Nichol's letter gained a new 
 meaning in the light of events: "I do not ask you to forget 
 me — that would be worse than death — but I ask you to try 
 to be happy and to make others happy." 
 
 "A noble, generous nature prompted those words," she 
 now often mused. "How can I obey their spirit better than 
 in rewarding the man who not only has done so much for 
 me, but also at every cost sought to rescue him?" 
 
 In this growing disposition she had no innate repugnance 
 to overcome, nor the shrinking which can neither be defined 
 nor reasoned against. Accustomed to see him almost daily 
 from childhood, conscious for years that he was giving her 
 a love that was virtually homage, she found her heart grow- 
 ing very compassionate and ready to yield the strong, quiet 
 affection which she believed might satisfy him. This had 
 come about through no effort on her part, from no seeking 
 on his, but was the result of circumstances, the outgrowth 
 of her best and most unselfish feelings. 
 
 But the effect began to separate itself in character from 
 its causes. All that had gone before might explain why she 
 was learning to love him, and be sufficient reason for this 
 affection, but a woman's love, even that quiet phase devel- 
 oping in Helen's heart, is not like a man's conviction, for 
 which he can give his clear-cut reasons. It is a tenderness 
 for its object — a wish to serve and give all in return for 
 what it receives. 
 
 Martine vaguely felt this change in Helen long before 
 he understood it. He saw only a warmer glow of sisterly 
 affection, too high a valuation of his self-denying work, 
 and a more generous attempt to give him all the solace and 
 support within her power. 
 
 One day in July, when the war was well over and the 
 
FOUJSD YET LOST 89 
 
 field hospitals loag since broken up, he wrote from Wash- 
 ington, where he was still pursuing his labors: 
 
 "My work is drawing to a close. Although I have not accomplished a tithe 
 of what I wished to do, and have seen so much left undone, I am glad to re- 
 member that I have alleviated much pain and, I think, saved some lives. 
 Such success as I have had, dear Helen, has largely been due to you. Your 
 letters have been like manna. You do not know — it would be impossible for 
 you to know — the strength they have given, the inspiration they have afforded. 
 I am naturally very weary and worn physically, and the doctors say I must 
 soon have rest ; but your kind words have been life-giving to my soul. I turn 
 to them from day to day as one would seek a cool, unfailing spring. I can 
 now accept life gratefully with the conditions which cannot be changed. How 
 fine is the influence of a woman like you ! What deep springs of action it 
 touches ! When waiting on the sick and wounded, I try to blend your womanly 
 nature with my coarser fibre. Truly, neither of us has suffered in vain if we 
 learn better to minister to others. I cannot tell you how I long to see the 
 home gardens again ; and it now seems that just to watch you in yours will be 
 unalloyed happiness. ' ' 
 
 Helen smiled over this letter with sweet, deep meanings 
 in her eyes. 
 
 One August evening, as the Kemble family sat at tea, 
 he gave them a joyous surprise by appearing at the door 
 and asking in a matter-of-fact voice, "Can you put an extra 
 plate on the table ?" 
 
 There was no mistaking the gladness of her welcome, for 
 it was as genuine as the bluff heartiness of her father and 
 the gentle solicitude of her mother, who exclaimed, *'0h, 
 Hobart, how thin and pale you are!" 
 
 *'A few weeks' rest at home will remedy all that," he 
 said. "The heat in Washington was more trying than my 
 work." 
 
 "Well, thank the Lord! you are at home once more," 
 cried the banker. "I was thinking of drawing on the au- 
 thorities at Washington for a neighbor who had been loaned 
 much too long." 
 
 "Helen," said Mar tine, with pleased eyes, "how well you 
 look ! It is a perfect delight to see color in your cheeks once 
 more. They are gaining, too, their aid lovely roundness. 
 
90 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 I'm going to say what I think right out, for I've been with 
 soldiers so long that I've acquired their bluntness." 
 
 "It's that garden work you lured me into," she ex- 
 plained. "I hope you won't think your plants and trees 
 have been neglected." 
 
 "Have you been keeping my pets from missing me?" 
 
 "I guess they have missed you least of all. Helen has 
 seen to it that they were cared for first," said Mrs. Kemble, 
 emphatically. 
 
 "You didn't write about that;" and he looked at the girl 
 gratefully. 
 
 "Do you think 1 could see weeds and neglect just over 
 the fence?" she asked, with a piquant toss of her head. 
 
 "Do you think I could believe that you cared for my 
 garden only that your eyes might not be offended ?" 
 
 "There, I only wished to give you a little surprise. You 
 have treated us to one by walking in with such delightful 
 unexpectedness, and so should understand. I'll show you 
 when you are through supper." 
 
 "I'm through now;" and he rose with a promptness most 
 pleasing to her. His gladness in recognizing old and care- 
 fully nurtured friends, his keen, appreciative interest in the 
 new candidates for favor that she had planted, rewarded her 
 abundantly. 
 
 "Oh," he exclaimed, "what a heavenly exchange from 
 the close, fetid air of hospital wards! Could the first man 
 have been more content in his divinely planted garden?" 
 
 She looked at him shyly and thought, "Perhaps when 
 you taste of the fruit of knowledge the old story will have 
 a new and better meaning." 
 
 She now regarded him with a new and wistful interest, 
 no longer seeing him through the medium of friendship 
 only. His face, thin and spiritualized, revealed his soul 
 without disguise. It was the countenance of one who had 
 won peace through the divine path of ministry — healing 
 others, himself had been healed. She saw also his un- 
 changed, steadfast love shining like a gem over which flows 
 
FOUND YET LOST 91 
 
 a crystal current. Its ray was as serene as it was undimmed. 
 It had taken its place as an imperishable quality in his char- 
 acter — a place which it would retain without vicissitude 
 unless some sign from her called it into immediate and 
 strong manifestation. She was in no haste to give this. 
 Time was touching her kindly ; the sharp, cruel outlines of 
 the past were softening in the distance, and she was content 
 to remember that the treasure was hers when she was ready 
 for it — a treasure more valued daily. 
 
 With exultation she saw him honored by the entire com- 
 munity. Few days passed without new proofs of the hold 
 he had gained on the deepest and best feelings of the peo- 
 ple. She who once had pitied now looked up to him as the 
 possessor of that manhood which the most faultless outward 
 semblance can only suggest. 
 
 Love is a magician at whose touch the plainest features 
 take on new aspects. Helen's face had never been plain. 
 Even in its anguish it had produced in beholders the pro- 
 found commiseration which is more readily given when 
 beauty is sorrowful. Now that a new life at heart was ex- 
 pressing itself, Martine, as well as others, could not fail to 
 note the subtile changes. While the dewy freshness of her 
 girlish bloom was absent, the higher and more womanly 
 qualities were now revealing themselves. Her nature had 
 been deepened by her experiences, and the harmony of her 
 life was all the sweeter for its minor chords. 
 
 To Martine she became a wonderful mystery, and he 
 almost worshipped the woman whose love he believed 
 buried in an unknown grave, but whose eyes were often 
 so strangely kind. He resumed his old life, but no longer 
 brooded at home, when the autumn winds began to blow. 
 He recognized the old danger and shunned it resolutely. 
 If he could not beguile his thoughts from Helen, it was but 
 a step to her home, and her eyes always shone with a lumi- 
 nous welcome. Unless detained by study of the legal points 
 of some case in hand, he usually found his way over to the 
 Kemble fireside before the evening passed, and his friends 
 
92 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 encouraged him to come when he felt like it. The old 
 banker found the young man exceedingly companionable, 
 especially in his power to discuss intelligently the new 
 financial conditions into which the country was passing. 
 Helen would smile to herself as she watched the two men 
 absorbed in questions she little understood, and observed 
 her mother nodding drowsily over her knitting. The scene 
 was so peaceful, so cheery, so hopeful against the dark 
 background of the past, that she could not refrain from 
 gratitude. Her heart no longer ached with despairing 
 sorrow, and the anxious, troubled expression had faded 
 out of her parents' faces. 
 
 "Yes," she would murmur softly to herself, ''Albert 
 was right; the bloody war has ceased, and the happy days 
 of peace are coming. Heaven has blessed him and made 
 his memory doubly blessed, in that he had the heart to 
 wish them to be happy, although he could not live to see 
 them. Unconsciously he took the thorns out of the path 
 which led to his friend and mine. How richly father enjoys 
 Hobart's companionship! He will be scarcely less happy — 
 when he knows — than yonder friend, who is such a very 
 scrupulous friend. Indeed, how either is ever going to 
 know I scarcely see, unless I make a formal statement." 
 
 Suddenly Martine turned, and caught sight of her ex- 
 pression. 
 
 "All 1 have for your thoughts! What wouldn't I give 
 to know them!" 
 
 Her face became rosier than the firelight warranted as 
 she laughed outright and shook her head. 
 
 "No matter," he said; "I am content to hear you laugh 
 like that." 
 
 "Yes, yes," added the banker; "Helen's laugh is sweeter 
 to me than any music I ever heard. Thank Grod 1 we all can 
 laugh again. I am getting old, and in the course of nature 
 must soon jog on to the better country. When that time 
 comes, the only music I want to hear from earth is good, 
 honest laughter." 
 
FOUND YET LOST 93 
 
 "Now, papa, hush that talk right away," cried Helen, 
 with glistening eyes. 
 
 "What's the matter?" Mrs. Kemble asked, waking up. 
 
 "Nothing, my dear, only it's time for us old people to 
 go to bed. ' ' 
 
 "Well, I own that it would be more becoming to sleep 
 there than to reflect so unfavorably on your conversation. 
 Of late years talk about money matters always puts me to 
 sleep. ' ' 
 
 "That wasn't the case, was it, my dear, when we tried 
 to stretch a thousand so it would reach from one January 
 to another ?' ' 
 
 "I remember," she replied, smiling and rolling up her 
 knitting, "that we sometimes had to suspend specie pay- 
 ments. Ah, well, we were happy." 
 
 When left alone, it was Helen's turn to say, "Now your 
 thoughts are wool-gathering. You don't see the fire when 
 you look at it that way. " 
 
 "No, I suppose not," replied Martine. "I'll be more 
 frank than you. Your mother's words, 'We were happy,' 
 left an echo in my mind. How experience varies! It is 
 pleasant to think that there are many perfectly normal, 
 happy lives like those of your father and mother. ' ' 
 
 "That's one thing I like in you, Hobart. You are so 
 perfectly willing that others should be happy." 
 
 "Helen, I agree with your father. Your laugh was 
 music, the sweetest I ever heard. I'm more than willing 
 that you should be happy. Why should you not be ? I 
 have always felt that what he said was true — what he said 
 about the right to laugh after sorrow — but it never seemed 
 so true before. Who could wish to leave blighting sorrow 
 after him ? W ho could sing in heaven if he knew that he 
 had left tears which could not be dried on earth ?' ' 
 
 "You couldn't," she replied with bowed head. 
 
 "Nor you, either; nor the brave man who died, to whom 
 I only do justice in believing that he would only be happier 
 could he hear your laugh. Your father's wholesome, hearty 
 
94 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 nature should teach us to banish every morbid tendency. 
 Let your heart grow as light as it will, my friend. Your 
 natural impulses will not lead you astray. Good-night." 
 
 "You feel sure of that?" she asked, giving him a hand 
 that fluttered in his, and looking at him with a soft fire i^ 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, Helen, how distractingly beautiful you are! You 
 are blooming again like your Jack-roses when the second 
 growth pushes them into flower. There; I must go. If I 
 had a stone in my breast instead of a heart — Good-night. 
 1 won't be weak again." 
 
FOUND YET LOST 96 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MORE THAN REWARD 
 
 HELEN KEMBLE'S character was simple and directo 
 She was one who lived vividly in the passing hour, 
 and had a greater capacity for deep emotions than 
 for retaining them. The reputation for constancy is some- 
 times won by those incapable of strong convictions. A 
 scratch upon a rock remains in all its sharpness, while the 
 furrow that has gone deep into the heart of a field is even- 
 tually almost hidden by a new flowering growth. The truth 
 was fully exemplified in Helen's case; and a willingness to 
 marry her lifelong lover, prompted at first by a spirit of 
 self-sacrifice, had become, under the influence of daily com- 
 panionship, more than mere assent. While gratitude and 
 the wish to see the light of a great, unexpected joy come 
 into his eyes remained her chief motives, she had learned 
 that she could attain a happiness herself, not hoped for 
 once, in making him happy. 
 
 He was true to his word, after the interview described in 
 the preceding chapter. He did not consciously reveal the 
 unappeased hunger of his heart, but her intuition was never 
 at fault a moment. 
 
 One Indian- summer- like morning, about the middle of 
 October, he went over to her home and said, "Helen, what 
 do you say to a long day's outing? The foliage is at its 
 brightest, the air soft as that of June. Why not store up a 
 lot of this sunshine for winter use ?" 
 
 "Yes, Helen, go," urged her mother. "I can attend to 
 everything. ' ' 
 
1^ TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "A long day, did you stipulate ?" said the girl in ready 
 assent; "that means we should take a lunch. 1 don't be- 
 lieve you ever thought of that." 
 
 "We could crack nuts, rob apple-orchards, or if driven 
 to extremity, raid a farmhouse." 
 
 "You have heard too much from the soldiers about liv- 
 ing ofi the country. I'd rather raid mamma's cupboard 
 before we start. I'll be ready as soon as you are." 
 
 He soon appeared in his low, easy phaeton; and she 
 joined him with the presentiment that there might be even 
 greater gladness in his face by evening than it now ex- 
 pressed. While on the way to the brow of a distant hill 
 which would be their lunching place, they either talked 
 with the freedom of old friends or lapsed into long silences. 
 
 At last he asked, "Isn't it a little odd that when with 
 you the sense of companionship is just as strong when you 
 are not talking ?' ' 
 
 "It's a comfort you are so easily entertained. Don't you 
 think I'm a rather moderate talker for a woman ?" 
 
 ' ' Those that talk the most are often least entertaining. 
 I've thought a good deal about it — the unconscious influ- 
 ence of people on one another. I don't mean influence in 
 any moral sense, but in the power to make one comfortable 
 or uncomfortable, and to produce a sense of restfulness and 
 content or to make one ill at ease and nervously desirous of 
 escape. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And you have actually no nervous desire to escape, no 
 castings around in your mind for an excuse to turn around 
 and drive home?" 
 
 "No one could give a surer answer to your question than 
 yourself. I've been thinking of something pleasanter than 
 my enjoyment. ' ' 
 '"Well?" 
 
 "That your expression has been a very contented one 
 during the last hour. I am coming to believe that you can 
 accept my friendship without efiort. You women are all 
 such mysteries I One gets hold of a clew now and then. I 
 
FOUND YET LOST 97 
 
 have fancied that if you had started out in the spirit of self- 
 sacrifice that I might have a pleasant time, you would be 
 more conscious of your purpose. Even your tact might not 
 have kept me from seeing that you were exerting yourself; 
 but the very genius of the day seems to possess you. Na- 
 ture is not exerting herself in the least. No breath of air is 
 stirring; all storms are in the past or the future. With a 
 smile on her face, she is just resting in serene content, as 
 you were, I hope. She is softening and obscuring every- 
 thing distant by an orange haze, so that the sunny present 
 may be all the more real. Days like these will do you 
 good, especially if your face and manner reveal that you 
 can be as truly at rest as Nature." 
 
 "Yet what changes may soon pass over the placid scene I** 
 
 *'Yes, but don't think of them." 
 
 '*Well, I won't — not now. Yes, you are becoming very 
 penetrating. I am not exerting myself in the least to give 
 you a pleasant time. I am just selfishly and lazily content." 
 
 "That fact gives me so much more than content that it 
 makes me happy. " 
 
 "Hobart, you are the most unselfish man 1 ever knew." 
 
 "Nonsense!" 
 
 They had reached their picnic-ground — the edge of a 
 grove whose bright- hued foliage still afforded a grateful 
 shade. The horse was unharnessed and picketed so that 
 he might have a long range for grazing. Then Martine 
 brought the provision basket to the foot of a great oak, 
 and sat down to wait for Helen, who had wandered away 
 in search of wild flowers. At last she came with a handful 
 of late- blooming closed gentians. 
 
 "I thought these would make an agreeable feature in 
 your lunch." 
 
 "Oh, you are beginning to exert yourself.'^ 
 
 "Yes, I have concluded to, a little. So must you, to the 
 extent of making a fire. The rest will be woman's work. 
 I propose to drink your health in a cup of coffee." 
 
 "Ah, this is unalloyed," he cried, sipping it later on. 
 
 5— ROE—XI 
 
»8 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 ** The coffee?" 
 
 "Yes, and everything. We don't foresee the bright days 
 any more than the dark ones. I did not dream of this in 
 Virginia. ' ' 
 
 "You are easily satisfied. The coffee is smoky, the 
 lunch is coldj winter is coming, and — " 
 
 "And I am very happy," he said. 
 
 "It would be a pity to disturb your serenity." 
 
 "Nothing shall disturb it to- day. Peace is one of the 
 rarest experiences in this world. I mean only to remember 
 that our armies are disbanded and that you are at rest, like 
 Nature." 
 
 She had brought a little book of autumn poems, and 
 after lunch read to him for an hour, he listening with the 
 same expression of quiet satisfaction. As the day declined, 
 she shivered slightly in the shade. He immediately arose 
 and put a shawl around her. 
 
 "You are always shielding me," she said gently. 
 
 "One can do so little of that kind of thing," he replied, 
 "not much more than show intent." 
 
 "Now you do yourself injustice." After a moment's 
 hesitancy she added, "I am not quite in your mood to-day, 
 and even Nature, as .your ally, cannot make me forget or 
 even wish to forget." 
 
 "I do not wish you to forget, but merely cease to remem- 
 ber for a little while. You say Nature is my ally. Listen: 
 already the wind is beginning to sigh in the branches over- 
 head. The sound is low and mournful, as if full of regret 
 for the past and forebodings for the future. There is a 
 change coming. All that I wished or could expect in you 
 was that this serene, quiet day would give you a respite — 
 that complete repose in which the wounded spirit is more 
 rapidly healed and strengthened for the future." 
 
 "Have you been strengthened? Have you no fears for 
 the future?" 
 
 "No fears, Helen. My life is strong in its negation. 
 The man who is agitated by hopes and fears, who is doomed 
 
FOUND YET LOST 99 
 
 to disappointments, is the one who has not recognized 
 his limitations, who has not accepted well-defined condi- 
 tions. ' ' 
 
 *'Hobart, I'm going to put you on your honor now. Re- 
 member, and do not answer hastily, ' ' and her gaze into his 
 face was searching. Although quiet and perfectly self- 
 controlled, the rich color mounted to her very brow. 
 
 "Well, Helen," he asked wonderingly. 
 
 ''Imagine it possible," she continued with the same ear- 
 nest gaze, "that you were a woman who has loved as I have 
 loved, and lost as I have. The circumstances are all known, 
 and you have only to recall them. If a man had loved you 
 as you have loved me — " 
 
 "But, Helen, can you not believe in a love so strong 
 that it does not ask — ' ' 
 
 By a gesture she checked him and repeated, "But if a 
 man had loved you as you have loved me — remember now, 
 on your honor — would you permit him to love with no bet- 
 ter reward than the consciousness of being a solace, a help, 
 a sort of bufier between you and the ills of life ?" 
 
 "But, Helen, I am more than that: I am your friend." 
 
 "Indeed you are, the best a woman ever had, or I could 
 not speak as I am doing. Yet what I say is true. From 
 the first it has been your sleepless aim to stand between me 
 and trouble. What have 1 ever done for you ?" 
 
 "In giving me your friendship — " 
 
 Again she interrupted him, saying, "That virtually 
 means giving you the chance for continued self-sacrifice. 
 Any man or woman in the land would give you friendship 
 on such terms, your terms with me. But you do not. answer 
 my question ; yet you have answered it over and over again. 
 Were you in my place with your unselfish nature, you could 
 not take so very much without an inevitable longing to 
 return all in your power. ' ' 
 
 He was deeply agitated. Burying his face in his hands, 
 he said hoarsely, "I must not look at you, or my duty may 
 be too hard. Ah, you are banishing peace and serenity now 
 
100 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 with a vengeance ! I recognize your motive — whither your 
 thoughts are tending. Your conscience, your pity, your ex- 
 aggerated gratitude are driving you to contemplate a self- 
 sacrifice compared with which mine is as nothing. Yet 
 the possibility of what you suggest is so sweet, so — oh, it is 
 like the reward of heaven for a brief life!" Then he bowed 
 his head lower and added slowly, as if the words were forced 
 from him, "No, Helen, you shall not reward me. I cannot 
 take as pay, or 'return,' as you express it, the reward that 
 you are meditating. I must not remember in after years 
 that my efl'orts in your behalf piled up such a burdensome 
 sense of obligation that there was but one escape from it." 
 
 She came to his side, and removing his hands from his 
 face, retained one of them as she said, gently, "Hobart, 1 
 am no longer a shy girl. I have suffered too deeply, I have 
 learned too thoroughly how life may be robbed of happi- 
 ness, and for a time, almost of hope, not to see the folly of 
 letting the years slip away, unproductive of half what they 
 might yield to you and me. I understand you; you do not 
 understand me, probably because your ideal is too high. 
 You employed an illustration in the narrowest meaning. 
 Is heaven given only as a reward? Is not every true gift 
 an expression of something back of the gift, more than the 
 gift?" 
 
 "Helen!" 
 
 "Yes, Hobart, in my wish to make you happier I am not 
 bent on unredeemed self-sacrifice. You have been the most 
 skilful of wooers." 
 
 "And you are the divinest of mysteries. How have I 
 wooed you?" 
 
 "By not wooing at all, by taking a course which com- 
 pelled my heart to plead your cause, by giving unselfish 
 devotion so unstintedly that like the rain and dew of heaven, 
 it has fostered a new life in my heart, different from the old, 
 yet sweet, real, and precious. I have learned that I can be 
 happier in making you happy. Oh, I shall be no martyr. 
 Am I inconstant because time and your ministry have 
 
FOUND YET LOST^:-^ '^VV-""^!H '> ' }^^ 
 
 healed the old wound — because the steady warmth and glow 
 of your love has kindled mine ?' ' 
 
 He regarded her with a gaze so rapt, so reverent, so ex- 
 pressive of immeasurable gratitude that her eyes filled with 
 tears. **I think you do understand me," she whispered. 
 
 He kissed her hand in homage as he replied, *' A joy like 
 this is almost as hard to comprehend at first as an equally 
 great sorrow. My garden teaches me to understand you. 
 A perfect flower-stalk is suddenly and rudely broken. 
 Instead of dying, it eventually sends out a little side-shoot 
 which gives what bloom it can. ' ' 
 
 ** And you will be content with what it can give ?" 
 
 **I shall be glad with a happiness which almost terrifies 
 me. Only God knows how I have longed for this.** 
 
 That evening the old banker scarcely ceased rubbing his 
 hands in general felicitation, while practical, housewifely 
 Mrs. Kemble already began to plan what she intended to 
 do toward establishing Helen in the adjoining cottage. 
 
 Now that Martine believed his great happiness possible, 
 he was eager for its consummation. At his request the 1st 
 of December was named as the wedding day. "The best 
 that a fireside and evening lamp ever suggested will then 
 come true to me,*' he urged. "Since this can be, life is too 
 short that it should not be soon.** 
 
 Helen readily yielded. Indeed, they were all so ab- 
 sorbed in planning for his happiness as to be oblivious of 
 the rising storm. When at last the girl went to her room, 
 the wind sighed and wailed so mournfully around the house 
 as to produce a feeling of depression and foreboding. 
 
102 TAK^N 4hlVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 YAKKEK BLANK 
 
 THE wild night storm which followed the most memor- 
 able day of his life had no power to depress Mar- 
 tine. In the wavy flames and glowing coals of his 
 open fire he saw heavenly pictures of the future. He drew 
 his mother's low chair to the hearth, and his kindled fancy 
 placed Helen in it. Memory could so reproduce her lovely 
 and familiar features that her presence became almost a 
 reality. In a sense he watched her changing expression and 
 heard her low, mellow tones. The truth that both would 
 express an affection akin to his own grew upon his con- 
 sciousness like the incoming of a sun-lighted tide. The 
 darkness and storm without became only the background 
 of his pictures, enhancing every prophetic representation. 
 The night passed in ecstatic waking dreams of all that the 
 word *'home" suggests when a woman, loved as he loved 
 Helen, was its architect. 
 
 The days and weeks which followed were filled with 
 divine enchantment; the prosaic world was transfigured; 
 the intricacies of the law were luminous with the sheen of 
 gold, becoming the quartz veins from which he would mine 
 wealth for Helen; the plants in his little rose- house were 
 cared for with caressing tenderness because they gave buds 
 which would be worn over the heart now throbbing for him. 
 Never did mortal know such unalloyed happiness as blessed 
 Martine, as he became daily more convinced that Helen was 
 not giving herself to him merely from the promptings of 
 compassion. 
 
FOUND YET LOST 103 
 
 At times, when she did not know he was listening, he 
 heard her low, sweet laugh; and it had a joyous ring and 
 melody which repeated itself like a haunting refrain of 
 music. He would say smilingly, "It is circumstantial evi- 
 dence, equivalent to direct proof." 
 
 Helen and her mother almost took possession of his house 
 while he was absent at his office, refurnishing and trans- 
 forming it, yet retaining with reverent memory what was 
 essentially associated with Mrs. Martine. The changing 
 aspects of the house did not banish the old sense of famil- 
 iarity, but were rather like the apple-tree in the corner of 
 the garden when budding into new foliage and flower. The 
 banker's purse was ever open for all this renovation, but 
 Martine jealously persisted in his resolve to meet every 
 expense himself. Witnessing his gladness and satisfaction, 
 they let him have his way, he meanwhile exulting over 
 Helen's absorbed interest in the adornment of her future 
 home. 
 
 The entire village had a friendly concern in the approach- 
 ing wedding; and the aged gossips never tired of saying, "I 
 told you so," believing that they understood precisely how 
 it had all come about. Even Mrs. Nichol aquiesced with 
 a few deep sighs, assuring herself, "I suppose it's natural. 
 I'd rather it was Bart Martine than anybody else.'* 
 
 A few days before the 1st of December, Martine received 
 a telegram from an aged uncle residing in a distant State. 
 It conveyed a request hard to comply with, yet he did not 
 see how it could be evaded. The despatch was delivered 
 in the evening while he was at the Kembles', and its effect 
 upon the little group was like a bolt out of a clear sky. 
 It ran: 
 
 "Your cousin dangerously ill at Hospital, "Washington. Go to him at 
 
 once, if possible, and telegraph me to come, if necessary." 
 
 Hobart explained that this cousin tiad remained in the 
 army from choice, and that his father, old and feeble, natu- 
 rally shrank from a journey to which he was scarcely equal. 
 
104 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES - 
 
 *'My hospital experience," he concluded, *' leads him to 
 think that I am just the one to go, especially as I can get 
 there much sooner than he. I suppose he is right Indeed, 
 I do not know of any one else whom he could call upon. 
 It certainly is a very painful duty at this time." 
 
 "I can't endure to think of it," Helen exclaimed. 
 
 "It's a clear question of conscience, Helen," he replied 
 gently. "Many years have passed since I saw this cousin, 
 yet he, and still more strongly his father, have the claims 
 of kinship. If anything should happen which my presence 
 could avert, you know we should both feel bad. It would 
 be a cloud upon our happiness. If this request had come 
 before you had changed everything for me, you know I 
 would have gone without a moment's hesitation. Very 
 gratitude should make me more ready for duty;" yet he 
 signed deeply. 
 
 **But it may delay the wedding, for which the invitations 
 have gone out," protested Mrs. Kemble. 
 
 "Possibly it may, if my cousin's life is in danger." 
 Then, brightening up, he added: "Perhaps I shall find that 
 I can leave him in good care for a short time, and then we 
 can go to Washington on our wedding trip. I would like 
 to gain associations with that city different from those I now 
 have." 
 
 "Come now," said the banker, hopefully, "if we must 
 face this thing, we must The probabilities are that it will 
 turn out as Hobart says. At worst it can only be a sad 
 interruption and episode. Hobart will be better satisfied in 
 the end if he does what he now thinks his duty." 
 
 "Yours is the right view," assented the young man, 
 firmly. "I shall take the midnight train, and telegraph as 
 soon as I have seen my cousin and the hospital surgeon." 
 
 He went home and hastily made his preparations; then, 
 with valise in hand, returnd to the Kembles'. The old peo- 
 ple bade him Godspeed on his journey, and considerately 
 left him with his affianced. 
 
 "Hobart," Helen entreated, as they were parting, "be 
 
FOUND YET LOST 105 
 
 more than ordinarily prudent. Do not take any risks, even 
 the most trivial, unless you feel you must. Perhaps I'm 
 weak and foolish, but I'm possessed with a strange, nervous 
 dread. This sudden call of duty — for so I suppose I must 
 look upon it — seems so inopportune;" and she hid her tears 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "You are taking it much too seriously, darling, ' ' he said, 
 gently drawing her closer to him. 
 
 ''Yes, my reason tells me that I am. You are only going 
 on a brief journey, facing nothing that can be called danger. 
 Yet I speak as I feel — I cannot help feeling. Give me glad 
 reassurance by returning quickly and safely. Then here- 
 after I will laugh at forebodings." 
 
 *' There, you need not wait till I reach Washington. 
 You shall hear from me in the morning, and I will also 
 telegraph when I have opportunity on my journey." 
 
 "Please do so, and remember that I could not endure to 
 have my life impoverished again." 
 
 Late the following evening, Martine inquired his way to 
 the bedside of his cousin, and was glad indeed to find him 
 convalescent. His own experienced eyes, together with the 
 statement of the sick man and wardmaster, convinced him 
 that the danger point was well passed. In immense relief 
 of mind he said cheerily, "I will watch to-night"; and so 
 it was arranged. 
 
 His cousin, soothed and hushed in his desire to talk, 
 soon dropped into quiet slumber, while Martine's thronging 
 thoughts banished the sense of drowsiness. A shaded lamp 
 burned near, making a circle of light and leaving the rest 
 of the ward dim and shadowy. The scene was very familiar, 
 and it was an easy eifort for his imagination to place in the 
 adjoining cots the patients with whom, months before, he 
 had fought the winning or losing battle of life. While 
 memory sometimes went back compassionately to those 
 sufferers, his thoughts dwelt chiefly upon the near future, 
 with its certainty of happiness — a happiness doubly appre- 
 ciated because his renewed experience in the old conditions 
 
100 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 of his life made the home which awaited him all the sweeter 
 from contrast. He could scarcely believe that he was the 
 same man who in places like this had sought to forget 
 the pain of bereavement and of denial of his dearest wish — 
 he who in the morning would telegraph Helen that the 
 wedding need not even be postponed, or any change made 
 m their plans. 
 
 The hours were passing almost unnoted, when a patient 
 beyond the circle of light feebly called for water. Almost 
 mechanically Hobart rose to get it, when a man wearing 
 carpet slippers and an old dressing-gown shuffled noiselessly 
 into view. 
 
 "Captain Nichol!" gasped Martine, sinking back, faint 
 and trembling, in his chair. 
 
 The man paid no attention, but passed through the circle 
 of light to the patient, gave him a drink, and turned. Martine 
 stared with the paralysis of one looking upon an apparition. 
 
 When the figure was opposite to him, he again ejaculated 
 hoarsely, "Captain Nichol!" 
 
 The form in slippers and gray ghostly dressing-gown 
 turned sleepy eyes upon him without the slightest sign of 
 recognition, passed on, and disappeared among the shadows 
 near the wardmaster's room. 
 
 A blending of relief and fearful doubt agitated Martine. 
 He knew he had been wide awake and in the possession of 
 every faculty — that his imagination had been playing him ' 
 no tricks. He was not even thinking of Nichol at the time; 
 yet the impression that he had looked upon and spoken to 
 his old schoolmate, to Helen's dead lover, had been as strong 
 as it was instantaneous. When the man had turned, there 
 had been an unnatural expression, which in a measure 
 dispelled the illusion. After a moment of thought which 
 scorched his brain, he rose and followed the man's steps, 
 and was in time to see him rolling himself in his blanket on 
 the cot nearest the door. From violent agitation, Martine 
 unconsciously shook the figure outlined in the blanket 
 roughly, as he asked, "What's your name?" 
 
FOUND YET LOST 107 
 
 *' Yankee Blank, doggone yerl Kyant you wake a feller 
 'thout yankin* 'im oat o' baid? What yer want?" 
 
 *' Great God!" muttered Hobart, tottering back to his 
 seat beside his sleeping cousin, ''was there ever such a hor- 
 rible, mocking suggestion of one man in another ? Yankee 
 Blank — what a name I Southern accent and vernacular, yet 
 Nichol's voice! Such similarity combined with such dis- 
 similarity is like a nightmare. Of course it's not Nichol. 
 He was killed nearly two years ago. I'd be more than 
 human if I could wish him back now; but never in my life 
 have I been so shocked and startled. This apparition must 
 account for itself in the morning. ' ' 
 
 But he could not wait till morning; he could not control 
 himself five minutes. He felt that he must banish that hor- 
 rible semblance of Nichol from his mind by convincing 
 himself of its absurdity. 
 
 He waited a few moments in order to compose his nerves, 
 and then returned. The man had evidently gone to sleep. 
 
 " What a fool I am!" Martine again muttered. *'Let the 
 poor fellow sleep. The fact that be doesn't know me is proof 
 enough. The idea of wanting any proof! I can investigate 
 his case in the morning, and, no doubt, in broad light that 
 astonishing suggestion of Nichol will disappear. 
 
 He was about to turn away when the patient who had 
 called for water groaned slightly. As if his ears were as 
 sensitive to such sounds as those of a mother who hears her 
 child even when it stirs, the man arose. Seeing Martine 
 standing by him, he asked in slight irritation, "What yer 
 want? Why kyant yer say what yer want en have done 
 'th it? Lemme 'tend ter that feller yander firs*. We uns 
 don't want no mo' stiffs;" and he shuffled with a peculiar, 
 noiseless tread to the patient whose case seemed on his 
 mind. Martine followed, his very hair rising at the well- 
 remembered tones, and the mysterious principle of identity 
 again revealed within the circle of light 
 
 "This is simply horrible!" he groaned inwardly, "and 
 I must have that man account for himself instantly." 
 
lias TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 **Now I'll 'tend ter yer, but yer mout let a feller sleep 
 when he kin." 
 
 "Don't you know me?" faltered Martine, overpowered. 
 
 "Naw." 
 
 ** Please tell me your real name, not your nickname." 
 
 *'Ain' got no name 'cept Yankee Blank. What's the 
 matter with yer, anyhow ?' ' 
 
 '* Didn't you ever hear of Captain Nichol ?" 
 
 *'Eeckon not. Mout have. I've nussed mo' cap'ins 
 than 1 kin reckerlect." 
 
 *' Are you a hospital nurse ?" 
 
 *' Sorter 'spect I am. That's Wx^at I does, anyhow. 
 Have you anything agin it? Don't yer come 'ferin' round 
 with me less yer a doctor, astin' no end o' questions. Air 
 you a new doctor ?" 
 
 **My name is Hobart Martine," the speaker forced him- 
 self to say, expecting fearfully a sign of recognition, for the 
 impression that it was Nichol grew upon him every moment, 
 in spite of apparent proof to the contrary. 
 
 *'Hump! Hob't Ma'tine. Never yeared on yer. Ef yer 
 want ter chin mo' in the mawnin', I'll be yere." 
 
 ** Wait a moment, Yan — " 
 
 ''Yankee Blank, I tole yer." 
 
 ** Well, here's a dollar for the trouble I'm making you,'* 
 and Martine' s face flushed with shame at the act, so divided 
 was his impression about the man. 
 
 Yankee Blank took the money readily, grinned, and 
 said, "Now I'll chin till mawnin' ef yer wants hit." 
 
 "I won't keep you long. You remind me of — of — well, 
 of Captain Nichol." 
 
 "He must a' been a cur'ous chap. Folks all say I'm a 
 cur'ous chap." 
 
 "Won't you please tell me all that you can remember 
 about yourself ?" 
 
 " 'Tain't much. Short boss soon curried. Alius ben in 
 hospitals. Had high ole jinks with a wound on my haid. 
 Piece o' shell, they sez, cut me yere," and he pointed to 
 
FOUND YET LOST 109 
 
 a scar across his foreliead. "That's what they tole me. 
 Lor' ! I couldn't mek much out o' the gibberish I firs' year, 
 en they sez I talked gibberish too. But 1 soon got the hang 
 o' the talk in the hospital. Well, ez I wuz sayin', I've alius 
 been in hospitals firs' one, then anuther. I got well, en the 
 sojers call me Yankee Blank en set me waitin' on sick una 
 en the wounded. That's what I'm a-doin' now.'* 
 
 "You were in Southern hospitals?" 
 
 "I reckon. They called the place Richman." 
 
 "Why did you come here?" 
 
 "Kaze I wuz bro't yere. They said I was 'changed." 
 
 "Exchanged, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Reckon it was. Anyhow I wuz bro't yere with a lot o* 
 sick fellers. I wuzn't siok. For a long time the doctors 
 kep' a-pesterin' me with questions, but they lemme 'lone 
 now. I 'speoted you wuz a new doctor, en at it agin." 
 
 "Don't you remember the village of Alton ?" 
 
 The man shook his head. 
 
 "Don't you — " and Martinets voice grew husky — "don't 
 you remember Helen Kemble?" 
 
 "A woman?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Never yeared on ber. I only reckerlect people I've 
 seen in hospitals. Women come foolin' roun' some days, 
 but Lor' I I kin beat any on 'em teckin* keer o' the patients; 
 en wen they dies, I kin lay 'em out. You ast the wardmaster 
 ef I kant lay out a stiff with the best o' 'em." 
 
 "That will do. You can go to sleep now." 
 
 "All right. Doc. I call everybody doc who asts sech 
 a lot o' questions." Be shafted to his oot and was soon 
 asleep. 
 
110 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER Vin 
 
 •*HOW CAN I?** 
 
 ARTINE sank into his chair again. Although the 
 conversation had been carried on in low tones, it 
 was the voice of Nichol that he had heard. Closer 
 inspection of the slightly disfigured face proved that, apart 
 from the scar on the forehead, it was the countenance of 
 Michol. A possible solution of the mystery was beginning 
 to force itself in Hobart^s reluctant mind. When Nichol 
 had fallcQ in the Wilderness, the shock of his injury had 
 rendered him senseless and caused him to appear dead to 
 the hasty scrutiny of Sam and Jim Wetherby. They were 
 terribly excited and had no time for close examination. 
 Nich 1 might have revived, have been gathered up with 
 the Confederate wounded, and sent to Richmond. There 
 was dire and tremendous confusion at that period, when 
 within the space of two or three days tens of thousands were 
 either killed or disabled. In a Southern hospital Nichol 
 might have recovered physical health while, from injury to 
 the brain, suffering complete eclipse of memory. In this 
 case he would have to begin life anew, like a child, and so 
 would pick up the vernacular and bearing of the enlisted 
 men with whom he would chiefly associate. 
 
 Because he remembered nothing and know nothing, he 
 may at first have been tolerated as a **cur'ous chap," then 
 employed as he had explained. He could take the place of 
 a better man where men were greatly needed. 
 
 This theory could solve the problem; and Martinets hos- 
 pital experience prepared his mind to understand what 
 
FOUND YET LOST 111 
 
 would be a hopeless mystery to many. He was so fearfully 
 excited that he could not remain in the ward. The very 
 proximity to this strange being, who had virtually risen 
 from the dead and appeared to him of all others, was a sort- 
 of torture in itself. 
 
 What effect would this discovery have on his relations 
 to Helen ? He dared not think; yet he must think. Al- 
 ready the temptation of his life was forming in his mind. 
 His cousin was sleeping; and with a wild impatience ta 
 escape, to get away from all his kind, he stole noiselessly 
 out into the midnight and deserted streets. On, on he went, 
 limping he knew not, cared not where, for his passion and 
 mental agony drove him hither and thither like a leaf before 
 a fitful gale. 
 
 **No one knows of this,** he groaned. **I can still return 
 and marry Helen. But oh, what a secret to carry 1** 
 
 Then his heart pleaded. *'This is not the lover she lost 
 —only a horrible, mocking semblance. He has lost his 
 own identity; he does not even know himself — would not 
 know her. Ah! I*m not sure of that. I would be dead 
 indeed if her dear features did not kindle my eyes in recog- 
 nition. It may be that the sight of her face is the one thing 
 essential to restore him. I feel this would be true were it 
 my case. But how can I give her up now ? How can ? — 
 how can I ? Oh, this terrible journey I No wonder Helen 
 had forebodings. She loves me; she is mine. No one else 
 has so good a right. We were to be married only a few 
 hours hence. Then she whom Vye loved from childhood 
 would make my home a heaven on earth. And yet— and' 
 yet — '* Even in the darkness he buried his face in his 
 hands, shuddered, moaned, writhed, and grated his teetb 
 in the torment of the conflict. 
 
 Hour after hour he wavered, now on the point of yield- 
 ing, then stung by conscience into desperate uncertainty. 
 The night was cold, the howling wind would have chilled 
 him at another time, but during his struggle great drops of 
 sweat often poured from his face. Only the eye of God saw 
 
112 AKEJN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 that battle, the hardest that was fought and won during the 
 war. 
 
 At last, when well out of the city, he lifted his agonized 
 eyes and saw the beautiful hues of morning tingeing the 
 east. Unconsciously, he repeated the sublime, creative 
 words, **Let there be light.*' It came to him. With the 
 vanishing darkness, he revolted finally against the thought 
 of any shadows existing between him and Helen. She 
 should have all the light that he had, and decide her own 
 coarse. He had little hope that she would wed him, even 
 if she did not marry Nichol in his present condition — a con- 
 dition probably only temporary and amenable to skilful 
 treatment. 
 
 Wearily he dragged his lame foot back to a hotel in the 
 populous party of the city, and obtained food and wine, 
 for he was terribly exhausted. Next he telegraphed Mr. 
 Kemble: 
 
 "Arrived last evening. The wedding will have to be postponed. Will 
 explain later." 
 
 "It's the best I can do now,** he muttered. *' Helen will 
 think it is all due to my cousin's illness.** Then he re- 
 turned to the hospital and found his relative in a state of 
 wonderment at his absence, but refreshed from a good 
 night's rest. Yankee Blank was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 **Hobart,** exclaimed his cousin, "yoa look ill — ten 
 years older than you did last night.** 
 
 "You see me now by daylight,'* was the quiet reply. 
 '*I am not very well.** 
 
 **It*8 a perfect shame that I*ve been the cause of so much 
 trouble, especially when it wasn't necessary." 
 
 *'0h, my Godl*' thought Martine, "there was even no 
 need of this fatal journey.'* But his face had become grave 
 and inscrutable, and the plea of ill-health reconciled his 
 cousin to the necessity of immediate return. There was 
 no good reason for his remaining, for by a few additional 
 arrangements his relative would do very well and soon be 
 
FOUND YET LOST 113 
 
 able to take care of himself. Martine felt that he could not 
 jeopardize his hard- won victory by delay, which was as 
 torturing as the time intervening between a desperate surgi- 
 cal operation and the knowledge that it is inevitable. 
 
 After seeing that his cousin made a good breakfast, he 
 sought a private interview with the wardmaster. He was 
 able to extract but little information about Yankee Blank 
 more than the man had given himself. "Doctors say he 
 may regain his memory at any time, or it may be a long 
 while, and possibly never," was the conclusion. 
 
 "I think I know him," said Martine. "1 will bring a 
 physician from the city to consult this morning with the 
 surgeon in charge." 
 
 "I'm glad to hear it," was the reply. "Something 
 would have to be done soon. He is just staying on here 
 and making himself useful to some extent." 
 
 When Martine re-entered the ward, Yankee Blank ap- 
 peared, grinned, and said affably, ' ' Howdy. ' ' Alas ! a for- 
 lorn, miserable hope that he might have been mistaken was 
 banished from Hobart's mind now that he saw Nichol in the 
 clear light of day. The scar across his forehead and a 
 change of expression, denoting the eclipse of fine, culti- 
 vated manhood, could not disguise the unmistakable fea- 
 tures. There was nothing to be done but carry out as 
 quickly as possible the purpose which had cost him so 
 dear. 
 
 He first telegraphed his uncle to dismiss further anxiety, 
 and that his son would soon be able to visit him. Then the 
 heavy-hearted man sought a physician whom he knew well 
 by reputation. 
 
 The consultation was held, and Nichol (as he may be 
 more properly named hereafter) was closely questioned and 
 carefully examined. The result merely confirmed previous 
 impressions. It was explained, as far as explanation can 
 be given of the mysterious functions of the brain, that either 
 the concussion of the exploding shell or the wound from a 
 flying fragment had paralyzed the organ of memory. When 
 
114 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 such paralysis would cease, if ever, no one could tell. The 
 power to recall everything might return at any moment or 
 it might be delayed indefinitely. A shock, a familiar face, 
 might supply the potency required, or restoration come 
 through the slow, unseen processes of nature. Martine 
 believed that Helen's face and voice would accomplish 
 everything. 
 
 He was well known to the medical authorities and had 
 no difficulty in securing belief that he had identified Nichol. 
 He also promised that abundant additional proof should be 
 sent on from Alton, such certainty being necessary to secure 
 the ofiicer's back pay and proper discharge from the service. 
 The surgeon then addressed the man so strangely disabled, 
 *'You know I'm in charge of this hospital ?" 
 
 "I reckon," replied Nichol, anxiously, for the brief ex- 
 perience which he could recall had taught him that the 
 authority of the surgeon-in-chief was autocratic. 
 
 "Well, first, you must give up the name of Yankee 
 Blank. Your name hereafter is Captain Nichol." 
 
 "All right, Doctor. I'll be a gin'ral ef you sez so." 
 
 "Yery well; remember your name is Captain Nichol. 
 Next, you must obey this man and go with him. You must 
 do just what he says in all respects. His' name is Mr. Ho- 
 bart Martine." 
 ^ "Yes, he tole me las' night, Hob't Ma'tine. He took on 
 
 mighty cur'ous after seein' me." 
 
 "Do you understand that you are to mind, to obey him 
 in all respects just as you have obeyed me ?" 
 
 "I reckon. Will he tek me to anuther hospital ?" 
 
 "He will take you where you will be well cared for and 
 treated kindly." Having written Nichol's discharge from 
 the hospital, the surgeon turned to other duties. 
 
 Martine informed his cousin, as far as it was essential, 
 of the discovery he had made and of the duties which it 
 imposed, then took his leave. Nichol readily accompanied 
 him, and with the exception of a tendency to irritation at 
 little things, exhibited much of the good-natured docility 
 
FOUND YET LOST 115 
 
 of a child. Martine took him to a hotel, saw that he had 
 a bath, put him in the hands of a barber, and then sent for 
 a clothier. When dressed in clean linen and a dark civilian 
 suit, the appearance of the man was greatly improved. 
 Hobart had set his teeth, and would entertain no thought 
 of compromise with his conscience. He would do by Nichol 
 as he would wish to be done by if their relations were re- 
 versed. Helen should receive no greater shock than was 
 inevitable, nor should Nichol lose the advantage of appear- 
 ing before her in the outward aspect of a gentleman. 
 
 Martine then planned his departure so that he would 
 arrive at Alton in the evening — the evening of the day on 
 which he was to have been married. He felt that Mr. Kem- 
 ble should see Nichol first and hear the strange story ; also 
 that the father must break the news to the daughter, for he 
 could not. It was a terrible journey to the poor fellow, for 
 during the long hours of inaction he was compelled to face 
 the probable results of his discovery. The sight of Nichol 
 and his manner was intolerable; and in addition, he was 
 almost as much care as a child. Everything struck him as 
 new and strange, and he was disposed to ask numberless 
 questions. His vernacular, his alternations of amusement 
 and irritation, and the oddity of his ignorance concerning 
 things which should be simple or familiar to a grown man, 
 attracted the attention of his fellow- passengers. It was with 
 difficulty that Martine, by his stern, sad face and a cold, 
 repelling manner, kept curiosity from intruding at every 
 point. 
 
 At last, with heart beating thickly, he saw the lights of 
 Alton gleaming in the distance. It was a train not often 
 used by the villagers, and fortunately no one had entered 
 the car who knew him ; even the conductor was a stranger. 
 Alighting at the depot, he hastily took a carriage, and with 
 his charge was driven to the private entrance of the hotel. 
 Having given the hackman an extra dollar not to mention 
 his arrival till morning, he took Nichol into the dimly- 
 lighted and deserted parlor and sent for the well-known 
 
116 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 landlord. Mr. Jackson, a bustling little man, who, between 
 the gossip of the place and his few guests, never seemed to 
 have a moment's quiet, soon entered. ''Why, Mr. Martine," 
 he exclaimed, "we wasn't a-lookin' for you yet. News got 
 around somehow that your cousin was dyin' in Washington 
 and that your weddin' was put off too — Why I you look like 
 a ghost, even in this light," and he turned up the lamp. 
 
 Martine had told Nichol to stand by a window with his 
 back to the door. He now turned the key, pulled down 
 the curtain, then drew his charge forward where the light 
 fell clear upon his face, and asked, "Jackson, who is that?" 
 
 The landlord stared, his jaw fell from sheer astonish- 
 ment, as he faltered, "Captain Nichol!" 
 
 "Yes," said Nichol, with a pleased grin, "that's my new 
 name! Jes' got it, like this new suit o' clo's, bes' I ever 
 had, doggoned ef they ain't. My old name was Yankee 
 Blank." 
 
 "Great Scott!" ejaculated Jackson; "is he crazy?" 
 
 "Look yere," cried Nichol; "don' yer call me crazy or 
 I'll light on yer so yer won't fergit it." 
 
 "There, there!" said Martine, soothingly, "Mr. Jackson 
 doesn't mean any harm. He's only surprised to see you 
 home again." 
 
 "Is this home? What's home?" 
 
 "It's the town where you were brought up. We'll make 
 you understand about it all before long. Now you shall 
 have some supper. Mr. Jackson is a warm friend of yours, 
 and will see that you have a good one. ' ' 
 
 "I reckon we'll get on ef he gives me plenty o' fodder. 
 Bring it toreckly, fer I'm hungry. Quit yer starin', kyant 
 yer?" 
 
 "Don't you know me. Captain Nichol? Why, I—" 
 
 "Naw. Never seed ner yeared on yer. Did I ever nuss 
 yer in a hospital ? 1 kyant reckerlect all on 'em. Get we 
 "nns some supper." 
 
 "That's the thing to do first, Jackson," added Martine. 
 **Show us upstairs to a private room and wait on us your- 
 
FOUND YET LOST 117 
 
 self. Please say nothing of this till I give you permis- 
 sion." 
 
 They were soon established in a suitable apartment, in 
 which a fire was kindled. Nichol took a rocking-chair and 
 acquiesced in Martine's going out on the pretext of hasten- 
 ing supper. 
 
 The landlord received explanations which enabled him 
 to co-operate with Martine. *'I could not," said the latter, 
 *'take him to his own home without first preparing his 
 family. Neither could I take him to mine for several 
 reasons." 
 
 "1 can understand some of 'em, Mr. Martine. Why, 
 great Scott! How about your marriage, now that — " 
 
 "We won't discuss that subject. The one thing for you 
 to keep in mind is that Nichol lost his memory at the time 
 of his wound, fle don't like to be stared at or thought 
 strange. You must humor him much as you would a child. 
 Perhaps the sight of familiar faces and scenes will restore 
 him. Now copy this note in your handwriting and send it 
 to Mr. Kemble. Tell your messenger to be sure to put it 
 into the banker's hands and no other's," and he tore from 
 his note- book a leaf on which was pencilled the following 
 words : 
 
 "Mr. Kemble: 
 
 "Dear Sir — A sick man at the hotel wishes to see you on important busi- 
 ness. Don't think it's bad news about Mr. Martine, because it isn't. Please 
 come at once and oblige, Henet Jackson." 
 
118 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS 
 
 THIS first day of winter, her fatal wedding-day, was a 
 sad and strange one to Helen Kemble. The sun was 
 hidden by dark clouds, yet no snow fell on the frozen 
 ground. She had wakened in the morning with a start, 
 oppressed by a disagreeable yet forgotten dream. Hastily 
 dressing, she consoled herself with the hope of a long letter 
 from Martine, explaining everything and assuring her of his 
 welfare; but the early mail brought nothing. As the morn- 
 ing advanced, a telegram from Washington, purposely de- 
 layed, merely informed her that her affianced was well and 
 that full information was on its way. 
 
 *'He has evidently found his cousin very low, and need- 
 ing constant care," she had sighingly remarked at dinner. 
 
 '*Yes, Nellie," said the banker, cheerily, "but it is a 
 comfort he is well. No doubt you are right about his 
 cousin, and it has turned out as Hobart feared. In this 
 case it is well he went, for he would always have reproached 
 himself if he had not. The evening mail will probably make 
 all clear. ' ' 
 
 ''It has been so unfortunate!" complained Mrs. Kemble. 
 "If it had only happened a little earlier, or a little later! 
 To have all one's preparations upset and one's plans frus- 
 trated is exasperating. Were it not for that journey, Helen 
 would have been married by this time. People come osten- 
 sibly to express sympathy, but in reality to ask questions." 
 
 "I don't care about people," said Helen, "but the day 
 
FOUND YET LOST 119 
 
 has been so different from what we expected that it's hard 
 not to yield to a presentiment of trouble. It is so dark and 
 gloomy that we almost need a lamp at midday." 
 
 "Well, well," cried hearty Mr. Kemble, "I'm not going 
 to cross any bridges till I come to them. That telegram 
 from Hobart is all we need, to date. I look at things as 
 I do at a bank-bill. If its face is all right, and the bill itself 
 all right, that's enough. You women- folks have such a lot 
 of moods and tenses ! Look at this matter sensibly. Hobart 
 was right in going. He's doing his duty, and soon will be 
 back with mind and conscience at rest. It isn't as if he 
 were ill himself." 
 
 "Yes, papa, that's just the difference; we women feel, 
 and you men reason. What you say, though, is a good 
 wholesome antidote. I fear I'm a little morbid to-day." 
 
 After dinner she and her mother slipped over to the 
 adjoining cottage, which had been made so pretty for her 
 reception. While Mrs. Kemble busied herself here and 
 there, Helen kindled a fire on the hearth of the sitting-room 
 and sat down in the low chair which she knew was designed 
 for her. The belief that she would occupy it daily and be 
 at home, happy herself and, better far, making another, to 
 whom she owed so much, happy beyond even his fondest 
 hope, brought smiles to her face as she watched the flicker- 
 ing blaze. 
 
 "Yes," she murmured, "I can make him happier even 
 than he dreams. I know him so well, his tastes, his habits, 
 what he most enjoys, that it will be an easy task to antici- 
 pate his wishes and enrich his life. Then he has been such 
 a faithful, devoted friend! He shall learn that his example 
 had not been lost on me." 
 
 At this moment the wind rose in such a long mournful, 
 human-like sigh about the house that she started up and 
 almost shuddered. When the evening mail cam6 and 
 brought no letter, she found it hard indeed not to yield 
 to deep depression. In vain her father reasoned with her. 
 "I know all you say sounds true to the ear," she said, "but 
 
120 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 not to my heart. I can't help it; but I am oppressed with 
 a nervous dread of some impending trouble." 
 
 They passed the early hours of the evening as best they 
 could, seeking to divert each other's thoughts. It had been 
 long since the kind old banker was so garrulous, and Helen 
 resolved to reward him by keeping up. Indeed, she shrank 
 from retiring, feeling that through the sleepless night she 
 would be the prey of all sorts of wretched fancies. Never 
 once did her wildest thoughts suggest what had happened, 
 or warn her of the tempest soon to rage in her breast. 
 
 Then came the late messenger with the landlord's copied 
 note. She snatched it from the bearer's hand before he 
 could ring the bell, for her straining ears had heard his 
 step even on the gravel walk. Tremblingly she tore open 
 the envelope in the hall without looking at the address. 
 
 "Mr. Jackson said how 1 was to give it to your father, '^ 
 protested the messenger. 
 
 ''Well, well," responded Mr. Kemble, perturbed and 
 anxious, "I'm here. You can go unless there's an answer 
 required. ' 
 
 "Wasn't told nothin' 'bout one," growled the departing 
 errand-boy. 
 
 "Give the note to me, Helen," said her father. "Why 
 do you stare at it so ?" 
 
 She handed it to him without a word, but looked search- 
 ingly in his face, and so did his wife, who had joined him. 
 
 " Why, this is rather strange," he said. 
 
 "I think it is," added Helen, emphatically. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble took the note and after a moment ejacu- 
 lated: "Well, thank the Lord! It isn't about Hobart." 
 
 "No, no,'* said the banker, almost irritably. "We've 
 all worried about Hobart till in danger of making fools 
 of ourselves. As if people never get sick and send for 
 relatives, or as if letters were never delayed ! Why, bless 
 me I haven't we heard to-day that he was well? and hasn't 
 Jackson, who knows more about other people's business 
 than his own, been considerate enough to say t-hat his re- 
 
FOUND YET LOST 121 
 
 quest has nothing to do with Hobart ? It is just as he says, 
 some one is sick and wants to arrange about money matters 
 before banking hours to-morrow. There, it isn't far. I'll 
 soon be back. ' ' 
 
 ''Let me go with you, father,'* pleaded Helen. *'I can 
 stay with Mrs. Jackson or sit in the parlor till you are 
 through." 
 
 "Oh, no, indeed." 
 
 "Papa, / am going with you," said Helen, half-desper- 
 ate ly. "I don't believe I am so troubled for nothing. Per- 
 haps it's a merciful warning, and I may be of use to you." 
 
 "Oh, let her go, father," said his wife. "She had better 
 be with you than nervously worrying at home. I'll be bet- 
 ter satisfied if she is with you." 
 
 "Bundle up well, then, and come along, you silly little 
 girl." 
 
 Nichol was too agreeably occupied with his supper to 
 miss Hobart, ifrho watched in the darkened parlor for the 
 coming of Mr. Kembie. At last he saw the banker passing 
 through the light streaming from a shop-window, and also 
 recognized Helen at his side. His ruse in sending a note 
 purporting to come from the landlord had evidently failed; 
 and here was a new complication. He was so exhausted in 
 body and mind that he felt he could not meet the girl now 
 without giving way utterly. Hastily returning to the room 
 in which were Nichol and Jackson, he summoned the latter 
 and said, "Unfortunately, Miss Kembie is coming with her 
 father. Keep your counsel ; give me a light in another pri- 
 vate room ; detain the young lady in the parlor, and then 
 bring Mr. Kembie to me." 
 
 "Ah, glad to see you, Mr. Kembie," said the landlord, 
 a moment or two later, with reassuring cheerfulness; "you 
 too, Miss Helen. That's right, take good care of the old 
 gentleman. Yes, we have a sick man here who wants to 
 see you, sir. Miss Helen, take a seat in the parlor by the 
 fire while 1 turn up the lamp. Guess you won't have to 
 wait long. " 
 
 ^ 6— Rob— XI 
 
122 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Now, Helen," said her father, smiling at her signifi- 
 cantly, "canyon trust me out of your sight to go upstairs 
 with Mr. Jackson?" 
 
 Much relieved, she smiled in return and sat down to wait. 
 
 " Who is this man, Jackson ?" Mr. Kemble asked on the 
 stairs. 
 
 "Well, sir, he said he would explain everything." 
 
 A moment later the banker needed not Martinets warn- 
 ing gesture enjoining silence, for he was speechless with 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Mr. Jackson," whispered Martine, "will you please 
 remain in the other room and look after your patient?" 
 
 "Hobart," faltered Mr. Kemble, "in the name of all 
 that's strange, what does this mean?" 
 
 "It is indeed very strange, sir. You must summon all 
 your nerve and fortitude to help us through. Never before 
 were your strength and good strong common -sense more 
 needed. I've nearly reached the end of my endurance. 
 Please, sir, for Helen's sake, preserve your self-control and 
 the best use of all your faculties, for you must now advise. 
 Mr. Kemble, Captain Nichol is alive." 
 
 The banker sank into a chair and groaned. "This would 
 have been glad news to me once; I suppose it should be so 
 now. But how, how can this be?" 
 
 "Well, sir, as you say, it should be glad news; it will be 
 to all eventually. I am placed in a very hard position; but 
 I have tried to do my duty, and will.'* 
 
 "Why, Hobart, my boy, you look more worn than you 
 did after your illness. Merciful Heaven! what a compli- 
 cation!" 
 
 "A far worse one than you can even imagine. Captain 
 Nichol wouldn't know you. His memory was destroyed at 
 the time of the injury. All before that is gone utterly;" 
 and Martine rapidly narrated what is already known to the 
 reader, concluding, "I'm sorry Helen came with you, and 
 I think you had better get her home as soon as possible. I 
 could not take him to my home for several reasons, or at 
 
FOUND YET LOST 123 
 
 least I thought it best not to. It is my belief that the sight 
 of Helen, the tones of her voice, will restore him; and I do 
 not think it best for him to regain his consciousness of the 
 past in a dwelling prepared for Helen's reception as my 
 wife. Perhaps later on, too, you will understand why I 
 cannot see him there. I shall need a home, a refuge with 
 no such associations. Here, on this neutral ground, I 
 thought we could consult, and if necessary send for his 
 parents to-night. I would have telegraphed you, but the 
 case is so complicated, so difficult. Helen must be grad- 
 ually prepared for the part she must take. Cost me what 
 it may, Nichol must have his chance. His memory may 
 come back instantly and he recall everything to the moment 
 of his injury. What could be more potent to effect this 
 than the sight and voice of Helen? No one here except 
 Jackson is now aware of his condition. If she can restore 
 him, no one else, not even his parents, need know anything 
 about it, except in a general way. It will save a world of 
 disagreeable talk and distress. At any rate, this course 
 seemed the best I could hit upon in my distracted con- 
 dition.'' 
 
 ''Well, Hobart, my poor young friend, you have been 
 tried as by fire," said Mr. Kemble, in a voice broken by 
 sympathy; **God help you and guide us all in this strange 
 snarl ! I feel that the first thing to be done is to get Helen 
 home. Such tidings as yours should be broken to her in 
 that refuge only." 
 
 *'I agree with you most emphatically, Mr. Kemble. In 
 the seclusion of her own home, with none present except 
 yourself and her mother, she should face this thing and 
 nerve herself to act her part, the most important of all. If 
 she cannot awaken Captain Nicholas memory, it is hard 
 to say what will, or when he will be restored." 
 
 "Possibly seeing me, so closely associated with her, may 
 have the same effect," faltered the banker. 
 
 **I doubt it; but we can try it. Don't expect me to 
 speak while in the hallway. Helen, no doubt, is on the 
 
124 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 alert, and I cannot meet her to-night. I am just keeping 
 up from sheer force of will. You must try to realize it. 
 This discovery will change everything for me. Helen's old 
 love will revive in all-absorbing power. I've faced this in 
 thought, but cannot in reality now — I simply cannot. It 
 would do no good. My presence would be an embarrass- 
 ment to her, and I taxed beyond mortal endurance. You 
 may think me weak, but I cannot help it. As soon as pos- 
 sible I must put you, and if you think best. Captain Nichol's 
 father, in charge of the situation. Jackson can send for his 
 father at once if you wish.'* 
 
 *'I do wish it immediately. I can't see my way through 
 this. I would like Dr. Barnes' advice and presence also.'* 
 
 **1 think it would be wise, sir. The point I wish to make 
 is that I have done about all that 1 now can in this affair. 
 My further presence is only another complication. At any 
 rate, I must have a respite — the privilege of going quietly 
 to my own home as soon as possible." 
 
 *'0h, Hobart, my heart aches for you; it just aches for 
 you. You have indeed been called upon to endure a hun- 
 dred-fold too much in this strange affair. How it will all 
 end God only knows. I understand you sufficiently. Leave 
 the matter to me now. We will have Dr. Barnes and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Nichol here as soon as can be. I suppose I had 
 better see the captain a few moments and then take Helen 
 home.'* 
 
 Martine led the way into ine other apartment, where 
 Nichol, rendered good-natured by his supper and a cigar, 
 was conversing sociably with the landlord. Mr. Kemble 
 fairly trembled as he came forward, involuntarily expecting 
 that the man so well known to him must give some sign of 
 recognition. 
 
 Nichol paid no heed to him. He had been too long 
 accustomed to see strangers coming and going to give them 
 either thought or attention. 
 
 "I say, Hob't Ma'tine," he began, "don' yer cuss me 
 fer eatin' all the supper. 1 'lowed ter this Jackson, as yer 
 
FOUND YET LOST 125 
 
 call 'im, that yer'd get a bite somewhar else, en he 'lowed 
 yer would." 
 
 "All right, Nichol; I'm glad you had a good supper." 
 
 ''I say, Jackson, this Ma'tine's a cur'ous chap — mo' 
 cur'ous than I be, I reckon. He's been actin' cur'ous evet 
 since he seed me in the horspital. It's all cur'ous. 'Fore 
 he come, doctors en folks was trying ter fin' out 'bout me, 
 en this Ma' tine 'lows he knows all 'bout me. Ef he wuzn't 
 so orful glum, he'd be a good chap anuff, ef he is cur'ous. 
 Hit's all a-changin' somehow, en yet 'tisn't. Awhile ago 
 nobody knowd 'bout me, en they wuz alius a-pesterin' of 
 me with questions. En now Ma' tine en you 'low you know 
 'bout me, yet you ast questions jes' the same. Like anuff 
 this man yere," pointing with his cigar to Mr. Kemble, 
 who was listening with a deeply- troubled face, *' knows 
 'bout me too, yet wants to ast questions. I don' keer ef 
 I do say it, I had better times with the Johnnies that call 
 me Yankee Blank than I ever had sence. Well, ole duffer 
 [to Mr. Kemble], ast away and git yer load off'n yer mind. 
 I don't like glum faces roun' en folks jes' nachelly bilin* 
 over with questions." 
 
 "No, Captain Nichol," said the banker, gravely and 
 sadly, "I've no questions to ask. Good-by for the present." 
 
 Nichol nodded a careless dismissal and resumed his remi- 
 niscences with Jackson, whose eager curiosity and readiness 
 to laugh were much more to his mind. 
 
 Following the noise made by closing the door, Helen's 
 voice rang up from the hall below, "Papal" 
 
 "Yes, I'm coming, dear," he tried to answer cheerily. 
 Then he wrung Martine's hand .nd whispered, "Send for 
 Dr. Barnes. God knows you should have relief. Tell Jack- 
 son also to have a carriage go for Mr. Nichol at once. 
 After the doctor comes you may leave all in our hands. 
 Good-by." 
 
 Martine heard the rustle of a lady's dress and retired 
 precipitately. 
 
126 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 WITH an affectation of briskness he was far from 
 feeling, Mr. Kemble came down the stairs and 
 joined his daughter in the hall. He had taken 
 pains to draw his hat well over his eyes, anticipating and 
 dreading her keen scrutiny, but, strange to say, his troubled 
 demeanor passed unnoticed. In the interval of waiting 
 Helen's thoughts had taken a new turn. "Well, papa," 
 she began, as they passed into the street, "I am curious 
 to know about the sick man. You stayed an age, but all 
 the same I'm glad I came with you. Forebodings, presenti- 
 ments, and all that kind of thing seemed absurd the mo- 
 ment I saw Jackson's keen, mousing little visage. His 
 very voice is like a ray of garish light entering a dusky, 
 haunted room. Things suggesting ghosts and hobgoblins 
 become ridiculously prosaic, and you are ashamed of your- 
 self and your fears." 
 
 "Yes, yes," replied Mr. Kemble, yielding to irritation 
 in his deep perplexity, "the more matter-of-fact we are the 
 better we're off. I suppose the best thing to do is just to 
 face what happens and try to be brave." 
 
 "Well, papa, what's happened to annoy you to-night? 
 Is this sick man going to make you trouble ?" 
 
 "Like enough. I hope not. At any rate, he has claims 
 which I must meet. ' ' 
 
 "Don't you think you can meet them?" was her next 
 anxious query, her mind reverting to some financial obli- 
 gation. 
 
FOUND YET LOST 127 
 
 "We'll see. You and mother'll have to help me out, I 
 guess, ril tell you both when we get home;" and his sigh 
 was so deep as to be almost a groan. 
 
 "Papa," said Helen, earnestly pressing his arm, "don't 
 worry. Mamma and I will stand by you; so will Hobart. 
 He is the last one in the world to desert one in any kind of 
 trouble." 
 
 "I know that, no one better; but 1 fear he'll be in deeper 
 trouble than any of us. The exasperating thing is that 
 there should be any trouble at all. If it had only hap- 
 pened before — well, well, I can't talk here in the street. 
 As you say, you must stand by me, and I'll do the best 
 I can by you and all concerned." 
 
 "Oh, papa, there was good cause for my foreboding." 
 
 "Well, yes, and no. I don't know. I'm at my wits* 
 end. If you'll be brave and sensible, you can probably do 
 more than any of us. ' ' 
 
 "Papa, papa, something is the matter with Hobart," and 
 she drew him hastily into the house, which they had now 
 reached. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble met them at the door. Alarmed at her 
 husband's troubled face, she exclaimed anxiously, "Who 
 is this man? What did he want?" 
 
 "Come now, mother, give me a chance to get my breath. 
 We'll close the doors, sit down, and talk it all over." 
 
 Mrs. Kemble and her daughter exchanged an apprehen- 
 sive glance and followed with the air of being prepared for 
 the worst. 
 
 The banker sat down and wiped the perspiration from 
 his brow, then looked dubiously at the deeply anxious faces 
 turned toward him. "Well," he said, "I'm going to tell 
 you everything as far as I understand it. Now I want to 
 see if you two can't listen calmly and quietly and not give 
 way to useless feeling. There's much to be done, and you 
 'especially, Helen, must be in the right condition to do it." 
 
 "Oh, papa, why torture me so? Something has hap- 
 pened to Hobart. I can't endure this suspense.'* 
 
128 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Something lias happened to us all," replied her father, 
 gravely. "Hobart has acted like a hero, like a saint; so 
 must you. He is as well and able to go about as you are. 
 I've seen him and talked with him." 
 
 "He saw you and not me?" cried the girl, starting up. 
 
 "Helen, I entreat, I command you to be composed and 
 listen patiently. Don't you know him well enough to be 
 sure he had good reasons — " 
 
 "I can't imagine a reason," was the passionate reply, as 
 she paced the floor. "What reason could keep me from 
 him ? Merciful Heaven ! father, have you forgotten that 
 I was to marry him to-day? Well," she added hoarsely, 
 standing before him with hands clinched in her effort at 
 self-restraint, "the reason?" 
 
 "Poor fellow! poor fellow! he has not forgotten it,'* 
 groaned Mr. Kemble. "Well, 1 might as well out with it 
 Suppose Captain Nichol was not killed after all?" 
 
 Helen sank into a chair as if struck down as Nichol had 
 been himself. "What!" she whispered; and her face was 
 white indeed. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble rushed to her husband, demanding, "Do 
 you mean to tell us that Captain Nichol is alive ?" 
 
 "Yes; that's just the question we've got to face." 
 
 "It brings up another question," replied his wife, 
 sternly. "If he's been alive all this time, why did he not 
 let us know ? As far as I can make out, Hobart has found 
 him in Washington — " 
 
 "Helen," cried her father to the trembling girl, "for 
 Heaven's sake, be calm!" 
 
 "He's alive, alive T^ she answered, as if no other thought 
 could exist in her mind. Her eyes were kindling, the color 
 coming into her face, and her bosom throbbed quickly as 
 if her heart would burst its bonds. Suddenly she rushed 
 to her father, exclaiming, "He was the sick man. Oh, why 
 did you not let me see him?" ' 
 
 "Well, well!" ejaculated Mr. Kemble, "Hobart was 
 right, poor fellow ! Yes, Helen, Captain Nichol is the sick 
 
FOUND YET LOST 129 
 
 man, not dangerously ill, however. You are giving ample 
 reason why you should not see him yet; and I tell you 
 plainly you can't see him till you are just as composed as 
 I am." 
 
 She burst into a joyous, half- hysterical laugh as she ex- 
 claimed, "That's not asking much. I never saw you so 
 moved, papa. Little wonder! The dead is alive again! 
 Oh, papa, papa, you don't understand me at all! Could 1 
 hear such tidings composedly — I who have wept so many 
 long nights and days over his death ? I must give expres- 
 sion to overwhelming feeling here where it can do no harm, 
 but if I had seen him — when I do see him — ah! he'll receive 
 no harm from me. ' ' 
 
 *'But, Helen, think of Hobart," cried Mrs. Kemble, in 
 sharp distress. 
 
 *' Mother, mother, I cannot help it. Albert is alive, 
 alive/ The old feeling comes back like the breaking up of 
 the fountains of the great deep. You cannot know, cannot 
 understand; Hobart will. I'm sorry, sorry for him; but he 
 will understand. I thought Albert was dead ; I wanted to 
 make Hobart happy. He was so good and kind and deserv- 
 ing that I did love him in a sincere, quiet way, but not with 
 my first love, not as I loved Albert. I thought my love 
 was buried with him; but it has burst the grave as he has. 
 Papa, papa, let me go to him, now, now/ You say he is 
 sick; it is my place to nurse him back to life. Who has 
 a better right? Why do you not bring him here ?" 
 
 *' Perhaps it will be best, since Helen feels so," said Mr. 
 Kemble, looking at his wife. 
 
 "Well, I don*t know," she replied with a deep sigh. 
 **We certainly don't wish the public to be looking on any 
 more than we can help. He should be either here or at his 
 own home." 
 
 "There's more reason for what you say than you think,'* 
 Mr. Kemble began. 
 
 "There, papa," interrupted Helen, "I'd be more or less 
 than human if I could take this undreamed-of news quietly. 
 
130 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 I can see how perplexed and troubled you' ve been, and how 
 you've kindly tried to prepare me for the tidings. You will 
 find that 1 have strength of mind to meet all that is required 
 of me. It is all simpler to me than to you, for in a matter 
 of this kind the heart is the guide, indeed, the only guide. 
 Think! If Albert had come back months ago; if Hobart 
 had brought him back wounded and disabled — how would 
 we have acted ? Only our belief in his death led to what 
 has happened since, and the fact of life changes everything 
 back to—" 
 
 "Now, Helen, stop and listen to me," said her father, 
 firmly. *'In one sense the crisis is over, and you've heard 
 the news which I scarcely knew how to break to you. You 
 say you will have strength of mind to meet what is required 
 of you. I trust you may. But it's time you understood 
 the situation as far as I do. Mother's words show she's 
 off the track in her suspicion. Nichol is not to blame in 
 any sense. He is deserving of all sympathy, and yet — oh, 
 dear, it is such a complication !' ' and the old man groaned 
 as he thought of the personality who best knew himself as 
 Yankee Blank. "The fact is," he resumed to his breath- 
 less listeners, "Nichol is not ill at all physically. His mind 
 is affected — ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Kemble sank back in her chair, and Helen uttered 
 a cry of dismay. 
 
 "Yes, his mind is affected peculiarly. He remembers 
 nothing that happened before he was wounded. You must 
 realize this, Helen; you must prepare yourself for it. His 
 loss of memory is much more sad than if he had lost an arm 
 or a leg. He remembers only what he has picked up since 
 his injury." 
 
 "Then, then, he's not insane ?" gasped Helen. 
 
 "No, no, I should say not," replied her father, dubi- 
 ously; '*yet his words and manner produce much the same 
 effect as if he were — even a stronger effect." 
 
 "Oh, this is dreadful!" cried his wife. 
 
 "Dreadful indeed, but not hopeless, you know. Keep 
 
FOUND YET LOST 131 
 
 in mind doctors say that his memory may come back at any 
 time; and Hobart has the belief that the sight and voice of 
 Helen will bring it back.** 
 
 "God bless Hobart,** said Helen, with a deep breath, 
 **and God help him I His own love inspired that belief. 
 He's right; I know he*s right.** 
 
 "Well, perhaps he is. I don't know. I thought Nichol 
 would recognize me; but there wasn't a sign." 
 
 **0h, papa,'* cried Helen, smiling through her tears, 
 "there are some things which even your experience and 
 wisdom fail in. Albert will know me. We have talked 
 long enough; now let us act." 
 
 "You don't realize it all yet, Helen; you can't. Yon 
 must remember that Nichol regained consciousness in a 
 Southern hospital. He has learned to talk and act very 
 much like such soldiers as would associate with him.** 
 
 "The fact that he's alive and that I now may restore him 
 is enough, papa." 
 
 "Well, I want Dr. Barnes present when you meet him.*' 
 
 "Certainly; at least within call." 
 
 "I must stipulate too,'* said Mrs. Kemble. "I don't 
 wish the coming scenes to take place in a hotel, and under 
 the eyes of that gossip, Jackson. I don't see why Hobart 
 took him there.** 
 
 "I do,** said Mr. Kemble, standing up for his favorite. 
 "Hobart has already endured more than mortal man ought, 
 yet he has been most delicately considerate. No one but 
 Jackson and Dr. Barnes know about Nichol and his condi- 
 tion. I have also had Nichol' s father and mother sent for 
 on my own responsibility, for they should take their share 
 of the matter. Hobart believes that Helen can restore 
 Nichol *s memory. This would simplify everything and 
 save many painful impressions. You see, it's such an ob- 
 scure trouble, and there should be no ill-advised blundering 
 in the matter. The doctors in Washington told Hobart that 
 a slight shock, or the sight of an object that once had the 
 strongest hold upon his thoughts — well, you understand." 
 
182^ TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER . STORIES 
 
 *' Yes," said Helen, '*I 6?o understand. Hobart is trying 
 to give Albert the very best cbance. Albert wrote that his- 
 last earthly thoughts would be of me. It is but natural that 
 my presence should kindle those thoughts again. It was 
 like Hobart, who is almost divine in his thoughtfulness 
 of others, to wish to shield Albert from the eyes of even 
 his own father and mother until he could know them, and 
 know us all. He was only taken to the hotel that we all 
 might understand and be prepared to do our part. Papa, 
 bring Albert here and let his father and mother come here 
 also. He should be sacredly shielded in his infirmity, and 
 given every chance to recover before being seen by others j 
 and please, papa, exact from Jackson a solemn promise not 
 to tattle about Albert" 
 
 ** Yes, yes; but we have first a duty to perform. Mother, 
 please prepare a little lunch, and put a glass of your old 
 currant wine on the tray. Hobart must not come to a cold, 
 cheerless home. I'll go and have his old servant up and 
 ready to receive him." 
 
 **No, mamma, that is still my privilege," said Helen, 
 with a rush of tears. "Oh, I'm so sorry, sorry for him I but 
 neither he nor I can help or change what is, what's true." 
 
 When the tray was ready, she wrote and sealed these 
 words: 
 
 •*6od bless you, Hobart; God reward you! You have made me feel to- 
 night that earth is too poor, and only heaven rich enough to reward you. 
 
 **Hblbn." 
 
FOUND YET LOST 133 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MR. KEMBLE's appeal 
 
 IT often happens that the wife's disposition is an antidote 
 to her husband; and this was fortunately true of Mrs. 
 Jackson. She was neither curious nor gossiping, and 
 with a quick instinct that privacy was desired by Martine, 
 gave at an early hour her orders to close the house for the 
 night. The few loungers, knowing that she was autocratic, 
 slouched ofE to other resorts. The man and maids of all work 
 were kept out of the way, while she and her husband waited 
 on their unexpected guests. After Mr. Kemble's departure, 
 the errand-boy was roused from his doze behind the stove 
 and sent for Dr. Barnes; then Jackson wrote another note 
 at Martine's dictation: 
 
 "Mr. William Niohol: 
 
 **Dear Sir — A relative of yours is sick at my house. He came on the even- 
 ing train. You and your wife had better come at once in the carriage. " 
 
 Martine retired to the room in which he had seen Mr. 
 Kemble, that he might compose himself before meeting the 
 physician. The sound of Helen's voice, the mere proximity 
 of the girl who at this hour was to have been his wife had 
 not **old chaos'* come again for him, were by no means 
 **straw8" in their final and crushing weight. Motionless, 
 yet with mind verging on distraction, he sat in the cold, 
 dimly lighted room until aroused by the voice of Dr. Barnes. 
 
 **Why, Hobart!'* cried his old friend, starting at the 
 bloodshot eyes and pallid face of the young man, '*what is 
 
134 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 the matter ? You need me, sure enough, but why on earth 
 are you shivering in this cold room at the hotel ?" 
 
 Martine again said to Jackson: "Don't leave him," and 
 closed the door. Then, to the physician: "Dr. Barnes, I 
 am ill and worn-out. I know it only too well. You must 
 listen carefully while I in brief tell you why you were sent 
 for; then you and others must take charge and act as you 
 think best. I'm going home. I must have rest and a res- 
 pite. I must be by myself;" and he rapidly began to 
 sketch his experiences in Washington. 
 
 "Hold!" said the sensible old doctor, who indulged in 
 only a few strong exclamations of surprise, which did not 
 interrupt the speaker, "hold! You say you left the ward 
 to think it over, after being convinced that you had dis- 
 covered Nichol. Did you think it over quietly ?" 
 
 "Quietly!" repeated Martine, with intense bitterness. 
 "Would a man, not a mummy, think over such a thing 
 quietly? Judge me as you please, but I was tempted as 
 I believe never man was before. I fought the Devil till 
 morning." 
 
 "I thought as much," said the doctor, grasping Mar- 
 tine's hand, then slipping a finger on his pulse. "You 
 fought on foot too, didn't you?" 
 
 "Yes, I walked the streets as if demented." 
 
 "Of course. That in part accounts for your exhaustion. 
 Have you slept much since ?" 
 
 "Oh, Doctor, let me get through and go home!" 
 
 "No, Hobart, you can't get through with me till I am 
 with you. My dear fellow, do you think that I don't under- 
 stand and sympathize with you? There's no reason why 
 you should virtually risk your life for Captain Nichol 
 again. Take this dose of quinine at once, and then pro- 
 ceed. 1 can catch on rapidly. First answer, how much 
 have you slept since?" 
 
 "The idea of sleep! You can remedy this. Doctor, after 
 my part in this affair is over. I must finish now. Helen 
 may return, and I cannot meet her, nor am I equal to see- 
 
FOUND YET LOST 135 
 
 ing Mr. and Mrs. Nichol. My head feels queer, but I'll get 
 through somehow, if the strain is not kept up too long;" 
 and he finished in outline his story. In conclusion he said, 
 "You will understand that you are now to have charge of 
 Nichol. He is prepared by his experience to obey you, for 
 he has always been in hospitals, where the surgeon's will is 
 law. Except with physicians, he has a sort of rough way- 
 wardness, learned from the soldiers." 
 
 "Yes, I understand sufficiently now to manage. You 
 put him in my charge, then go home, and I'll visit you as 
 soon as I can." 
 
 "One word more, Doctor. As far as you think best, 
 enjoin reticence on Jackson. If the sight of Helen restores 
 Nichol, as 1 believe it will, little need ever be said about 
 his present condition. Jackson would not dare to disobey a 
 physician's injunction." 
 
 "Don't you dare disobey them, either. I'll manage him 
 too. Come." 
 
 Nichol had slept a good deal during the latter part of his 
 journey, and now was inclined to wakefulness — a tendency 
 much increased by his habit of waiting on hospital patients 
 at night. In the eager and curious Jackson he had a com- 
 panion to his mind, who stimulated in him a certain child- 
 like vanity. 
 
 "Hello, Ma' tine," he said, "ye 're gittin' tired o' me, I 
 reckon, ye' re off so much. I don't keer. This yere Jack- 
 son's a lively cuss, en I 'low we'll chin till mawnin'." 
 
 "Yes, Nichol, Mr. Jackson is a good friend of yours; 
 and here is another man who is more than a friend. You 
 remember what the surgeon at the hospital said to you ?" 
 
 "I reckon," replied Nichol, anxiously. "Hain't I 
 minded yer tetotally?" 
 
 "Yes, you have done very well indeed — remarkably well, 
 since you knew I was not a doctor. Now this man is a doc- 
 tor — the doctor I was to bring you to. You won't have to 
 mind me any more, but you must mind this man, Dr. 
 Barnes, in all respects, just as you did the doctors in the 
 
136 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 hospitals. As long as you obey him carefully he will be 
 very good to you." 
 
 *'0h, I'll mind, Doctor," said Nichol, rising and assum- 
 ing the respectful attitude of a hospital nurse. "We uns 
 wuz soon larned that 't wuzn't healthy to go agin the doctor. 
 When I wuz Yankee Blank, 'fo' I got ter be cap'n, I forgot 
 ter give a Johnny a doze o' med'cine, en Vm doggoned ef 
 the doctor uidn't mek me tek it myse'f. Gee wiz! sech a 
 time ez I had! Hain't give the doctors no trouble sence." 
 
 "All right, Captain Nichol," said Dr. Barnes, quietly, 
 **I understand my duties, and I see that you understand 
 yours. As you say, doctors must be obeyed, and I already 
 see that you won't make me or yourself any trouble. Good- 
 night, Hobart, I'm in charge now." 
 
 "Good-night, Doctor. Mr. Jackson, I'm sure you will 
 carry out Dr. Barnes' wishes implicitly." 
 
 "Yer'd better, Jackson," said Nichol, giving him a 
 wink. "A doctor kin give yer high ole jinks ef ye're not 
 keerful." 
 
 Martine now obeyed the instinct often so powerful in the 
 human breast as well as in dumb animals, and sought the 
 covert, the refuge of his home, caring little whether he was 
 to live or die. When he saw the lighted windows of Mr. 
 Kemble's residence, he moaned as if in physical pain. A 
 sudden and immeasurable longing to see, to speak with 
 Helen once before she was again irrevocably committed to 
 Nichol, possessed him. He even went to her gate to carry 
 out his impulse, then curbed himself and returned resolutely 
 to his dwelling. As soon as his step was on the porch, the 
 door opened and Mr. Kemble gave him the warm grasp of 
 friendship. Without a word, the two men entered the 
 sitting-room, sat down by the ruddy fire, and looked at 
 each other, Martine with intense, questioning anxiety in his 
 haggard face. The banker nodded gravely as he said, 
 "Yes, she knows." 
 
 "It's as I said it would be?" Martine added huskily, 
 after a moment or two. 
 
FOUND YET LOST 18t 
 
 *'Well, my friend, she said you would understand liel^ 
 better than any one else. She wrote you this note.'* 
 
 Martine's hands so trembled that he could scarcely break 
 the seal. He sat looking at the tear-blurred words some 
 little time, and grew evidently calmer, then faltered, '*Yes, 
 it's well to remember God at such a time. He has laid 
 heavy burdens upon me. He is responsible for them, not L 
 If I break. He also will be responsible." 
 
 *'Hobart," said Mr. Kemble, earnestly, "you must not 
 break under this, for our sake as well as your own. I have 
 the presentiment that we shall all need you yet, my poor 
 girl perhaps most of all. She doesn't, she can't realize it. 
 Now, the dead is alive again. Old girlish impulses and 
 feelings are asserting themselves. As is natural, she is 
 deeply excited; but this tidal wave of feeling will pass, 
 and then she will have to face both the past and future. 
 I know her well enough" to be sure she could never be 
 happy if this thing wrecked you. And then, Hobart,'* 
 and the old man sank his voice to a whisper, "suppose 
 —suppose Nichol continues the same." 
 
 *'He cannot," cried Martine, almost desperately. "Oh, 
 Mr. Kemble, don't suggest any hope for me. My heart 
 tells me there is none, that there should not be any. Ko, 
 she loved him as I have loved her from childhood. She 
 is right. I do understand her so well that 1 know what the 
 future will be. ' ' 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Kemble, firmly, as he rose, "she shall 
 never marry him as he is, with my consent. I don't feel 
 your confidence about Helen's power to restore him. I tell 
 you, Hobart, I'm in sore straits. Helen is the apple of my 
 eye. She is the treasure of our old age. God knows I re« 
 member what you have done for her and for us in the past; 
 and I feel that we shall need you in the future. You've 
 become like a son to mother and me, and you must stand by 
 us still. Our need will keep you up and rally you better 
 than all Dr. Barnes' medicine. I know you well enough to 
 know that. But take the medicine all the same; and above 
 
138 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 all things, don't give way to anything like recklessness and 
 despair. As you say, God has imposed the burden. Let 
 him give you the strength to bear it, and other people's 
 burdens too, as you have in the past. 1 must go now. 
 Don't fail me." 
 
 Wise old Mr. Kemble had indeed proved the better phy- 
 sician. His misgivings, fears, and needs, combined with 
 his honest affection, had checked the cold, bitter flood of 
 despair which had been overwhelming Martine. The mor- 
 bid impression that he would be only another complication, 
 and of necessity an embarrassment to Helen and her family, 
 was in a measure removed. Mere words of general con- 
 dolence would not have helped him; an appeal like that 
 to the exhausted soldier, and the thought that the battle 
 for him was not yet over, stirred the deep springs of his 
 nature and slowly kindled the purpose to rally and be 
 ready. He rose, ate a little of the food, drank the wine, 
 then looked around the beautiful apartment prepared for 
 her who was to have been his wife, "I have grown weak 
 and reckless," he said. "I ought to have known her well 
 enough — I do know her so well — as to be sure that I would 
 cloud her happiness if this thing destroyed me." 
 
FOUND YET LOST 189 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 R. AND MRS. NICHOL wonderingly yet promptly 
 complied with the request for their presence, mean- 
 time casting about in their minds as to the identity 
 of the relative who had summoned them so unexpected. 
 Mr. Kemble arrived at the hotel at about the same moment 
 as they did, and Jackson was instructed to keep the carriage 
 in waiting. "It was I who sent for you and your wife," 
 said the banker. "Mr. Martine, if possible, would have 
 given you cause for a great joy only; but I fear it must 
 be tempered with an anxiety which I trust will not be long 
 continued;" and he led the way into the parlor. 
 
 "Is it — can it be about Albert?" asked Mrs. Nichol, 
 trembling, and sinking into a chair. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Nichol. Try to keep your fortitude, for 
 perhaps his welfare depends upon it." 
 
 "Oh, God be praised! The hope of this never wholly 
 left me, because they didn't find his body." 
 
 Dr. Barnes came down at once, and with Mr. Kemble 
 tried to soothe the strong emotions of the parents, while at 
 the same time enlightening them as to their son's discovery 
 and condition. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Nichol, in strong emphasis; "Hobart 
 Martine is one of a million." 
 
 "I think he ought to have brought Albert right to me 
 first," Mrs. Nichol added, shaking her head and wiping her 
 eyes. "After all, a mother's claim — " 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Nichol," interrupted Dr. Barnes, "there 
 
MO TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 was no thought of undervaluing your claim on the part of 
 our friend Hobart. He has taken what he believed, and 
 what physicians led him to believe, was the best course to 
 restore your son. Besides, Mr. Martine is a very sick man. 
 Even now he needs my attention more than Captain Nichol. 
 You must realize that he was to have married Miss Kemble 
 to-day; yet he brings back your son, sends for Mr. Kemble 
 in order that his daughter, as soon as she can realize the 
 strange truth, may exert her power. He himself has not 
 seen the girl who was to have been his bride." 
 
 "Wife, wife," said Mr. Nichol, brokingly, ** no mortal 
 man could do more for us than Hobart Martine, God bless 
 him!" 
 
 *'Mrs. Nichol," began Mr. Kemble, "my wife and Helen 
 both unite in the request that you and your husband bring 
 your son at once to our house; perhaps you would rather 
 meet him in the privacy — ' ' 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" she cried, "I cannot wait. Please do not 
 think I am insensible to all this well-meant kindness; but a 
 mother's heart cannot wait. He'll know me — me who bore 
 him and carried him on my breast." 
 
 "Mrs. Nichol, you shall see him at once," said the doc- 
 tor. "I hope it will be as you say; but I'm compelled to 
 tell you that you may be disappointed. There's no cer- 
 tainty that this trouble will pass away at once under any 
 one's influence. You and your husband come with me. 
 Mr. Kemble, I will send Jackson down, and so secure the 
 privacy which you would kindly provide. I will be pres- 
 ent, for I may be needed." 
 
 He led the way, the mother following with the impetu- 
 osity and abandon of maternal love, and the father with 
 stronger and stranger emotions than he had ever known, 
 but restrained in a manner natural to a quiet, reticent man. 
 They were about to greet one on whom they had once cen- 
 tred their chief hopes and affection, yet long mourned as 
 dead. It is hard to imagine the wild tumult of their feel- 
 ings. Not merely by words, but chiefly by impulse, imme- 
 
FOUND YET LOST 14 L 
 
 diate action, could they reveal how profoundly they were 
 moved. 
 
 With kindly intention, as he opened the door of the 
 apartment, the doctor began, *'Mr. Jackson, please leave 
 us a few — '' 
 
 Mrs. Nichol saw her son and rushed upon him, crying, 
 *' Albert, Albert!" It was enough at that moment that she 
 recognized him; and the thought that he would not recog- 
 nize her was banished. With an intuition of heart beyond 
 all reasoning, she felt that he who had drawn his life from 
 her must know her and respond to nature's first strong 
 tie. 
 
 In surprise, Nichol had risen, then was embarrassed to 
 find an elderly woman sobbing on his breast and addressing 
 him in broken, endearing words by a name utterly unfamil- 
 iar. He looked wonderingly at his father, who stood near, 
 trembling and regarding him through tear-dimmed eyes 
 with an affectionate interest, impressive even to his limited 
 perceptions. 
 
 "Doctor," he began over his mother's head, "what in 
 thunder does all this here mean? Me 'n' Jackson was 
 chinnin' comf't'bly, when sud'n you uns let loose on me 
 two crazy old parties I never seed ner y eared on. Never 
 had folks go on so 'bout me befo'. Beats even that Hob't 
 Ma' tine, " and he showed signs of rising irritation. 
 
 "Albert, Albert!" almost shrieked Mrs. Nichol, "don't 
 you know me — me, your own mother?" 
 
 "Naw." 
 
 At the half-indignant, incredulous tone, yet more than 
 all at the strange accent and form of this negative, the poor 
 woman was almost beside herself. "Merciful God!" she 
 cried, "this cannot be;" and she sank into a chair, sobbing 
 almost hysterically. 
 
 For reasons of his own. Dr. Barnes did not interfere. 
 Nature in powerful manifestations was actuating the 
 parents; and he decided, now that things had gone so 
 far, to let the entire energy of uncurbed emotion, com- 
 
142 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 bined with all the mysterioas affinity of the closest kinship, 
 exert its influence on the clogged brain of his patient. 
 
 For a few moments Mrs. Nichol was too greatly over- 
 come to comprehend anything clearly; her husband, on the 
 other hand, was simply wrought up to his highest capacity 
 for action. His old instinct of authority returned, and he 
 seized his son's hand and began, *'Now, see here, Albert, 
 you were wounded in your head — '* 
 
 "Yes, right yere," interrupted Nichol, pointing to his 
 scar. "I knows all 'bout that, but I don't like these goin's 
 on, ez ef I wuz a nachel-bawn fool, en had ter bleve all 
 folks sez. I've been taken in too often. When I wuz with 
 the Johnnies they'd say ter me, 'Yankee Blank, see that ar 
 critter? That's a elephant.' When I'd call it a elephant, 
 they'd larf an' larf till I flattened out one feller's nose. 1 
 dunno nothin* 'bout elephants; but the critter they pin ted 
 at wuz a cow. Then one day they set me ter scrubbin' a 
 nigger to mek 'im white, en all sech doin's, till the head- 
 doctor stopped the hull blamed nonsense. S'pose I be a 
 cur'ous chap. I ain't a nachel-bawn ijit. When folks begin 
 ter go on, en do en say things I kyant see through, then I 
 stands off en sez, 'Lemme 'lone.' The hospital doctors 
 wouldn't 'low any foolin' with me 't all.*' 
 
 *'I'm not allowing any fooling with you," said Dr. 
 Barnes, firmly. "I wish you to listen to that man and 
 woman, and believe all they say. The hospital doctors 
 would give you the same orders." 
 
 ''AH right, then," assented Nichol, with a sort of grim- 
 ace of resignation. "Fire away, old man, an' git through 
 with yer yarn so Jackson kin come back. 1 wish this 
 woman wouldn't take on so. Hit makes me orful oncom- 
 f't'ble, doggoned ef hit don't." 
 
 The rapid and peculiar utterance, the seemingly unfeel- 
 ing words of his son, stung the father into an ecstasy of grief 
 akin to anger. A man stood before him, as clearly recog- 
 nized as his own image in a mirror. The captain was not 
 out of his mind in any familiar sense of the word; he re- 
 
FOUND YET LOST 143 
 
 membered distinctly what had happened for months past. 
 He must recall, he must be made to recollect the vital 
 truths of his life on which not only his happiness but that 
 of others depended. Although totally ignorant of what the 
 wisest can explain but vaguely, Mr. Nichol was bent on 
 restoring his son by the sheer force of will, making him 
 remember by telling him what he should and must recall. 
 This he tried to do with strong, eager insistence. *'Why, 
 Albert,'* he urged, "I'm your father; and that's your 
 mother." 
 
 Nichol shook his head and looked at the doctor, who 
 added gravely, "That's all true." 
 
 "Yes," resumed Mr. Nichol, with an energy and earnest- 
 ness of utterance which compelled attention. "Now listen 
 to reason. As I was saying, you were wounded in the head, 
 and you have forgotten what happened before you were 
 hurt. But you must remember, you must, indeed, or you 
 will break your mother's heart and mine, too." 
 
 "But I tellyer, I kyant reckerlect a thing befo' I kinder 
 waked up in the hospital, en the Johnnies call me Yankee 
 Blank. I jes' wish folks would lemme alone on that pint. 
 Hit alius bothers me en makes me mad. How kin I recker- 
 lect when I kyant?" and he began to show signs of strong 
 vexation. 
 
 Dr. Barnes was about to interfere when Mrs. Nichol, 
 wlio had grown calmer, rose, took her son's hand, and said 
 brokenly: "Albert, look me in the face, your mother's face, 
 and try, tvT/ with all your heart and soul and mind. Don't 
 you remember mef'^ 
 
 It was evident that her son did try. His brow wrinkled 
 in the perplexed effort, and he looked at her fixedly for a 
 moment or more; but no magnetic current from his mother's 
 hand, no suggestion of the dear features which had bent 
 over him in childhood and turned toward him in love and 
 pride through subsequent years found anything in his 
 arrested consciousness answering to her appeal. 
 
 The effort and its failure only irritated him, and he broke 
 
144 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 out: *'Now look yere, I be as 1 be. What's the use of all 
 these goin's on? Doctor, if you sez these folks are my 
 father and mother, so be it. I'm learning somethin' new 
 all the time. This ain't no mo' quar, I s'pose, than some 
 other things. I've got to mind a doctor, for I've learned 
 that much ef I hain't nuthin' else, but I want you uns U> 
 know that I won't stan' no mo' foolin'. Doctors don't fool 
 me, en they've got the po'r ter mek a feller do ez they sez, 
 but other folks is got ter be keerful how they uses me." 
 
 Mrs. Nichol again sank into her chair and wept bitterly; 
 her husband at last remained silent in a sort of inward, im^ 
 potent rage of grief. There was their son, alive and in 
 physical health, yet between him and them was a viewless 
 barrier which they could not break through. 
 
 The strange complications, the sad thwartings of hope 
 which must result unless he was restored, began to loom 
 already in the future. 
 
 Dr. Barnes now came forward and said: ** Captain Nichol, 
 you are as you are at this moment, but you must know that 
 you are not what you were once. We are trying to restore 
 you to your old self. You'd be a great deal better off if we 
 succeed. You must help us all you can. You must be 
 patient, and try all the time to recollect. You know I am 
 not deceiving you, but seeking to help you. You don't like 
 this. That doesn't matter. Didn't you see doctors do many 
 things in hospitals which the patients didn't like ?" 
 
 **I reckon," replied Nichol, growing reasonable at once 
 when brought on familiar ground. 
 
 *' Well, you are my patient. I may have to do some dis- 
 agreeatrte things, but they won't hurt you. It won't be like 
 taking off an arm or a leg. You have seen that done, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 "You bet!" was the eager, proud reply. *'I used to 
 hold the fellows when they squirmed." 
 
 *'Now hold yourself. Be patient and good-natured. 
 While we are about it, I want to make every appeal pos- 
 sible to your lost memory, and I order you to keep on 
 
FOUND YET LOST 145 
 
 trying to remember till I say: 'Through for the present.' 
 If we succeed, you'll thank me all the days of your life. 
 Anyhow, you must do as I say." 
 
 "Oh, I know that." 
 
 *'Well, then, your name is Captain Nichol. This is Mr. 
 Nichol, you father; this lady is your mother. Call them 
 father and mother when you speak to them. Always speak 
 kindly and pleasantly. They'll take you to a pleasant home 
 when I'm through with you, and you must mind them. 
 They'll be good to you everyway." 
 
 Nichol grinned acquiescence and said: *'A11 right. 
 Doctor." 
 
 "Now you show your good .sense. We'll have you 
 sound and happy yet." The doctor thought a moment 
 and then asked: "Mr. Nichol, I suppose that after our visit 
 to Mr. Kemble, you and your wife would prefer to take 
 your son home with you?" 
 
 "Certainly," was the prompt response. 
 
 "I would advise you to do so. After our next effort, 
 however it results, we all will need rest and time for 
 thought. Captain, remain here a few moments with your 
 father and mother. Listen good-naturedly and answer 
 pleasantly to whatever they may say to you. I will be 
 back soon." 
 
 1— Roe— XI 
 
146 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 DR. BARNES descended tlie stairs to the parlor where 
 Mr. Kemble impatiently awaited him. "Well?" 
 said the banker,^ anxiously. 
 
 *'I will explain while on the way to your house. The 
 carriage is still ready, I suppose?" to Jackson. 
 
 "Yes," was the eager reply; "how did he take the meet- 
 ing of his parents ?" 
 
 "In the main as I feared. He does not know them yet. 
 Mr. Jackson, you and I are somewhat alike in one of our 
 duties. I never talk about my patients. If I did, I ought 
 to be drummed out of the town instead of ever being called 
 upon again. Of course you feel that you should not talk 
 about your guests. You can understand why the parties 
 concerned in this matter would not wish to have it dis- 
 cussed in the village. ' ' 
 
 "Certainly, Doctor, certainly," replied Jackson, redden- 
 ing, for he knew something of his reputation for gossip. 
 "This is no ordinary case." 
 
 "No, it is not. Captain Nichol and his friends would 
 never forgive any one who did not do right by them now. 
 In about fifteen minutes or so I will return. Have the car- 
 riage wait for me at Mr. Kemble 's till again wanted. You 
 may go back to the captain and do your best to keep him 
 wide-awake." 
 
 Jackson accompanied them to the conveyance and said 
 to the man on the box: "Obey all Dr. Barnes's orders." 
 
 As soon as the two men were seated, the physician 
 
FOUND YET LOST 147 
 
 began: "Our first test has failed utterly;" and lie briefly 
 narrated what had occurred, concluding, "I fear your 
 daughter will have no better success. Still, it is perhaps 
 wise to do all we can, on the theory that these sudden 
 shocks may start up the machinery of memory. Nichol is 
 excited; such powers as he possesses are stimulated to their 
 highest activity, and he is evidently making a strong effort 
 to recall the past. I therefore now deem it best to increase 
 the pressure on his brain to the utmost. If the obstruction 
 does not give way, I see no other course than to employ the 
 skill of experts and trust to the healing processes of time." 
 
 " I am awfully perplexed. Doctor, ' ' was the reply. ' ' You 
 must be firm with me on one point, and you know your 
 opinion will have great weight. Under no sentimental sense 
 of duty, or even of affection, must Helen marry Nichol 
 unless he is fully restored and given time to prove there is 
 no likelihood of any return of this infirmity. ' ' 
 
 "I agree with you emphatically. There is no reason for 
 such self-sacrifice on your daughter's part. Nichol would 
 not appreciate it. He is not an invalid; on the contrary, 
 a strong, muscular man, abundantly able to take care of 
 himself under the management of his family." 
 
 "He has my profound sympathy," continued Mr. Kem- 
 ble, "but giving that unstintedly is a very different thing 
 from giving him my only child." 
 
 "Certainly. Perhaps we need not say very much to Miss 
 Helen on this point at present. Unless he becomes his old 
 self she will feel that she has lost him more truly than if he 
 were actually dead. The only deeply perplexing feature in 
 the case is its uncertainty. He may be all right before 
 morning, and he may never recall a thing that happened 
 before the explosion of that shell." 
 
 The carriage stopped, and Mr. Kemble hastily led the 
 way to his dwelling. Helen met them at the door. "Oh, 
 how long you have been!" she protested; "I've just been 
 tortured by suspense." 
 
 Dr. Barnes took her by the hand and led her to the par- 
 
148 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 lor. "Miss Helen," he said gravely, "if you are not careful 
 you will be another patient on my hands. Sad as is Captain 
 Nichol's case, he at least obeys me implicitly; so must you. 
 Your face is flushed, your pulse feverish, and — " 
 
 "Doctor, " cried the girl, "you can't touch the disease till 
 you remove the cause. Why is he kept so long from me ?" 
 
 "Helen, child, joumust believe that the doctor — that we 
 all — are doing our best for you and Nichol," said Mr. Kem- 
 ble, anxiously. "His father and mother came to the hotel. 
 It was but natural that they should wish to see him at once. 
 How would we feel ?" 
 
 "Come, Helen, dear, you must try to be more calm," 
 urged the mother, gently, with her arm around her daugh- 
 ter's neck. "Doctor, can't you give her something to quiet 
 her nerves?" 
 
 "Miss Helen, like the captain, is going to do just as I 
 say, aren't you? You can do more for yourself than I can 
 do for you. Remember, you must act intelligently and co- 
 operate with me. His father, and especially his mother, 
 exhibited the utmost degree of emotion and made the 
 strongest appeals without effect. Now we must try differ- 
 ent tactics. All must be quiet and nothing occur to confuse 
 or irritate him. ' ' 
 
 "Ah, how little you all understand me! The moment 
 you give me a chance to act I can be as calm as you are. 
 It's this waiting, this torturing suspense that I cannot en- 
 dure. Hobart would not have permitted it. He knows, 
 he understands. Every effort will fail till Albert sees me. 
 It will be a cause for lasting gratitude to us both that I 
 should be the one to restore him. Now let me manage. 
 My heart will guide me better than your science." 
 
 "What will you do?" inquired her father, in deep 
 solicitude. 
 
 "See, here's his picture," she replied, taking it from a 
 table near — "the one he gave me just before he marched 
 away. Let him look at that and recall himself. Then I 
 will enter. Oh, I've planned it all! My self-control will 
 
FOUND YET LOST 149 
 
 be perfect. Would I deserve the name of woman if I were 
 weak or hysterical ? No, 1 would do my best to rescue any 
 man from such a misfortune, much more Albert, who has 
 such sacred claims." 
 
 "That's a good idea of yours about the photograph. 
 Well, I guess I must let Nature have her own way again, 
 only in this instance I advise quiet methods." 
 
 "Trust me, Doctor, and you won't regret it." 
 
 "Nerve yourself then to do your best, but prepare to be 
 disappointed for the present. I do not and cannot share in 
 your confidence. ' ' 
 
 "Of course you cannot," she said, with a smile which 
 illuminated her face into rare beauty. "Only love and 
 faith could create my confidence." 
 
 "Miss Helen," was the grave response, "would love and 
 faith restore Captain Nic hoi's right arm if he had lost 
 it?" 
 
 "Oh, but that's different," she faltered. 
 
 "I don't know whether it is or not. We are experiment- 
 ing. There may be a physical cause obstructing memory 
 which neither you nor any one can now remove. Kindness 
 only leads me to temper your hope. ' ' 
 
 "Doctor," she said half- desperately, "it is not hope; it 
 is belief. I could not feel as I do if I were to be dis- 
 appointed. ' ' 
 
 "Ah, Miss Helen, disappointment is a very common 
 experience. I must stop a moment and see one who has 
 learned this truth pretty thoroughly. Then I will bring 
 Nichol and his parents at once." 
 
 Tears filled her eyes. "Yes, I know," she sighed; "my 
 heart just bleeds for him, but I cannot help it. Were I not 
 sure that Hobart understands me better than any one else, I 
 should be almost distracted. This very thought of him 
 nerves me. Think what he did for Albert from a hard 
 sense of duty. Can I fail? Good- by, and please, please 
 hasten." 
 
 Martine rose to greet the physician with a clear eye and 
 
150 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 a resolute face. "Why, why!" cried Dr. Barnes, cheerily, 
 "you look a hundred per cent better. That quinine — " 
 
 "There, Doctor, I don't undervalue your drugs; but 
 Mr. Kemble has been to see me and appealed to me for help 
 — to still be on hand if needed. Come, I've had my hour 
 for weakness. I am on the up-grade now. Tell me ho\s 
 far the affair has progressed. ' ' 
 
 "Haven't time, Hobart. Since Mr. Kemble's treatment 
 is so efficacious, I'll continue it. You will be needed, you 
 will indeed, no matter how it all turns out. I won't aban- 
 don my drugs, either. Here, take this." 
 
 Martine took the medicine as administered. "Now when 
 jou feel drowsy, go to sleep, ' ' added the doctor. 
 
 "Tell me one thing — has she seen him yet ?" 
 
 "No; his father and mother have, and he does no"^ know 
 them. It's going to be a question of time, I fear." 
 
 "Helen will restore him." 
 
 "So she believes, or tries to. I mercifully shook her 
 faith a little. Well, she feels for you, old fellow. The be- 
 lief that you understand her better than any one has great 
 sustaining power. ' ' 
 
 "Say I won't fail her; but I entreat that you soon let me 
 know the result of the meeting. ' ' 
 
 "I'll come in," assented the doctor, as he hastily de- 
 parted. Then he added sotto voce, "If you hear anything 
 more under twelve or fifteen hours, I'm off my reckoning." 
 
 Ee- entering the carriage, he was driven rapidly to the 
 hotel. Jackson had played his part, and had easily induced 
 Nichol to recount his hospital experience in the presence of 
 his parents, who listened in mingled wonder, grief, and 
 impotent protest. 
 
 "Captain, put on your overcoat and hat and come with 
 me," said the doctor, briskly. "Your father and mother 
 will go with us. ' ' 
 
 "Good- by, Jackson," said Nichol, cordially. "Ye' re a 
 lively cuss, en I hopes we'll have a chaince to chin agin." 
 
 With a blending of hope and of fear, his parents followed 
 
FOUND YET LOST 151 
 
 him. The terrible truth of his iD sensibility to all that he 
 should recognize and remember became only the more ap- 
 palling as they comprehended it. While it lost none of its 
 strangeness, they were compelled to face and to accept 
 it as they could not do at first. 
 
 "Now, Captain," said the doctor, after they were seated 
 in the carriage, "listen carefully to me. It is necessary that 
 you recall what happened before you were wounded. I tell 
 you that you must do it if you can, and you know doctors 
 must be obeyed." 
 
 "Look yere. Doctor, ain't I a- try in' ? but I tell yer hit's 
 like tryin' ter lift myself out o' my own boots." 
 
 "Mind, now, I don't say you must remember, only try 
 your best. You can do that ?' ' 
 
 "I reckon." 
 
 "Well, you are going to the house of an old friend who 
 knew you well before you were hurt. You must pay close 
 heed to all she says just as you would to me. You must 
 not say any rude, bad words, such as soldiers often use, but 
 listen to every word she says. Perhaps you'll know her as 
 soon as you see her. Now I've prepared you. I won't be 
 far off." 
 
 "Don't leave me, Doctor. I jes' feels nachelly muxed 
 up en mad when folks pester me 'bout what I kyant do." 
 
 "You must not get angry now, I can tell you. That 
 would never do at all. 1 forbid it." 
 
 "There, there now. Doctor, I won't, doggone me ef I 
 will, ' ' Nichol protested anxiously. 
 
 Mr. Kemble met them at the door, and the captain 
 recognized him instantly. 
 
 "Why, yere's that sensible ole feller what didn't want 
 to ast no questions," he exclaimed. 
 
 "You are right, Captain Nichol, I have no questions to 
 ask." 
 
 **WeIl, ef folks wuz all like you I'd have a comf't'ble 
 time " 
 
 "Come with me, Captain," said the physician, leading 
 
152^ TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 the way into the parlor. Mr. Kemble silently ushered Mr. 
 and Mrs. Nichol into the sitting-room on the opposite side 
 of the hall and placed them in the care of his wife. He then 
 went into the back parlor in which was Helen, now quiet as 
 women so often are in emergencies. Through a slight open- 
 ing between the sliding- door she looked, with tightly clasped 
 hands and parted lips, at her lover. At first she was con- 
 scious of little else except the overwhelming truth that be- 
 fore her was one she had believed dead. Then again surged 
 up with blinding force the old feeling which had possessed 
 her when she saw him last — when he had impressed his fare- 
 well kiss upon her lips. Eemembering the time for her to 
 act was almost at hand, she became calm — more from the 
 womanly instinct to help him than from the effort of her 
 will. 
 
 Dr. Barnes said to Nichol, "Look around. Don't you 
 think you have seen this room before? Take your time 
 and try to remember. ' ' 
 
 The captain did as he was bidden, but soon shook his 
 head. "Hit's right purty, but I don't reckerlect." 
 
 "Well, sit down here, then, and look at that picture. 
 Who is it?" 
 
 "Why, hit's me — me dressed up as cap'n, " ejaculated 
 Nichol, delightedly. 
 
 ' ' Yes, that was the way you looked and dressed before 
 you were wounded. ' ' 
 
 "How yer talk! This beats any thin' I ever yeared from 
 the Johnnies." 
 
 *'*Now, Captain Nichol, you see we are not deceiving 
 you. We called you captain. There's your likeness, taken 
 before you were hurt and lost your memory, and you can 
 see for yourself that you were a captain. You must think 
 how much there is for you to try to remember. Before you 
 went to the war, long before you got hurt, you gave this 
 likeness of yourself to a young lady that you thought a 
 great deal of. Can't you recall something about it?" 
 
 Nichol wrinkled his scarred forehead, scratched his head, 
 
FOUND YET LOST 153 
 
 and hitched uneasily in his chair, evidently making a vain 
 eflEort to penetrate the gloom back of that vague awakening 
 in the Southern hospital. At last he broke out in his usual 
 irritation, "Naw, I kyant, doggon — " 
 
 "flush! you must not use that word here. Don't be 
 discouraged. You are trying; that's all 1 ask," and the 
 doctor laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. "Now, Cap- 
 tain, I'll just step in the next room. You think quietly as 
 you can about the young lady to whom you gave that pic- 
 ture of yourself. ' ' 
 
 Nichol was immensely pleased with his photograph, and 
 looked at it in all its lights. While thus gratifying a sort 
 of childish vanity, Helen entered noiselessly, her blue eyes, 
 doubly luminous from the pallor of her face, shining like 
 sapphires. So intent was her gaze that one might think 
 it would "kindle a soul under the ribs of death." 
 
 At last Nichol became conscious of her presence and 
 started, exclaiming, "Why, there she is herself." 
 
 ''Oh, Albert, you do know me," cried the girl, rushing 
 toward him with outstretched hand. 
 
 He took it unhesitatingly, saying with a pleased wonder, 
 "Well, I reckon I'm comin' round. Yer the young lady 
 I give this picture to ?' ' 
 
 "I'm Helen," she breathed, with an indescribable accent 
 of tenderness and gladness. 
 
 "Why, cert'ny. The doctor tole me 'bout you." 
 
 "But you remember me yourself?" she pleaded. "You 
 remember what you said to me when you gave me this pic- 
 ture?" and she looked into his eyes with an expression 
 which kindled even his dull senses. 
 
 "Oh, shucks!" he said slowly, "I wish I could. I'd 
 like ter 'blige yer, fer ye're right purty, en I am a-tryin' ter 
 mind the doctor. ' ' 
 
 Such a sigh escaped her that one might think her heart 
 and hope were going with it. The supreme moment of meet- 
 ing had come and gone, and he did not know her; she saw 
 and felt in her inmost soul that he did not. The brief and 
 
164 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 illusive gleam into the past was projected only from the 
 present, resulting from what he had been told, not from 
 what he recalled. 
 
 She withdrew her hand, turned away, and for a moment 
 or two her form shook with sobs she could not wholly stifle. 
 He looked on perplexed and troubled, then broke out, '*! 
 jes' feels ez ef I'd split my blamed ole haid open — " 
 
 She checked him by a gesture. "Wait," she cried, '*sit 
 down. ' * She took a chair near him and hastily wiped her 
 eyes. "Perhaps I can help you remember me. You will 
 listen closely, will you not?" 
 
 "I be dog — oh, I forgot," and he looked toward the 
 back parlor apprehensively. "Yes, mees, I'll do anythin' 
 yer sez. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Well, once you were a little boy only so high, and I 
 was a little girl only so high. We both lived in this village 
 and we went to school together. We studied out of the 
 same books together. At three o'clock in the afternoon 
 school was out, and then we put our books in our desks 
 and the teacher let us go and play. There was a pond of 
 water, and it often froze over with smooth black ice. You 
 and I used to go together to that pond; and you would 
 fasten my skates on my feet — " 
 
 "Hanged ef I wouldn't do it agin," he cried, greatly 
 pleased. "Yer beats 'em all. Stid o' astin' questions, yer 
 tells me all 'bout what happened. Why, I kin reckerlect 
 it all ef I'm tole often anuff." 
 
 With a sinking heart she faltered on, "Then you grew 
 older and went away to school, and I went away to school. 
 We had vacations; we rode on horseback together. Well, 
 you grew to be as tall as you are now ; and then came a war 
 and you wore i> that "^n's uniform, like — like that you see in 
 your likeness^te is f-and — ' ' she stopped. Her rising color 
 became a vivid Y,iBh; she slowly rose as the thought burned 
 its way into her consciousness that she was virtually speak- 
 ing to a stranger. Her words were bringing no gleams of 
 intelligence into his face; they were throwing no better, no 
 
FOUND YET LOST 155 
 
 Stronger light upon the past than if she were telling the 
 story to a great boy. Yet he was not a boy. A man's face 
 was merely disfigured (to her eyes) by a grin of pleasure in- 
 stead of a pleased smile; and a man's eyes were regarding 
 her with an unwinking stare of admiration. She was not 
 facing her old playmate, her old friend and lover, but a 
 being whose only consciousness reached back but months, 
 through scenes, associations coarse and vulgar like himself. 
 She felt this with an intuition that was overwhelming. She 
 could not utter another syllable, much less speak of the 
 sacred love of the past. "0 God!" she moaned in her 
 heart, "the man has become a living grave in which his 
 old self is buried. Oh, this is terrible, terrible!" 
 
 As the truth grew upon her she sprang away, wringing 
 her hands and looking upon him with an indescribable ex- 
 pression of pity and dread. "Oh," she now moaned aloud, 
 "if he had only come back to me mutilated in body, help- 
 less! but this change — " 
 
 She fled from the room, and Nichol stared after her in 
 perplexed consternation. 
 
166 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV 
 "forwakd! company a'* 
 
 WHEN Mrs. Kemble was left alone with Captain 
 Nichol's parents in the sitting-room, she told 
 them of Helen's plan of employing the photo- 
 graph in trying to recall their son to himself. It struck 
 them as an unusually effective method. Mrs. Kemble saw 
 that their anxiety was so intense that it was torture for them 
 to remain in suspense away from the scene of action. It may 
 be added that her own feelings also led her to go with them 
 into the back parlor, where all that was said by Nicbol and 
 her daughter could be heard. Her solicitude for Helen was 
 not less than theirs for their son; and she felt the girl might 
 need both motherly care and counsel. She was opposed 
 even more strenuously than her husband to any committal 
 on the daughter's part to her old lover unless he should 
 become beyond all doubt his former self. At best, it would 
 be a heavy cross to give up Martine, who had won her entire 
 affection. Helen's heart presented a problem too deep for 
 solution. What would — what could — Captain Nichol be to 
 her child in his present condition, should it continue ? 
 
 It was but natural, therefore, that she and her husband 
 should listen to Helen's effort to awaken memories of the 
 past with profound anxiety. How far would she go ? If 
 Nichol were able to respond with no more appreciative 
 intelligence than he had thus far manifested, would a senti- 
 ment of pity and obligation carry her to the point of accept- 
 ing him as he was, of devoting herself to one who, in spite 
 of all their commiseration and endeavors to tolerate, might 
 become a sort of horror in their household! It was with 
 
FOUND YET LOST 157 
 
 immense relief that they heard her falter in her story, for 
 thfey quickly divined that there was nothing in him which 
 responded to her effort. When they heard her rise and 
 moan, "If he had only come back to me mutilated in body, 
 helpless I but this change — " they believed that she was 
 meeting the disappointment as they could wish. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Nichol heard the words also, and while in 
 a measure compelled to recognize their force, they conveyed 
 a meaning hard to accept. The appeal upon which so much 
 hope had been built had failed. In bitterness of soul, the 
 conviction grew stronger that their once brave, keen-minded 
 son would never be much better than an idiot. 
 
 Then Helen appeared among them as pale, trembling, 
 and overwhelmed as if she had seen a spectre. In strong 
 reaction from her effort and blighted hope she was almost in 
 a fainting condition. Her mother's arms received her and 
 supported her to a lounge; Mrs. Nichol gave way to bitter 
 weeping; Mr. Kemble wrung the father's hand in sympa- 
 thy, and then at his wife's request went for restoratives. 
 Dr. Barnes closed the sliding- doors and prudently reassured 
 Nichol: "You have done your best, Captain, and that is all 
 I asked of you. Eemain here quietly and look at your pic- 
 ture for a little while, and then you shall have a good long 
 rest." 
 
 "I did try. Doctor," protested Nichol, anxiously. "Gee 
 wiz! I reckon a feller orter try ter please sech a purty 
 gyurl. She tole me lots. Look yere, Doctor, why kyan't 
 I be tole over en over till I reckerlect it all ?" 
 
 "Well, we'll see, Captain. It's late now, and we must 
 all have a rest. Stay here till I come for you. ' ' 
 
 Nichol was so pleased with his photograph that he was 
 well content in its contemplation. The physician now gave 
 his attention to Helen, who was soon so far restored as to 
 comprehend her utter failure. Her distress was great in- 
 deed, and for a few moments diverted the thoughts of even 
 Mr. and Mrs. Nichol from their own sad share in the 
 disappointment 
 
168 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Oh, oh!" sobbed Helen, "this is the bitterest sorrow 
 the war has brought us yet. ' ' 
 
 "Well, now, friends," said Dr. Barnes, "it's time I had 
 my say and gave my orders. You must remember that I 
 have not shared very fully in your confidence that the cap- 
 tain could be restored by the appeals you have made; nei- 
 ther do I share in this abandonment to grief now. As the 
 captain says, he is yet simply unable to respond. We must 
 patiently wait and see what time and medical skill can do 
 for him. There is no reason whatever for giving up hope. 
 Mrs. Kemble, I would advise you to take Miss Helen to her 
 room, and you, Mr. Nichol, to take your wife and son home. 
 I will call in the morning, and then we can advise further." 
 
 His counsel was followed, the captain readily obeying 
 when told to go with his parents. Then the physician 
 stepped over to Martine's cottage and found, as he sup- 
 posed, that the opiate and exhausted nature had brought 
 merciful oblivion. 
 
 It was long before Helen slept, nor would she take any- 
 thing to induce sleep. She soon became quiet, kissed her 
 mother, and said she wished to be alone. Then she tried to 
 look at the problem in all its aspects, and earnestly asked 
 for divine guidance. The decision reached in the gray 
 dawn brought repose of mind and body. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when Martine awoke with 
 a dull pain in his head and heart. As the consciousness of 
 all that had happened returned, he remembered that there 
 was good reason for both. His faithful old domestic soon 
 prepared a dainty meal, which aided in giving tone to his 
 exhausted system. Then he sat down by his fire to brace 
 himself for the tidings he expected to hear. Helen's chair 
 was empty. It would always be hers, but hope was gone 
 that she would smile from it upon him during the long win- 
 ter evenings. Already the room was darkening toward the 
 early December twilight, and he felt that his life was dark- 
 ening in like manner. He was no longer eager to hear what 
 had occurred. The mental and physical sluggishness which 
 
FOUND YET LOST : 159 
 
 possessed him was better than sharp pain; he would learn 
 all soon enough — the recognition, the beginning of a new 
 life which inevitably would drift further and further from 
 him. His best hope was to get through the time, to endure 
 patiently and shape his life so as to permit as little of its 
 shadow as possible to fall upon hers. But as he looked 
 around the apartment and saw on every side the prepara- 
 tions for one who had been his, yet could be no longer, his 
 fortitude gave way, and he buried his face in his hands. 
 
 So deep was his painful revery that he did not hear the 
 entrance of Br. Barnes and Mr. Kemble. The latter laid 
 a hand upon his shoulder and said kindly, ''Hobart, my 
 friend, it is just as I told you it would be. Helen needs 
 you and wishes to see you." 
 
 Martine started up, exclaiming, "He must have remem- 
 bered her." 
 
 Mr. Kemble shook his head. ''No, Hobart," said the 
 doctor, "she was as much of a stranger to him as you were. 
 There were, of course, grounds for your expectation and 
 hers also, but we prosaic physiologists have some reason 
 for our doubtings as well as you for your beliefs. It's going 
 to be a question of time with Nichol. flow are you your- 
 self ? Ah, I see," he added, with his finger on his patient's 
 pulse. "With you it's going to be a question of tonics." 
 
 "Yes, I admit that," Martine replied, "but perhaps of 
 tonics other than those you have in mind. You said, sir 
 [to Mr. Kemble], that Helen wished to see me?" 
 
 "Yes, when you feel well enough." 
 
 "1 trust you will make yourselves at home," said Mar- 
 tine, hastily preparing to go out. 
 
 "But don't you wish to hear more about Nichol?" 
 asked the doctor, laughing. 
 
 "Not at present. Good- by." 
 
 Yet he was perplexed how to meet the girl who should 
 now hare been his wife; and he trembled with strange em- 
 barrassment as lie entered the familiar room in which he 
 had parted from her almost on the eve of their wedding. 
 
160 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 She was neither perplexed nor embarrassed, for she had 
 the calmness of a fixed purpose. She went swiftly to him, 
 took his hand, led him to a chair, then sat down beside 
 him. He looked at her wonderingly and listened sadly as 
 she asked, "Hobart, will you be patient with me again?" 
 
 *'Yes," he replied after a moment, yet he sighed deeply 
 in foreboding. 
 
 Tears came into her eyes, yet her voice did not falter as 
 she continued: "I said last night that you would under- 
 stand me better than any one else; so I believe you will 
 now. You will sustain and strengthen me in what I believe 
 to be duty. " 
 
 "Yes, Helen, up to the point of such endurance as I 
 have. One can't go beyond that." 
 
 "No, Hobart, but you will not fail me, nor let me fail. 
 I cannot marry Captain Nichol as he now is' ' —there was 
 an irrepressible flash of joy in his dark eyes — "nor can I," 
 she added slowly and sadly, "marry you." He was about 
 to speak, but she checked him and resumed. "Listen pa- 
 tiently to me first. I have thought and thought long hours, 
 and I think I am right. You, better than I, know Captain 
 Nichol' s condition — its sad contrast to his former noble 
 self. The man we once knew is veiled, hidden, lost — how 
 can we express it ? But he exists, and at any time may find 
 and reveal himself. No one, not even I, can revolt at what 
 he is now as he will revolt at it all when his true conscious- 
 ness returns. He has met with an immeasurable misfor- 
 tune. He is infinitely worse off than if helpless — worse off 
 than if he were dead, if this condition is to last; but it may 
 not last. What would he think of me if I should desert 
 him now and leave him nothing to remember but a condi- 
 tion of which he could only think with loathing ? I will 
 hide nothing from you, Hobart, my brave, true friend — you 
 who have taught me what patience means. If you had 
 brought him back utterly helpless, yet his old self in mind, 
 I could have loved him and married him, and you would 
 have sustained me in that course. Now I don't know. My 
 
FOUND YET LOST 161 
 
 future, in this respect, is hidden like his. The shock I re- 
 ceived last night, the revulsion of feeling which followed, 
 leaves only one thing clear. I must try to do what is right 
 by him; it will not be easy. I hope you will understand. 
 While I have the deepest pity that a woman can feel, I 
 shrink from him now^ for the contrast between his former 
 self and his present is so terrible. Oh, it is such a horrible 
 mystery I All Dr. Barnes's explanations do not make it 
 one bit less mysterious and dreadful. Albert took the 
 risk of this; he has suffered this for his country. I must 
 suffer for him; I must not desert him in his sad extremity. 
 I must not permit him to awake some day and learn from 
 others what he now is, and that 1, the woman he loved, of 
 all others, left him to his degradation. The consequences 
 might be more fatal than the injury which so changed him. 
 Such action on my part might destroy him morally. Now 
 his old self is buried as truly as if he had died. I could 
 never look him in the face again if I left him to take his 
 chances in life with no help from me, still less if I did that 
 which he could scarcely forgive. He could not understand 
 all that has happened since we thought him dead. He would 
 only remember that I deserted him in his present pitiable 
 plight. Do you understand me, Hobart ?' ' 
 
 "I must, Helen.'' 
 
 "I know how hard it is for you. Can you think I forget 
 this for a moment ? Yet I send for you to help, to sustain 
 me in a purpose which changes our future so greatly. Do 
 you not remember what you said once about accepting the 
 conditions of life as they are ? We must do this again, and 
 make the best of them." 
 
 ' ' But if — suppose his memory does not come back. Is 
 there to be no hope ?" 
 
 "Hobart, you must put that thought from you as far as 
 you can. Do you not see whither it might lead ? You would 
 not wish Captain Nichol to remain as he is ?" 
 
 "Oh," he cried desperately, "I'm put in a position that 
 would tax any saint in the calendar^" 
 
162 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Yes, you are. The future is not in our hands. I can 
 only appeal to you to help me do what I think is right 
 now, ' ' 
 
 He thought a few moments, took his resolve, then gave 
 her his hand silently. She understood him without a word. 
 
 The news of the oiTicer's return and of his strange con- 
 dition was soon generally known in the village; but his 
 parents, aided by the physician, quickly repressed those 
 inclined to call from mere curiosity. At first Jim Wetherby 
 scouted the idea that his old captain would not know him, 
 but later had to admit the fact with a wonder which no 
 explanations satisfied. Nichol immediately took a fancy to 
 the one-armed veteran, who was glad to talk by the hour 
 about soldiers and hospitals. 
 
 Before any matured plan for treatment could be adopted 
 Nichol became ill, and soon passed into the delirium of 
 fever. "The trouble is now clear enough," Dr. Barnes ex- 
 plained. "The captain has lived in hospitals and breathed 
 a tainted atmosphere so long that his system is poisoned. 
 This radical change of air has developed the disease. ' ' 
 
 Indeed, the typhoid symptoms progressed so rapidly as 
 to show that the robust look of health had been in appear- 
 ance only. The injured, weakened brain was the organ 
 which suffered most, and in spite of the physician's best 
 efforts his patient speedily entered into a condition of 
 stupor, relieved only by low, unintelligible mutterings. 
 Jim Wetherby became a tireless watcher, and greatly re- 
 lieved the grief- stricken parents. Helen earnestly entreated 
 that she might act the part of nurse also, but the doctor 
 firmly forbade her useless exposure to contagion. She 
 drove daily to the house, yet Mrs. Nichol' s sad face and 
 words could scarcely dissipate the girl's impression that 
 the whole strange episode was a dream. 
 
 At last it was feared that the end was near. One night 
 Dr. Barnes, Mr. and Mrs. Nichol, and Jim Wetherby were 
 watching in the hope of a gleam of intelligence. He was 
 very low, scarcely more than breathing, and they dreaded 
 
FOUND YET LOST 163 
 
 lest there might be no sign before the glimmer of life faded 
 out utterly. 
 
 Suddenly the captain seemed to awake, his glassy eyes 
 kindled, and a noble yet stern expression dignified his 
 visage. In a thick voice he said, *'For — " Then, as if all 
 the remaining forces of life asserted themselves, he rose in 
 his bed and exclaimed loudly, "Forward! Company A. 
 Guide right. Ah!" He fell back, now dead in very truth. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Jim Wetherby, excitedly, "them was the 
 last words I heard from him just before the shell burst, and 
 he looks now just as he did then." 
 
 "Yes," said Dr. Barnes, sadly and gravely, "memory 
 came back to him at the point where he lost it. He has died 
 as we thought at first — a brave soldier leading a charge. ' ' 
 
 The stern, grand impress of battle remained upon the 
 ojficer's countenance. Friends and neighbors looked upon 
 his ennobled visage with awe, and preserved in honored 
 remembrance the real man that temporarily had been ob- 
 scured. Helen's eyes, when taking her farewell look, were 
 not so blinded with tears but that she recognized his re- 
 stored manhood. Death's touch had been more potent than 
 love's appeal. 
 
 In the Wilderness, upon a day fatal to him and so many 
 thousands, Captain Nichol had prophesied of the nappy 
 days of peace. They came, and he was not forgotten. 
 
 One evening Dr. Barnes was sitting with Martine and 
 Helen at their fireside. They had been talking about 
 Nichol, and Helen remarked thoughtfully, "It was so 
 very strange that he should have regained his memory 
 in the way and at the time he did. ' ' 
 
 "No," replied the physician, "that part of his experi- 
 ence does not strike me as so very strange. In typhoid 
 cases a lucid interval is apt to precede death. His brain, 
 like his body, was depleted, shrunken slightly by disease. 
 This impoverishment probably removed the cerebral ob- 
 struction, and the organ of memory renewed its action at 
 the point where it had been arrested. My theory explains 
 
16^ TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 his last ejaculation, 'Ah!' It was his involuntary exclama- 
 tion as he again heard the shell burst. The reproduction 
 in his mind of this explosion killed him instantly after all. 
 He was too enfeebled to bear the shock. If he had passed 
 from delirium into quiet sleep— ah, well! he is dead, and 
 that is all we can know with certainty. ' ' 
 
 *' Well," said Martine, with a deep breath, *'I am glad he 
 had every chance that it was possible for us to give him. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, Hobart," added his wife, gently, "you did your 
 whole duty, and I do not forget what it cost you." 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 
 
 ** 11 yi OTHEK,'* remarked Farmer Banning, discontent- 
 11/ 1 edly, ** Susie is making a long visit." 
 -* ^ *- "She is coming home next week,** said his 
 
 cheery wife. She had drawn her low chair close to the 
 air-tight stove, for a late March snowstorm was raging 
 without. 
 
 **lt seems to me that I miss her more and more." 
 
 *'Well, I'm not jealous." 
 
 **0h, come, wife, you needn't be. The ideal But I'd 
 be jealous if our little girl was sorter weaned away from us 
 by this visit in town." 
 
 *'Now, see here, father, you bea,t all the men I ever 
 heard of in scolding about farmers borrowing, and here 
 you are borrowing trouble." 
 
 *'Well, I hope I won't have to pay soon. But I've been 
 thinking that the old farmhouse may look small and appear 
 lonely after her gay winter. When she is away, it's too big 
 for me, and a suspicion lonely for us both. I've seen that 
 you've missed her more than I have." 
 
 *'I guess you're right. Well, she's coming home, as I 
 said, and we must make home seem home to her. The 
 child's growing up. Why, she'll be eighteen week after 
 next. You must give her something nice on her birthday." 
 
 ''I will," said the farmer, his rugged, weather-beaten face 
 softening with memories. *'Is our little girl as old as that? 
 Why, only the other day I was carrying her on my shoulder 
 to the barn and tossing her into the haymow. Sure enough, 
 the 10th of April will be her birthday. Well, she shall 
 choose her own present" 
 
 , , , ...„ ,..,..„ ,. ... ,(165) 
 
166 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Oa the afternoon of the 5th of April he went down the 
 long bill to the station, and was almost like a lover in his 
 eagerness to see his child. He had come long before the 
 train's schedule time, but was rewarded at last. When 
 Susie appeared, she gave him a kiss before every one, and 
 a glad greeting which might have satisfied the most exact- 
 ing of lovers, fle watched her furtively as they rode at a 
 smart trot up the hilL Farmer Banning kept no old nags 
 for his driving, but strong, well-fed, spirited horses that 
 sometimes drew a light vehicle almost by the reins. * ' Yes, ' ' 
 he thought, ''she has grown a little citified. She's paler, 
 and has a certain air or style that don't seem just natural 
 to the hill. Well, thank the Lord I she doesn't seem sorry 
 to go up the hill once more." 
 
 "There's the old place, Susie, waiting for you," he said. 
 *'It doesn't look so very bleak, does it, after all the fine city 
 houses you've seen ?" 
 
 * ' Yes, father, it does. It never appeared so bleak before. * ' 
 
 He looked at his home, and in the late gray afternoon, 
 saw it in a measure with her eyes — the long brown, bare 
 slopes, a few gaunt old trees about the house, and the top 
 boughs of the apple-orchard behind a sheltering hill in the 
 rear of the dwelling. 
 
 ** Father," resumed the girl, *'we ought to call our place 
 the Bleak House. I never so realized before how bare and 
 desolate it looks, standing there right in the teeth of the 
 north wind." 
 
 His countenance fell, but he had no time for comment. 
 A moment later Susie was in her mother's arms. The farmer 
 lifted the trunk to the horse-block and drove to the barn. 
 **I guess it will be the old story," he muttered. "Home 
 has become * Bleak House.' I suppose it did look bleak to 
 her eyes, especially at this season. Well, well, some day 
 Susie will go to the city to stay, and then it will be Bleak 
 House sure enough." 
 
 **0h, father," cried his daughter when, after doing his 
 evening work, he entered with the shadow of his thoughts 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 167 
 
 still upon his face — "oh, father, mother sajs I can choose 
 my birthday present 1" 
 
 "Yes, Sue; I've passed my word." 
 
 "And so I have your bond. My present will make you 
 open your eyes. " 
 
 "And pocket-book too, I suppose. 1*11 trust you, how- 
 ever, not to break me. What is it to be ?" 
 
 "I'll tell you the day before, and not till then." 
 
 After supper they drew around the stove. Mrs. Ban- 
 ning got out her knitting, as usual, and prepared for city 
 gossip. The farmer rubbed his hands over the general as- 
 pect of comfort, and especially over the regained presence 
 of his child's bright face. "Well, Sue," he remarked, 
 "you'll own that this room in the house doesn't look 
 very bleak?" 
 
 "No, father, I'll own nothing of the kind. Your face 
 and mother's are not bleak, but the room is." 
 
 "Well," said the farmer, rather disconsolately, "I fear 
 the old place has been spoiled for you. 1 was saying to 
 mother before you came home — " , 
 
 "There now, father, no matter about what you were say- 
 ing. Let Susie tell us why the room is bleak. ' ' 
 
 The girl laughed softly, got up, and taking a billet of 
 wood from the box, put it into the air-tight. "The stove 
 has swallowed it just as old Trip did his supper. Shame I 
 you greedy dog," she added, caressing a great Newfound- 
 land that would not leave her a moment. "Why can't you 
 learn to eat your meals like a gentleman ?' ' Then to her 
 father, "Suppose we could sit here and see the flames curl- 
 ing all over and around that stick. Even a camp in the 
 woods is jolly when lighted up by a flickering blaze." 
 
 *'0h — hi" said the farmer; "you think an open fire 
 would take away the bleakness?" 
 
 "Certainly. The room would be changed instantly, and 
 mother's face would look young and rosy again. The blue- 
 black of this sheet-iron stove makes the room look blue* 
 bla^k." 
 
168 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 **Opeii fires don't give near as much heat,** said her 
 father, meditatively. *'They take an awful lot of wood; 
 and wood is getting scarce in these parts/* 
 
 "1 should say sol Why don*t you farmers get together, 
 appoint a committee to cut down every tree remaining, then 
 make it a State-prison offence ever to set out another? 
 Why, father, you cut nearly all the trees from your lot a 
 few years ago and sold the wood. Now that the trees are 
 growing again, you are talking of clearing up the land for 
 pasture. Just think of the comfort we could get out of that 
 wood- lot! What crop would pay better? All the uphol- 
 sterers in the world cannot furnish a room as an open hard- 
 wood fire does; and all the produce of the farm could not 
 buy anything else half so nice.** 
 
 *'Say, mother," said her father, after a moment, **J guess 
 I'll get down that old Franklin from the garret to-morrow 
 and see if it can't furnish this room.'* 
 
 The next morning he called rather testily to the hired 
 man, who was starting up the lane with an axe, ** Hiram, 
 I've got other work iof you. Don't cut a stick in that 
 wood-lot unless I tell you." 
 
 The evening of the 9th of April was cool but clear, and 
 the farmer said, genially, **Well, Sue, prospects good for 
 fine weather on your birthday. Glad of it; for I suppose 
 you will want me to go to town with you for your present, 
 whatever it is to be." 
 
 ** You'll own up a girl can keep a secret now, won't 
 you?" 
 
 **He*ll have to own more' n that," added his wife; *'he 
 must own that an ole woman hasn't lost any sleep from 
 curiosity.** 
 
 **How much will be left me to own to-morrow night?** 
 said the farmer, dubiously. **I suppose Sue wants a watch 
 studded with diamonds, or a new house, or something else 
 that she darsn't speak of till the last minute, even to her 
 mother." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind. I want only all your time to- 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 169 
 
 morrow, and all Hiram's time, after you have fed the 
 stock." 
 
 *'A11 our time!" 
 
 '*Yes, the entire day, in which you both are to do just 
 what I wish. You are not going gallivanting to the city, 
 but will have to work hard, ' ' 
 
 "Well, I'm beat! I don't know what you want any 
 more than I did at first. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, you do — your time and Hiram's." 
 
 "Give it up. It's hardly the season for a picnic. "We 
 might go fishing — " 
 
 "We must go to bed, so as to be up early, all 
 hands. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, hold on, Sue; I do like this wood- fire. If it 
 wouldn't make you vain, I'd tell you how — " 
 
 "Pretty, father. Say it out." 
 
 "Oh, you know it, do you ? Well, how pretty you look 
 in the firelight. Even mother, there, looks ten years younger. 
 Keep your low seat, child, and let me look at you. So 
 you're eighteen? My! my! how the years roll around! 
 It will be Bleak House for mother and me, in spite of the 
 wood-fire, when you leave us." 
 
 "It won't be Bleak House much longer," she replied 
 with a significant little nod. 
 
 The next morning at an early hour the farmer said, "All 
 ready. Sue. Our time is yours till night; so queen it over 
 us. ' ' And black Hiram grinned acquiescence, thinking he 
 was to have an easy time. 
 
 "Queen it, did you say?" cried Sue, in great spirits. 
 "Well, then, I shall be queen of spades. Get 'em, and 
 come with me. Bring a pickaxe, too." She led the way 
 to a point not far from the dwelling, and resumed: "A hole 
 here, father, a hole there, Hiram, big enough for a small 
 hemlock, and holes all along the northeast side of the 
 house. Then lots more holes, all over the lawn, for oaks, 
 maples, dogwood, and all sorts to pretty trees, especially 
 evergreens. ' " 
 
 8— Roe— XI 
 
170 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Oh, ho!" cried the farmer; "now 1 see the hole where 
 the woodchuok went in." 
 
 "But you don't see the hole where he's coming out. 
 When that is dug, even the road will be lined with trees. 
 Foolish old father! jou thought I'd be carried away with 
 city gewgaws, fine furniture, dresses, and all that sort of 
 thing. You thought I'd be pining for what you couldn't 
 afford, what wouldn't do you a particle of good, nor me 
 either, in the long run. I'm going to make you set out 
 trees enough to double the value of your place and take 
 all the bleakness and bareness from this hillside To-day 
 is only the beginning. I did get some new notions in the 
 city which made me discontented with my home, but they 
 were not the notions you were worrying about. In the 
 suburbs I saw that the most costly houses were made 
 doubly attractive by trees and shrubbery, and I knew that 
 trees would grow for us as well as for millionaires — My 
 conscience! it there isn't — " and the girl frowned and bit 
 her lips. 
 
 "Is that one of the city beaux you were telling us 
 about?" asked her father, sotto voce. 
 
 "Yes; but I don't want any beaux around to-day. I 
 didn't think he'd be so persistent." Then, conscious that 
 she was not dressed for company, but for work upon which 
 she had set her heart, she advanced and gave Mr. Minturn 
 a rather cool greeting. 
 
 But the persistent beau was equal to the occasion. He 
 had endured Sue's absence as long as he could, then had 
 resolved on a long day's siege, with a grand storming-onset 
 late in the afternoon. 
 
 "Please, Miss Banning," he began, "don't look askance 
 at me for coming at this unearthly hour. I claim the sacred 
 rites of hospitality. I'm an invalid. The doctor said I 
 needed country air, or would have prescribed it if given a 
 chance. You said I might come to see you some day, and 
 by playing Paul Pry I found out, you remember, that this 
 was your birthday, and — ' ' 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 171 
 
 *'And this is my father, Mr. Minturn." 
 
 Mr. Minturn shook the farmer's hand with a cordiality 
 calculated to awaken suspicions of his designs in a pump, 
 had its handle been thus grasped. "Mr. Banning will for- 
 give me for appearing with the lark," he continued volubly, 
 determining to break the ice. "One can't get the full 
 benefit of a day in the country if he starts in the after- 
 noon." 
 
 The farmer was polite, but nothing more. If there was 
 one thing beyond all others with which he could dispense, 
 it was a beau for Sue. 
 
 Sue gave her father a significant, disappointed glance, 
 which meant, "1 won't get my present to day"; but he 
 turned and said to Hiram, "Dig the hole right there, two 
 feet across, eighteen inches deep. Then he started for the 
 house. While not ready for suitors, his impulse to bestow 
 hospitality was prompt. 
 
 The alert Mr. Minturn had observed the girl's glance, 
 and knew that the farmer had gone to prepare his wife for 
 a guest. He determined not to remain unless assured of a 
 welcome. "Come, Miss Banning," he said, "we are at least 
 friends, and should be frank. How much misunderstand- 
 ing and trouble would often be saved if people would just 
 speak their thought ! This is your birthday — your day. It 
 should not be marred by any one. It would distress me 
 keenly if I were the one to spoil it. Why not believe me 
 literally and have your way absolutely about this day ? I 
 could come another time. Now show that a country girl, 
 at least, can speak her mind. ' * 
 
 With an embarrassed little laugh she answered, "I'm 
 half inclined to take you at your word ; but it would look 
 so inhospitable. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Bah for looks ! The truth, please. By the way, though, 
 you never looked better than in that trim blue walking-, 
 suit." 
 
 "Old outgrown working-suit, you mean. How sincere 
 you are I" 
 
172 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Indeed I am. Well, I'm de trop; that much is plain. 
 You will let me come another day, won't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, and I'll be frank too and tell you about this day. 
 Father's a busy man, and his spring work is beginning, but 
 as my birthday-present he has given me all his time and all 
 Hiram's yonder. Well, I learned in the city how trees im- 
 proved a home; and I had planned to spend this long day 
 in setting out trees — planned it ever since my return. So 
 you see — " 
 
 ' ' Of course I see and approve, ' ' cried Minturn. ' ' I know 
 now why I had such a wild impulse to come out here to-day. 
 Why, certainly. Just fancy me a city tramp looking for 
 work, and not praying I won't find it, either. I'll work 
 for my board. I know how to set out trees. I can prove 
 it, for I planted those thrifty fellows growing about our 
 house in town. Think how much more you'll accomplish 
 with another man to help — one that you can order around 
 to your heart's content." 
 
 "The idea of my putting you to work!" 
 
 "A capital idea! and if a man doesn't work when a 
 woman puts him at it he isn't worth the powder — I won't 
 waste time even in original remarks. I'll promise you there 
 will be double the number of trees out by night. Let me 
 take your father's spade and show you how I can dig. Is 
 this the place? If I don't catch up with Hiram, you may 
 send the tramp back to the city." And before she could 
 remonstrate, his coat was off and he at work. 
 
 Laughing, yet half in doubt, she watched him. The way 
 he made the earth fly was surprising. "Oh, come, " she said 
 after a few moments, "you have shown your goodwill. A 
 steam-engine could not keep it up at that rate." 
 
 "Perhaps not; but I can. Before you engage me, I wish 
 you to know that I am equal to old Adam, and can dig." 
 
 "Engage you!" she thought with a little flutter of dis- 
 may. "I could manage him with the help of town conven- 
 tionalities; but how will it be here? I suppose I can keep 
 father and Hiram within earshot, and if he is so bent on — 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 17S 
 
 well, call it a lark, since he has referred to that previous 
 bird, perhaps I might as well have a lark too, seeing it's 
 my birthday." Then she spoke. "Mr. Minturn!" 
 
 "I'm busy." 
 
 "But really—" 
 
 "And truly tell me, am I catching up with Hiram ?" 
 
 "You'll get down so deep that you'll drop through if 
 you're not carefuL" 
 
 "There's nothing like having a man who is steady work- 
 ing for you. Now, most fellows would stop and giggle at 
 such little amusing remarks." 
 
 "You are soiling your trousers." 
 
 "Yes, you're right. They are mine. There; isn't that 
 a, regulation hole? 'Two feet across and eighteen deep.' " 
 
 "Yah! yah!" cackled Hiram; "eighteen foot deep! Bat 
 ud be a well." 
 
 "Of course it would, and truth would lie at its bottom. 
 Can I stay. Miss Banning ?' ' 
 
 "Did you ever see the like ?" cried the farmer, who had 
 appeared, unnoticed. 
 
 "Look here, father," said the now merry girl, "perhaps 
 I was mistaken. This — " 
 
 "Tramp — " interjected Minturn. 
 
 "Says he's looking for work and knows how to set out 
 trees." 
 
 "And will work all day for a dinner," the tramp 
 promptly added. 
 
 "If he can dig holes at that rate. Sue," said her father, 
 catching their spirit, "he's worth a dinner. But you're boss 
 to-day; I'm only one of the hands." 
 
 "I'm only another," said Minturn, touching his hat. 
 
 "Boss, am I? I'll soon find out. Mr. Minturn, come 
 with me and don a pair of overalls. You shan't put me to 
 shame, wearing that spick-and-span suit, neither shall you 
 spoil it. Oh, you're in for it now! You might have es- 
 caped, and come another day, when I could have received 
 you in state and driven you out behind father's frisky bays. 
 
174 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 When you return to town with blistered hands and aching 
 bones, you will at least know better another time." 
 
 "I don't know any better this time, and just yearn for 
 those overalls." 
 
 "To the house, then, and see mother before you become 
 a wreck." 
 
 Farmer Banning looked after him and shook his head. 
 Hiram spoke his employer's thought, "Dar ar gem'lin act 
 like he gwine ter set hisself out "on dis farm." 
 
 Sue had often said, "I can never be remarkable for any- 
 thing; but I won't be commonplace." So she did not leave 
 her guest in the parlor while she rushed off for a whispered 
 conference with her mother. The well-bred simplicity of 
 her manner, which often stopped just short of brusqueness, 
 was never more apparent than now. "Mother!" she called 
 from the parlor door. 
 
 The old lady gave a few final directions to her maid-of- 
 all-work, and then appeared. 
 
 "Mother, this is Mr. Minturn, one of my city friends, of 
 whom I have spoken to you. He is bent on helping me set 
 out trees. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Banning, so bent that your daughter found 
 that she would have to employ her dog to get me off the 
 place. ' * 
 
 Now, it had so happened that in discussing with her 
 mother the young men whom she had met. Sue had said 
 little about Mr. Minturn; but that little was significant to 
 the experienced matron. Words had slipped out now and 
 then which suggested that the girl did more thinking than 
 talking concerning him; and she always referred to him in 
 some light which she chose to regard as ridiculous, but 
 which had not seemed in the least absurd to the attentive 
 listener. When her husband, therefore, said that Mr. Min- 
 turn had appeared on the scene, she felt that an era of por- 
 tentous events had begun. The trees to be set out would 
 change the old place greatly, but a primeval forest shading 
 the door would be as nothing compared with the vicissitude 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 175 
 
 witch a favored *'beau" might produce. But mothers are 
 more unselfish than fathers, and are their daughters' nat- 
 ural allies unless the suitor is objectionable. Mrs. Banning 
 was inclined to be hospitable on general principles, mean- 
 time eager on her own account to see something of this 
 man, about whom she had presentiments. So she said 
 affably, "My daughter can keep her eye on the work which 
 she is so interested in, and yet give you most of her time. — 
 Susan, I will entertain Mr. Minturn while you change your 
 dress. ' ' 
 
 She glanced at her guest dubiously, receiving for the 
 moment the impression that the course indicated by her 
 mother was the correct one. The resolute admirer knew 
 well what a fiasco the day would be should the convention- 
 alities prevail, and so said promptly: "Mrs. Banning, I ap- 
 preciate your kind intentions, and 1 hope some day you 
 may have the chance to carry them out. To-day, as your 
 husband understands, I am a tramp from the city looking 
 for work. I have found it, and have been engaged. — Miss 
 Banning, I shall hold you inflexibly to our agreement — a 
 pair of overalls and dinner." 
 
 Sue said a few words of explanation. Her mother 
 laughed, but urged, "Do go and change your dress." 
 
 "I protest!" cried Mr. Minturn. "The walking-suit and 
 overalls go together." 
 
 "Walking-suit, indeed!" repeated Sue, disdainfully. 
 "But I shall not change it. I will not soften one feature 
 of the scrape you have persisted in getting yourself into." 
 
 "Please don't." 
 
 "Mr. Minturn," said the matron, with smiling positive- 
 ness, "Susie is boss only out of doors; I am, in the house. 
 There is a fresh-made cup of coffee and some eggs on toast 
 in the dining-room. Having taken such an early start, you 
 ought to have a lunch before being put to work." 
 
 "Yes," added Sue, "and the out-door boss says you can't 
 go to work until at least the coffee is sipped. ' ' 
 
 "She's shrewd, isn't she, Mrs. Banning? She knows 
 
176 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 she will get twice as much work out of me on the strength 
 of that coffee. Please get the overalls. I will not sip, but 
 swallow the coffee, unless it*s scalding, so that no time may- 
 be lost. Miss Banning must see all she had set her heart 
 upon accomplished to-day, and a great deal more. ' ' 
 
 The matron departed on her quest, and as she pulled out 
 the overalls, nodded her head significantly. "Things will 
 he serious sure enough if he accomplishes all he has set his 
 heart on," she muttered. "Well, he doesn't seem afraid to 
 give us a chance to see him. He certainly will look ridicu- 
 lous in these overalls, but not much more so than Sue in 
 that old dress. I do wish she would change it. ' ' 
 
 The girl had considered this point, but with character- 
 istic decision had thought: "No; he shall see us all on the 
 plainest side of our life. He always seemed a good deal of 
 an exquisite in town, and he lives in a handsome house. 
 If to-day's experience at the old farm disgusts him, so be 
 it. My dress is clean and tidy, if it is outgrown and darned; 
 and mother is always neat, no matter what she wears. I'm 
 going through the day just as I planned; and if he's too 
 fine for us, now is the time to find it out. He may have 
 come just for a lark, and will laugh with his folks to-night 
 over the guy of a girl I appear; but I won't yield even to 
 the putting of a ribbon in my hair." 
 
 Mrs. Banning never permitted the serving of cold slops 
 for coffee, and Mr. Minturn had to sip the generous and 
 fragrant beverage slowly. Meanwhile, his thoughts were 
 busy. "Bahl for the old saying, 'Take the goods the gods 
 send,' " he mused. "Go after your goods and take your 
 pick. I knew my head was level in coming out. All is 
 just as genuine as I supposed it would i)e — simple, honest, 
 homely. The girl isn't homely, though, but she's just as 
 genuine as all the rest, in that old dress which fits her like 
 a glove. No shams and disguises on this field-day of my 
 life. And her mother! A glance at her comfortable ampli- 
 tude banished my one fear. There's not a sharp angle 
 about her. I was satisfied about Miss Sue, but the term 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 177 
 
 *mother.in-law' suggests vague terrors to any man until 
 reassured. — Ah, Miss Banning," he said, "this coffee would 
 warm the heart of an anchorite. No wonder you are in- 
 spired to fine things after drinking such nectar. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, mother is famous for her coffee. I know that's 
 fine, and you can praise it; but I'll not permit any ironical 
 remarks concerning myself." 
 
 "I wouldn't, if 1 were you, especially when you are mis- 
 tress of the situation. Still, I can't help having my opinion 
 of you. Why in the world didn't you choose as your present 
 something stjlish from the city ?" 
 
 "Something, I suppose you mean, in harmony with my 
 very stylish surroundings and present appearance." 
 
 "I didn't mean anything of the kind, and Iz^Qy you 
 know it. Ah ! here are the overalls. Now deeds, not words. 
 I'll leave my coat, watch, cuffs, and all impedimenta with 
 you, Mrs. Banning. Am I not a spectacle to men and 
 gods?" he added, drawing up the garment, which ceased 
 to be nether in that it reached almost to his shoulders. 
 
 "Indeed you are," cried Sue, holding her side from 
 laughing. Mrs. Banning also vainly tried to repress her 
 hilarity over the absurd guy into which the nattily- dressed 
 city man had transformed himself. 
 
 "Come," he cried, "no frivolity! You shall at least say 
 I kept my word about the trees to-day." And they started 
 at once for the scene of action, Minturn obtaining on the 
 way a shovel from the tool- room. 
 
 "To think she's eighteen years old and got a beau!" 
 muttered the farmer, as he and Hiram started two new 
 holes. They were dug and others begun, yet the young 
 people had not returned. "That's the way with young men 
 nowadays— 'big cry, little wool.' I thought I was going to 
 have Sue around with me all day. Might as well get used 
 to it, I suppose. Eighteen! Her mother's wasn't much 
 older when — ^yes, hang it, there's always a when with these 
 likely girls. I'd just like to start in again on that day 
 when I tossed her into the haymow." 
 
178 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "What are you talking to yourself about, father?" 
 "Oh! I thought I had seen the last of you to-day." 
 "Perhaps you will wish you had before night." 
 "Well, now, Sue! the idea of letting Mr. Minturn rig 
 himself out like that! There's no use of scaring the crows 
 so long before corn-planting." And the farmer's guffaw 
 was quickly joined by Hiram's broad "Yah! yah!" 
 
 She frowned a little as she said, "He doesn't look any 
 worse than I do. ' ' 
 
 "Come, Mr. Banning, Solomon in all his glory could not 
 so take your daughter's eye to-day as a goodly number of 
 trees standing where she wants them. I suggest that you 
 loosen the soil with the pickaxe, then I can throw it out 
 rapidly. Try it." 
 
 The farmer did so, not only for Minturn, but for Hiram 
 also. The lightest part of the work thus fell to him. 
 "We'll change about," he said, "when you get tired.'-' 
 
 But Minturn did not get weary apparently, and under 
 this new division of the toil the number of holes grew apace. 
 "Sakes alive, Mr. Minturn!" ejaculated Mr. Banning, 
 "one would think you had been brought up on a farm." 
 "Or at ditch-digging," added the young man. "No; 
 my profession is to get people into hot water and then 
 make them pay roundly to get out. I'm a lawyer. Times 
 have changed in cities. It's there you'll find young men 
 with muscle, if anywhere. Put your hand here, sir, and 
 you'll know whether Miss Banning made a bad bargain in 
 hiring me for the day. ' ' 
 
 "Why!" exclaimed the astonished farmer, ''you have 
 the muscle of a blacksmith." 
 
 "Yes, sir; I could learn that trade in about a month." 
 "You don't grow muscle like that in a law-office?" 
 "No, indeed; nothing but bills grow there. A good 
 fashion, if not abused, has come in vogue, and young men 
 develop their bodies as well as brains. I belong to an ath- 
 letic club in town, and could take to pugilism should every- 
 thing else fail." 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 179 
 
 "Is there any prospect of your coming to that?" Sue 
 asked mischievously. 
 
 "If we were out walking, and two or three rough fellows 
 gave you impudence — " He nodded significantly. 
 
 "What could you do against two or three ? They'd close 
 on you." 
 
 "A fellow taught to use his hands doesn't let men close 
 on him. ' ' 
 
 "Yah, yah! reckon not," chuckled Hiram. One of the 
 farm household had evidently been won. 
 
 "It seems to me," remarked smiling Sue, "that I saw 
 several young men in town who appeared scarcely equal to 
 carrying their canes. ' ' 
 
 "Dudes?" 
 
 "That's what they are called, I believe." 
 
 "They are not men. They are neither fish, flesh, nor 
 fowl, but the beginning of the great downward curve of 
 evolution. Men came up from monkeys, it's said, you 
 know, but science is in despair over the final down-comes 
 of dudes. They may evolute into grasshoppers." 
 
 The farmer was shaken with mirth, and Sue could not 
 help seeing that he was having a good time. She, however, 
 felt that no tranquilly exciting day was before her, as she 
 had anticipated. What wouldn't that muscular fellow at- 
 tempt before night ? He possessed a sort of vim and cheer- 
 ful audacity which made her tremble, "ife is too confi- 
 dent," she thought, "and needs a lesson. All this digging 
 is like that of soldiers who soon mean to drop their shovels. 
 I don't propose- to be carried by storm just when he gets 
 ready. He can have his lark, and that's all to-day. I 
 want a good deal of time to think before I surrender to him 
 or any one else." 
 
 During the remainder of the forenoon these musings pre- 
 vented the slightest trace of sentimentality from appearing 
 in her face or words. She had to admit mentally that Min- 
 turn gave her no occasion for defensive tactics. He attended 
 as strictly to business as did Hiram, and she was allowed to 
 
180 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 come and go at will. At first she merely ventured to the 
 house, to "help mother," as she said. Then, with growing 
 confidence, she went here and there to select sites for trees; 
 but Minturn dug on no longer "like a steam-engine," yet in 
 an easy, steady, eftective way that was a continual surprise 
 to the farmer. 
 
 "Well, Sue," said her father at last, "you and mother 
 ought to have an extra dinner; for Mr. Minturn certainly 
 has earned one." 
 
 "I promised him only a dinner," she replied; "nothing 
 was said about its being extra." 
 
 "Quantity is all I'm thinking of," said Minturn. "I 
 have the sauce which will make it a feast." 
 
 "Beckon it's gwine on twelve," said Hiram, cocking his 
 eye at the sun. "Hadn't I better feed de critters ?" 
 
 "Ah, old man I own up, now; you've got a backache," 
 said Minturn. 
 
 "Dere is kin' ob a crik comin' — ■" 
 
 "Drop work, all hands," cried Sue. "Mr. Minturn has 
 a 'crik' also, but he's too proud to own it. How you'll 
 groan for this to-morrow, sir!" 
 
 "If you take that view of the case, I may be under the 
 necessity of giving proof positive to the contrary by coming 
 out to-morrow. " 
 
 "You're not half through yet. The hardest part is to 
 come. " 
 
 ' ' Oh, I know that, ' ' he replied ; and he gave her such a 
 humorously appealing glance that she turned quickly toward 
 the house to hide a conscious flush. 
 
 The farmer showed him to the spare-room, in which he 
 found his belongings. Left to make his toilet, he muttered, 
 "Ah, better and better I This is not the regulation refriger- 
 ator into which guests are put at farmhouses. All needed 
 for solid comfort is here, even to a slight fire in the air- 
 tight. Now, isn't that rosy old lady a jewel of a mother-in- 
 law? She knows that a warm man shouldn't get chilled 
 just as well as if she had studied athletics. Miss Sue, how- 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 181 
 
 ever, is a little chilly. She's on the fence yet. Jupiter! I 
 am tired. Oh, well, I don't believe I'll have seven years 
 of this kind of thing. You were right, though, old man, if 
 your Eachel was like mine. What's that rustle in the other 
 room? She's dressing for dinner. So must I; and I'm 
 ready for it. If she has romantic ideas about love and 
 lost appetites, I'm a goner." 
 
 When he descended to the parlor, his old stylish self 
 again, Sue was there, robed in a gown which he had admired 
 before, revealing the fact to her by approving glances. But 
 now he said, "You don't look half so well as you did 
 before." 
 
 "I can't say that of you," she replied. 
 
 "A man's looks are of no consequence." 
 
 "Few men think so." 
 
 "Oh, they try to please such critical eyes as I now am 
 meeting. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And throw dust in them too sometimes. ' ' 
 
 "Yes; gold dust, often. I haven't much of that." 
 
 "It would be a pity to throw it away if you had.'* 
 
 "No matter how much was thrown, I don't think it 
 would blind you. Miss Banning." 
 
 The dining-room door across the hall opened, and the 
 host and hostess appeared. "Why, father and mother, how 
 fine you look!" 
 
 "It would be strange indeed if we did not honor this 
 day," said Mrs. Banning. "I hope you have not so tired 
 yourself, sir, that you cannot enjoy your dinner. I could 
 scarcely believe my eyes as I watched you from the 
 window." 
 
 "I am afraid I shall astonish you still more at the table. 
 I am simply ravenous. ' ' 
 
 "This is your chance," cried Sue. "You are now to be 
 paid in the coin you asked for. ' ' 
 
 Sue did remark to herself by the time they reached des- 
 sert and coffee, "I need have no scruples in refusing a man 
 with such an appetite; he won't pine. He is a lawyer, sure 
 
182 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 enough. He is just winning father and mother hand over 
 hand." 
 
 Indeed, the bosom of good Mrs. Banning must have been 
 environed with steel not to have had throbs of goodwill 
 toward one who showed such hearty appreciation of her 
 capital dinner. But Sue became only the more resolved 
 that she was not going to yield so readily to this muscular 
 suitor who was digging and eating his way straight into the 
 hearts of her ancestors, and she proposed to be unusually 
 elusive and alert during the afternoon. She was a little 
 surprised when he resumed his old tactics. 
 
 After drinking a second cup of cofiee, he rose, and said, 
 "As an honest man, I have still a great deal to do after such 
 a dinner." 
 
 "Well, it has just done me good to see you," said Mrs. 
 Banning, smiling genially over her old-fashioned coffee-pot. 
 "I feel highly complimented." 
 
 "I doubt whether I shall be equal to another such com- 
 pliment before the next birthday. I hope, Miss Susie, you 
 have observed my efiorts to do honor to the occasion ?" 
 
 "Oh," cried the girl, "I naturally supposed you were 
 trying to get even in your bargain. ' ' 
 
 "I hope to be about sundown. I'll get into those over- 
 alls at once, and I trust you will put on your walking- 
 suit." 
 
 "Yes, it will be a walking-suit for a short time. We 
 must walk to the wood-lot for the trees, unless you prefer 
 to ride. — Father, please tell Hiram to get the two- horse 
 wagon ready." 
 
 When the old people were left alone, the farmer said, 
 "Well, mother. Sue has got a suitor, and if he don't suit 
 her — " And then his wit gave out. 
 
 "There, father, I never thought you'd come to that. 
 It's well she has, for you will soon have to be taken 
 care of." 
 
 "He's got the muscle to do it. He shall have my law- 
 business, anyway." 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 183 
 
 '*Thank the Lord, it isn't much; but that's not saying 
 he shall have Sue. ' ' 
 
 '* Why, what have you against him ?" 
 
 *' Nothing so far. I was only finding out if you had any- 
 thing against him. ' ' 
 
 "Lawyers, indeed! What would become of the men if 
 women turned lawyers. Do you think Sue — " 
 
 ''Hush I" 
 
 They all laughed till the tears came when Minturn again 
 appeared dressed for work; but he nonchalantly lighted a 
 cigar and was entirely at his ease. 
 
 Sue was armed with thick gloves and a pair of pruning- 
 nippers. Minturn threw a spade and pickaxe on his shoul- 
 der, and Mr. Banning, whom Sue had warned threateningly 
 "never to be far away," tramped at their side as they went 
 up the lane. Apparently there was no need of such pre- 
 caution, for the young man seemed wholly bent on getting 
 up the trees, most of which she had selected and marked 
 during recent rambles. She helped now vigorously, pulling 
 on the young saplings as they loosened the roots, then trim- 
 ming them into shape. More than once, however, she de- 
 tected glances, and his thoughts were more flattering than 
 she imagined. "What vigor she has in that supple, rounded 
 form! Her very touch ought to put life into these trees; I 
 know it would into me. How young she looks in that com- 
 ical old dress which barely reaches her ankles! Yes, Hal 
 Minturn; and remember, that trim little ankle can put a 
 firm foot down for or against you — so no blundering." 
 
 He began to be doubtful whether he would make his 
 grand attack that day, and finally decided against it, unless 
 a very favorable opportunity occurred, until her plan of 
 birthday -work had been carried out and he had fulfilled the 
 obligation into which he had entered in the morning. He 
 labored on manfully, seconding all her wishes, and taking 
 much pains to get the young trees up with an abundance of 
 fibrous roots. At last his assiduity induced her to relent a 
 little, and she smiled sympathetically as she remarked, "1 
 
184 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 hope you are enjoying yourself. Well, never mind; some 
 other day you will fare better. ' ' 
 
 "Why should I not ei^joy myself?" he asked in well- 
 feigned surprise. "What condition of a good time is ab- 
 sent ? Even an April day has forgotten to be moody, and 
 we are having unclouded, genial sunshine. The air is de- 
 licious with springtime fragrance. Were ever hemlocks so 
 aromatic as these young fellows? They come out of the 
 ground so readily that one would think them aware of their 
 proud destiny. Of course I'm enjoying myself. Even the 
 robins and sparrows know it, and are singing as if pos- 
 sessed." 
 
 "Hadn't you better give up your law-office and turn 
 farmer ?' ' 
 
 "This isn't farming. This is embroidery- work." 
 
 "Well, if all these trees grow they will embroider the 
 old place, won't they ?" 
 
 "They'll grow, every mother's son of 'em." 
 
 "What makes you so confident?" 
 
 "I'm hot confident. That's where you are mistaken." 
 And he gave her such a direct, keen look that she suddenly 
 found something to do elsewhere. 
 
 "I declare!" she exclaimed mentally, "he seems to read 
 my very thoughts. ' ' 
 
 At last the wagon was loaded with trees enough to oc- 
 cupy the holes which had been dug, and they started for 
 the vicinity of the farmhouse again. Mr. Banning had no 
 match-making proclivities where Sue was concerned, as may 
 be well understood, and had never been far off. Minturn, 
 however, had appeared so single-minded in his work, so in- 
 nocent of all designs upon his daughter, that the old man 
 began to think that this day's performance was only a tenta- 
 tive and preliminary skirmish, and that if there were danger 
 it lurked in the unknown future. He was therefore inclined 
 to be less vigilant, reasoning philosophically, "I suppose it's 
 got to come some time or other. It looks as if Sue might 
 go a good deal further than this young man and fare worse. 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES .... 186 
 
 But then she's only eighteen, and he knows it I guess he's 
 got sense enough not to plant his corn till the sun's higher. 
 He can see with half an eye that my little girl isn't ready 
 to drop, like an over- ripe apple." Thus mixing metaphors 
 and many thoughts, he hurried ahead to open the gate for 
 Hiram. 
 
 "I'm in for it now," thought Sue, and she instinctively 
 assumed an indifferent expression and talked volubly of trees. 
 
 *'Yes, Miss Banning," he said formally, "by the time 
 your hair is tinged with gray the results of this day's labor 
 will be seen far and wide. No passenger in the cars, no 
 traveller in the valley, but will turn his eyes admiringly 
 in this direction." 
 
 "I wasn't thinking of travellers," she answered, "but of 
 making an attractive home in which I can grow old con- 
 tentedly. Some day when you have become a gray-haired 
 and very dignified judge you may come out and dine with 
 us again. You can then smoke your cigar under a tree 
 which you helped to plant." 
 
 "Certainly, Miss Banning. With such a prospect, how 
 could you doubt that I was enjoying myself ? What sug- 
 gested the judge ? My present appearance ?" 
 
 The incongruity of the idea with his absurd aspect and 
 a certain degree of nervousness set her off again, and she 
 startled the robins by a laugh as loud and clear as their 
 wild notes. 
 
 "I don't care," she cried. "I've had a jolly birthday, 
 and am accomplishing all on which I had set my heart." 
 
 "Yes, and a great deal more. Miss Banning," he replied 
 with a formal bow. "In all your scheming you hadn't set 
 your heart on my coming out and — does modesty permit 
 me to say it? — helping a little." 
 
 "Now, you have helped wonderfully, and you must not 
 think I don't appreciate it." 
 
 "Ah, how richly I am rewarded!" 
 
 She looked at him with a laughing and perplexed little 
 frown, but only said, "No irony, sir." 
 
186 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 By this time they had joined her father and begun to set 
 out the row of hemlocks. To her surprise, Sue had found 
 herself a little disappointed that he had not availed himself 
 of his one opportunity to be at least "a bit friendly" as 
 she phrased it. It was mortifying to a girl to be expecting 
 "something awkward to meet" and nothing of the kind 
 take place. "After all," she thought, "perhaps he came 
 out just for a lark, or, worse still, is amusing himself at my 
 expense; or he may have come on an exploring expedition 
 and plain old father and mother, and the plain little farm- 
 house, have satisfied him. Well, the dinner wasn't very 
 plain, but he may have been laughing in his sleeve at our 
 lack of style in serving it. Then this old dress! I prob- 
 ably appear to him a perfect guy." And she began to hate 
 it, and devoted it to the rag-bag the moment she could 
 get it off. 
 
 This line of thought, once begun, seemed so rational 
 that she wondered it had not occurred to her before. "The 
 idea of my being so ridiculously on the defensive!" she 
 tiiought. "No, it wasn't ridiculous either, as far as my 
 action went, for he can never say I acted as if I wanted him 
 to speak. My conceit in expecting him to speak the mo- 
 ment he got a chance was absurd. He has begun to be 
 very polite and formal. That's always the way with men 
 when they want to back out of anything. He came out to 
 look us over, and me in particular; he made himself into 
 a scarecrow just because I looked like one, and now will 
 go home and laugh it all over with his city friends. Oh, 
 why did he come and spoil my day ? Even he said it was 
 my day, and he has done a mean thing in spoiling it. Well, 
 he may not carry as much self-complacency back to town 
 as he thinks he will. Such a cold-blooded spirit, too! — to 
 come upon us unawares in order to spy out everything, for 
 fear he might get taken in ! You were very attentive and 
 flattering in the city, sir, but now you are disenchanted. 
 Well, so ami." 
 
 Under the influence of this train of thought she grew 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 187 
 
 more and more silent. The sun was sinking westward in 
 undimmed splendor, but her face was clouded. The air was 
 sweet, balmy, well adapted to sentiment and the setting out 
 of trees, but she was growing frosty. 
 
 "Hiram," she said shortly, "you've got that oak crooked; 
 let me hold it. ' ' And thereafter she held the trees for the 
 old colored man as he filled in the earth around them. 
 
 Minturn appeared as oblivious as he was keenly ob- 
 servant. At first the change in Sue puzzled and discour- 
 aged him; then, as his acute mind sought her motives, a 
 rosy light began to dawn upon him. "I may be wrong," 
 he thought, "but I'll take my chances in acting as if I were 
 right before I go home, ' ' 
 
 At last Hiram said: "Reckon I'll have to feed de critters 
 again;" and he slouched off. 
 
 Sue nipped at the young trees further and further away 
 from the young man who must "play spy before being 
 lover." The spy helped Mr. Banning set out the last tree. 
 Meantime, the complacent farmer had mused: "The little 
 girl's safe for another while, anyhow. Never saw her more 
 offish; but things looked squally about dinner-time. Then, 
 she's only eighteen; time enough years hence." At last he 
 said affably, "I'll go in and hasten supper, for you've earned 
 it if ever a man did, Mr. Minturn. Then I'll drive you down 
 to the evening train." And he hurried away. 
 
 Sue's back was toward them, and she did not hear Min- 
 turn's step until he was close beside her. "All through," 
 he said; "every tree out. I congratulate you; for rarely in 
 this vale of tears are plans and hopes crowned with better 
 success. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, yes," she hastened to reply; "I am more than satis- 
 fied. I hope that you are too. ' ' 
 
 "I have no reason to complain," he said. "You have 
 stood by your morning's bargain, as I have tried to." 
 
 "It was your own fault, Mr. Minturn, that it was so 
 one-sided. But I've no doubt you enjoy spicing your city 
 life with a little lark in the country. ' ' 
 
188 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "It was SL one-sided bargain, and I have had the best 
 of it." 
 
 "Perhaps you have," she admitted. "I think supper 
 will be ready by the time we are ready for it." And she 
 turned toward the house. Then she added, "You must be 
 weary and anxious to get away." 
 
 "You were right; my bones do ache. And look at mj 
 hands. I know you'll say they need washing; but count 
 the blisters. ' ' 
 
 "I also said, Mr. Minturn, that you would know better 
 next time. So you see I was right then and am right now." 
 
 "Are you perfectly sure?" 
 
 "I see no reason to think otherwise. " In turning, she 
 had faced a young sugar- maple which he had aided her in 
 planting early in the afternoon. Now she snipped at it 
 nervously with her pruning-shears, for he would not budge, 
 and she felt it scarcely polite to leave him. 
 
 "Well," he resumed, after an instant, "it has a good 
 look, hasnH it, for a man to fulfil an obligation literally?" 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Minturn," and there was a tremor in her 
 tone; "but you have done a hundred-fold more than I ex- 
 pected, and never were under any obligations." 
 
 ' ' Then I am free to begin again ?' ' 
 
 "You are as free now as you have been all day to do 
 what you please." And her shears were closing on the 
 main stem of the maple. He caught and stayed her hand. 
 "I don't care!" she cried almost passionately. "Come, let 
 us go in and end this foolish talk." 
 
 "But I do care," he replied, taking the shears from her, 
 yet retaining her hand in his strong grasp. "I helped you 
 plant this tree, and whenever you see it, whenever you care 
 for it, when, in time, you sit under its shade or wonder at 
 its autumn hues, I wish you to remember that I told you 
 of my love beside it. Dear little girl, do you think I am 
 such a blind fool that I could spend this long day with you 
 at your home and not feel sorry that I must ever go away ? 
 If I could, my very touch should turn the sap of this maple 
 
QUEEN OF SPADES 189 
 
 into vinegar. To-day I've only tried to show how I can 
 work for you. I am eager to begin again, and for life." 
 
 At first Sue had tried to withdraw her hand, but its 
 tenseness relaxed. As he spoke, she turned her averted 
 face slowly toward him, and the rays of the setting sun 
 flashed a deeper crimson into her cheeks. Her honest eyes 
 looked into his and were satisfied. Then she suddenly 
 gathered the young tree against her heart and kissed the 
 stem she had so nearly severed. ' ' This maple is witness to 
 what you've said," she faltered. ''Ah! but it will be a 
 sugar-maple in truth; and if petting will make it live — 
 there, now! behave! The idea! right out on this bare 
 lawn! Y'ou must wait till the screening evergreens grow 
 before — Oh, you audacious — I haven't promised any- 
 thing." 
 
 ''I promise everything. I'm engaged, and only taking 
 my retaining-fees. " 
 
 ''Mother," cried Farmer Banning at the dining-room 
 window, "just look yonder!" 
 
 "And do you mean to say, John Banning, that you 
 didn't expect it?" 
 
 "Why, Sue was growing more and more offish." 
 
 "Of course! Don't you remember?" 
 
 "Oh, this unlucky birthday! As if trees could take 
 Sue's place!" 
 
 "Yah!" chuckled Hiram from the barn door, "I knowed 
 dat ar gem'lin was a-diggin' a hole fer hisself on dis farm." 
 
 "Mr. Minturn — " Sue began as they came toward the 
 house arm in arm. 
 
 "Hal — " he interrupted. 
 
 "Well, then, Mr. Hal, you must promise me one thing 
 in dead earnest. I'm the only chick father and mother have. 
 You must be very considerate of them, and let me give 
 them as much of my time as I can. This is all that I stip- 
 ulate; but this I do." 
 
 "Sue," he said in mock solemnity, "the prospects are that 
 you'll be a widow " 
 
190 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 " Whj do you make sucli an absurd remark ?" 
 
 ''Because you have struck amidships the commandment 
 with the promise, and your days will be long in the land. 
 You'll outlive everybody." 
 
 *'This will be no joke for father and mother." 
 
 So it would appear. They sat in the parlor as if waiting 
 for the world to come to an end — as indeed it had, one 
 phase of it, to them. Their little girl, in a sense, was theirs 
 no longer. 
 
 "Father, mother," said Sue, demurely, *'I must break 
 some news to you." 
 
 "It's broken already," began Mrs. Banning, putting her 
 handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 Sue's glance renewed her reproaches for the scene on the 
 lawn; but Minturn went promptly forward, and throwing 
 his arm around the matron's plump shoulders, gave his first 
 filial kiss. 
 
 "Come, mother," he said, "Sue has thought of you 
 both; and I've given her a big promise that I won't take 
 any more of her away than I can help. And you, sir," 
 wriDging the farmer's hand, "will often see a city tramp 
 here who will be glad to work for his dinner. These over- 
 alls are my witness. ' ' 
 
 Then they became conscious of his absurd figure, and the 
 scene ended in laughter that was near akin to tears. 
 
 The maple lived, you may rest assured; and Sue's chil- 
 dren said there never was such sugar as the sap of that tree 
 yielded. 
 
 All the hemlocks, oaks, and dogwood thrived as if con- 
 scious that theirs had been no ordinary transplanting; while 
 Minturn' s half- jesting prophecy concerning the travellers in 
 the valley was amply fulfilled. 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 
 
 •* ¥ ACK, she played with me deliberately, heartlessly. 
 
 I I can never forgive her. ' ' 
 ^ "In that case, Will, I congratulate you. Such a 
 
 girl isn't worth a second thought; and you've made a happy 
 escape. ' ' 
 
 "No congratulations, if you please. You can talk coolly, 
 because in regard to such matters you are cool, and, I may 
 add, a trifle cold. Ambition is your mistress, and a musty 
 law-book has more attractions for you than any woman 
 living. I'm not so tempered. I am subject to the general 
 law of nature, and a woman's love and sympathy are essen- 
 tial to success in my life and work." 
 
 "That's all right; but there are as good fish — " 
 
 "Oh, have done with your trite nonsense," interrupted 
 Will Munson, impatiently. "I'd consult you on a point 
 of law in preference to most of the graybeards, but I was 
 a fool to speak of this affair. And yet as my most intimate 
 friend—" 
 
 "Come, Will, I'm not unfeeling;" and John Ackland 
 rose and put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I admit 
 that the subject is remote from my line of thought and 
 wholly beyond my experience. If the affair is so serious 
 I shall take it to heart. ' ' 
 
 "Serious! Is it a slight thing to be crippled for life?" 
 
 "Oh, come, now," said Ackland, giving his friend a 
 hearty and encouraging thump, "you are sound in mind 
 and limb; what matters a scratch on the heart to a man not 
 twenty-five?" 
 
 (191) 
 
192 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Very well; I'll say no more about it. When I need a 
 lawyer I'll come to you. Good- by; I sail for Brazil in the 
 morning." 
 
 "Will, sit down and look me in the eyes," said Ack- 
 land, decisively. "Will, forgive me. You are in trouble. 
 A man's eyes usually tell me more than all his words, and 
 I don't like the expression of yours. There is yellow fever 
 in Brazil. ' ' 
 
 "I know it," was the careless reply. 
 
 ' ' W hat excuse have you for going ?' ' 
 
 "Business complications have arisen there, and I promptly 
 volunteered to go. My employers were kind enough to hesi- 
 tate and warn me, and to say that they could send a man less 
 valuable to them, but I soon overcame their objections." 
 
 "That is your excuse for going. The reason I see in 
 your eyes. You are reckless. Will. ' ' 
 
 "I have reason to be." 
 
 "I can't agree with you, but I feel for you all the same. 
 Tell me all about it, for this is sad news to me. I had hoped 
 to join you on the beach in a few days, and to spend August 
 with you and my cousin. I confess I am beginning to feel 
 exceedingly vindictive toward this pretty little monster, and 
 if any harm comes to you I shall be savage enough to scalp 
 her." 
 
 " The harm has come already , Jack. I'm hit hard. She 
 showed me a mir&,ge of happiness that has made my present 
 world a desert. I am reckless; I'm desperate. You may 
 think it is weak and unmanly, but you don't know anything 
 about it. Time or the fever may cure me, but now I am 
 bankrupt in all that gives value to life. A woman with 
 an art so consummate that it seemed artless, deliberately 
 evoked the best there was in me, then threw it away as 
 indifferently as a cast-off glove." 
 
 "Tell me how it came about." 
 
 "How can I tell you? How can I in cold blood recall 
 glances, words, intonations, the pressure of a hand that 
 seemed alive with reciprocal feeling? In addition to her 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 193 
 
 beauty she had the irresistible charm of fascination. I was 
 wary at first, but she angled for me with a skill that would 
 have disarmed any man who did not believe in the inherent 
 falseness of woman. The children in the house idolized 
 her, and I have great faith in a child's intuitions." 
 
 "Oh, that was only a part of her guile," said Ackland, 
 frowningly. 
 
 ' ' Probably ; at any rate she has taken all the color and 
 zest out of my life. I wish some one could pay her back in 
 her own coin. I don't suppose she has a heart; but I wish 
 her vanity might be wounded in a way that would teach her 
 a lesson never to be forgotten. ' ' 
 
 "It certainly would be a well-deserved retribution," 
 said Ackland, musingly. 
 
 "Jack, you are the one, of all the world, to administer 
 the punishment. I don't believe a woman's smiles ever 
 quickened your pulse one beat." 
 
 "You are right. Will, it is my cold-bloodedness — to put 
 your thought in plain English — that will prove your best 
 
 ally." 
 
 "I only hope that I am not leading you into danger. 
 You will need an Indian's stoicism." 
 
 ' ' Bah ! I may fail ignominiously, and find her vanity in- 
 vulnerable, but I pledge you my word that I will avenge 
 you if it be within the compass of my skill. My cousin, 
 Mrs. Alston, may prove a useful ally. I think you wrote 
 me that the name of this siren was Eva Van Tyne ?" 
 
 "Yes; I only wish she had the rudiments of a heart, so 
 that she might feel in a faint, far-off way a little of the pain 
 she has inflicted on me. Don't let her make you falter or 
 grow remorseful, Jack. Eemember that you have given a 
 pledge to one who may be dead before you can fulfil it. ' ' 
 
 Ackland said farewell to his friend with the fear that he 
 might never see him again, and a few days later found him- 
 self at a New England seaside resort, with a relentless pur- 
 pose lurking in his dark eyes. Mrs. Alston did uncon- 
 sciously prove a useful ally, for her wealth and elegance 
 
 9— Roe— XI 
 
194 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 gave her unusual prestige in the house, and in joining her 
 party Ackland achieved immediately all the social recogni- 
 tion he desired. 
 
 While strolling with this lady on the piazza he observed 
 the object of his quest, and was at once compelled to make 
 more allowance than he had done hitherto for his friend's 
 discomfiture. Two or three children were leaning over the 
 young girl's chair, and she was amusing them by some 
 clever caricatures. She was not so interested, however, 
 but that she soon noted the new-comer, and bestowed upon 
 him from time to time curious and furtive glances. That 
 these were not returned seemed to occasion her some sur- 
 prise, for she was not accustomed to be so utterly ignored, 
 even by a stranger. A little later xlckland saw her consult- 
 ing the hotel register. 
 
 "1 have at least awakened her curiosity," he thought. 
 
 "I've been waiting for you to ask me who that pretty 
 girl is," said Mrs. Alton, laughing; '''you do indeed exceed 
 all men in indifference to women." 
 
 "I know all about that girl," was the grim reply. "She 
 has played the very deuce with my friend Munson. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. Alston, indignantly, "it was the 
 most shameful piece of coquetry I ever saw. She is a puz- 
 zle to me. To the children and the old people in the house 
 she is consideration and kindness itself; but she appears to 
 regard men of your years as legitimate game and is perfectly 
 remorseless. So beware! She is dangerous, invulnerable 
 as you imagine yourself to be. She will practice her wiles 
 upon you if you give her half a chance, and her art has 
 much more than her pretty face to enforce it. She is 
 unusually clever." 
 
 Ackland 's slight shrug was so contemptuous that his 
 cousin was nettled, and she thought, "I wish the girl could 
 disturb his complacent equanimity just a little. It vexes 
 one to see a man so indifferent; it's a slight to woman;" and 
 she determined to give Miss Van Tyne the vantage-ground 
 of an introduction at the first opportunity 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 195 
 
 And this occurred before the evening was over. To her 
 surprise Ackland entered into an extended conversation 
 with the enemy. "Well," she thought, "if he begins in 
 this style there will soon be another victim. Miss Van 
 Tyne can talk to as bright a man as he is and hold her 
 own. Meanwhile she will assail him in a hundred covert 
 ways. Out of regard for his friend he should have shown 
 some disapproval of her; but there he sits quietly talking 
 in the publicity of the parlor." ~ 
 
 "Mrs. Alston," said a friend at her elbow, "you ought to 
 forewarn your cousin and tell him of Mr. Munson'siate." 
 
 "He knows all about Mr. Munson," was her reply. "In- 
 deed, the latter is his most intimate friend. I suppose my 
 cousin is indulging in a little natural curiosity concerning 
 this destroyer of masculine peace, and if ever a man could 
 do so in safety he can. ' ' 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "Well, I never knew so unsusceptible a man. With the 
 exception of a few of his relatives, he has never cared for 
 ladies' society." 
 
 Mrs. Alston was far astray in supposing that curiosity 
 was Ackland' s motive in his rather prolonged conversation 
 with Miss Van Tyne. It was simply part of his tactics, for 
 he proposed to waste no time in skirmishing or in guarded 
 and gradual approaches. He would cross weapons at 
 once, and secure his object by a sharp and aggressive cam- 
 paign. His object was to obtain immediately some idea of 
 the calibre of the girl's mind, and in this respect he was 
 agreeably surprised, for while giving little evidence of 
 thorough education, she was unusually intelligent and ex- 
 ceedingly quick in her perceptions. He soon learned also 
 that she was gifted with more than woman's customary in- 
 tuition, that she was watching his face closely for meanings 
 that he might not choose to express in words or else to con- 
 ceal by his language. While he feared that his task would 
 be far more difficult than he expected, and that he would 
 have to be extremely guarded in order not to reveal his de- 
 
196 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 sign, he was glad to learn that the foe was worthy of his 
 steel. Meanwhile her ability and self-reliance banished all 
 compunction. He had no scruples in humbling the pride 
 of a woman who was at once so proud, so heartless, and so 
 clever. Nor would the effort be wearisome, for she had 
 proved herself both amusing and interesting. He might 
 enjoy it quite as much as an intricate law case. 
 
 Even prejudiced Ackland, as he saw her occasionally 
 on the following day, was compelled to admit that she was 
 more than pretty. Her features were neither regular nor 
 faultless. Her mouth was too large to be perfect, and her 
 nose was not Grecian; but her eyes were peculiarly fine 
 and illumined her face, whose chief charm lay in its power 
 of expression. If she chose, almost all her thoughts and 
 feelings could find their reflex there. The trouble was that 
 she could as readily mask her thought and express what she 
 did not feel. Her eyes were of the darkest blue and her 
 hair seemed light in contrast. It was evident that she had 
 studied grace so thoroughly that her manner and carriage 
 appeared unstudied and natural. She never seemed self- 
 conscious, and yet no one had ever seen her in an ungainly 
 posture or had known her to make an awkward gesture. 
 This grace, however, like a finished style in writing, was 
 tinged so strongly with her own individuality that it ap- 
 peared original as compared with the fashionable monotony 
 which characterized the manners of so many of her age. 
 She could not have been much more than twenty ; and yet, 
 as Mrs. Alston took pains to inform her cousin, she had 
 long been in society, adding, "Its homage is her breath of 
 life, and from all I hear your friend Munson has had many 
 predecessors. Be on your guard. ' ' 
 
 "Your solicitude in my behalf is quite touching," he 
 replied. "Who is this fair buccaneer that has made so 
 many wrecks and exacts so heavy a revenue from society ? 
 Who has the care of her and what are her antecedents ?" 
 
 "She is an orphan, and possessed, I am told, of consid- 
 erable property in her own name. A forceless, nerveless 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 197 
 
 maiden aunt is about the only antecedent we see much of. 
 Her guardian has been here once or twice, but practically 
 she is independent." 
 
 Miss Van Tyne's efforts to learn something concerning 
 Ackland were apparently quite as casual and indifferent and 
 yet were made with utmost skill. She knew that Mrs. Al- 
 ston's friend was something of a gossip; and she led her to 
 speak of the subject of her thoughts with an indirect ^we^se 
 that would have amused the young man exceedingly could 
 he have been an unobserved witness. When she learned that 
 he was Mr. Munson's intimate friend and that he was aware 
 of her treatment of the latter, she was somewhat discon- 
 certed. One so forewarned might not become an easy prey. 
 But the additional fact that he was almost a woman-hater 
 put her upon her mettle at once, and she felt that here was 
 a chance for a conquest such as she had never made before. 
 She now believed that she had discovered the key to his in- 
 difference. He was ready enough to amuse himself with 
 her as a clever woman, but knew her too well to bestow 
 upon her even a friendly thought. 
 
 *'If I can bring him to my feet it will be a triumph in- 
 deed," she murmured exultantly; *'and at my feet he shall 
 be if he gives me half a chance. ' ' Seemingly he gave her 
 every chance that she could desire, and while he scarcely 
 made any effort to seek her society, she noted with secret 
 satisfaction that he often appeared as if accidentally near 
 her, and that he ever made it the easiest and most natural 
 thing in the world for her to join him. His conversation 
 was often as gay and unconventional as she could wish; but 
 she seldom failed to detect in it an uncomfortable element 
 of satire and irony. He always left her dissatisfied with 
 herself and with a depressing consciousness that she had 
 made no impression upon him. 
 
 His conquest grew into an absorbing desire; and she 
 unobtrusively brought to bear upon him every art and 
 fascination that she possessed. Her toilets were as ex- 
 quisite as they were simple. The children were made Uy 
 
198 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 idolize her more than ever; but Ackland was candid 
 enough to admit that this was not all guile on her part, 
 for she was evidently in sympathy with the little people, 
 who can rarely be imposed upon by any amount of false 
 interest. Indeed, he saw no reason to doubt that she 
 abounded in good-nature toward all except the natural 
 objects of her ruling passion; but the very skill and de- 
 liberateness with which she sought to gratify this passion 
 greatly increased his vindictive feeling. He saw how natu- 
 rally and completely his friend had been deceived and how 
 exquisite must have been the hopes and anticipations so 
 falsely raised. Therefore he smiled more grimly at the 
 close of each succeeding day, and was more than ever bent 
 upon the accomplishment of his purpose. 
 
 At length Miss Van Tyne changed her tactics and grew 
 quite oblivious to Ackland's presence in the house; but she 
 found him apparently too indifferent to observe the fact. 
 She then permitted one of her several admirers to become 
 devoted; Ackland did not ofier the protest of even a glance. 
 He stood, as it were, just where she had left him, ready 
 for an occasional chat, stroll, or excursion, if the afiair came 
 about naturally and without much effort on his part. She 
 found that she could neither induce him to seek her nor 
 annoy him by an indifference which she meant should be 
 more marked than his own. 
 
 Some little time after there came a windy day when the 
 surf was so heavy that there were but few bathers. Ack- 
 land was a good swimmer, and took his plunge as usual. 
 He was leaving the water when Miss Van Tyne ran down 
 the beach and was about to dart through the breakers in 
 her wonted fearless style. 
 
 "Be careful," he said to her; "the undertow is strong, 
 and the man who has charge of the bathing is ill and not 
 here. The tide is changing — in fact, running out already, 
 1 believe." But she would not even look at him, much less 
 answer. As there were other gentlemen present, he started 
 for his bath-house, but had proceeded but a little way up 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 199 
 
 the beach before a cry brought him to the water's edge 
 instantly. 
 
 ''Something is wrong with Miss Yan Tyne," cried half 
 a dozen voices. "She ventured out recklessly, and it seems 
 as if she couldn't get back." 
 
 At that moment her form rose on the crest of a wave, 
 and above the thunder of the surf came her faint cry, 
 "Help!" 
 
 The other bathers stood irresolute, for she was danger- 
 ously far out, and the tide had evidently turned. Ackland, 
 on the contrary, dashed through the breakers and then, in 
 his efforts for speed, dived through the waves nearest to the 
 shore. When he reached the place where he expected to 
 find her he saw nothing for a moment or two but great 
 crested billows that every moment were increasing in height 
 under the rising wind. For a moment he feared that she 
 had perished, and the thought that the beautiful creature 
 had met her death so suddenly and awfully made him al- 
 most sick and faint. An instant later, however, a wave 
 threw her up from the trough of the sea into full vision 
 somewhat on his right, and a few strong strokes brought 
 him to her side. 
 
 "Oh, save me!" she gasped. 
 
 "Don't cling to me," he said sternly. "Do as I bid you. 
 Strike out for the shore if you are able; if not, lie on your 
 back and float." 
 
 She did the latter, for now that aid had reached her she 
 apparently recovered from her panic and was perfectly 
 tractable. He placed his left hand under her and struck 
 out quietly, aware that the least excitement causing ex- 
 haustion on his part might cost both of them their lives. 
 
 As they approached the shore a rope was thrown to them, 
 and Ackland, who felt his strength giving way, seized it 
 desperately. He passed his arm around his companion with 
 ft grasp that almost made her breathless, and they were 
 dragged half suffocated through the water until strong 
 ^ands on either side rushed them through the breakers. 
 
200 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Miss Van Tyne for a moment or two stood dazed and 
 panting, tlien disengaged herself from the rather warm sup- 
 port of the devoted admirer whom she had tried to play 
 against Ackland, and tried to walk, but after a few uncer- 
 tain steps fell senseless on the sand, thus for the moment 
 drawing to herself the attention of the increasing throng. 
 Ackland, glad to escape notice, was staggering off to his 
 bath-house when several ladies, more mindful of his part 
 in the affair than the men had been, overtook him with a 
 fire of questions and plaudits. 
 
 "Please leave me alone,'' he said almost savagely, with- 
 out looking around. 
 
 "What a bear he is! Any one else would have been a 
 little complacent over such an exploit, ' ' they chorused, as 
 they followed the unconscious girl, who was now being 
 carried to the hotel. 
 
 Ackland locked the door of his little apartment and sank 
 panting on the bench. ** Maledictions on her!" he muttered. 
 "At one time there was a better chance of her being fatal 
 to me than to Munson with his yellow-fever tragedy in pros- 
 pect. Her recklessness to-day was perfectly insane. If she 
 tries it again she may drown for all that I care, or at least 
 ought to care." 
 
 His anger appeared to act like a tonic, and he was soon 
 ready to return to the house. A dozen sprang forward to 
 congratulate him, but they found such impatience and 
 annoyance at all reference to the affair that with many 
 surmises the topic was dropped. 
 
 "You are a queer fellow," remarked his privileged 
 cousin, as he took her out to dinner. "Why don't you let 
 people speak naturally about the matter, or rather, why 
 don't you pose as the hero of the occasion?" 
 
 ** Because the whole affair was most unnatural, and I am 
 deeply incensed. In a case of necessity I am ready to risk 
 my life, although it has unusual attractions for me; but I'm 
 no melodramatic hero looking for adventures. What neces- 
 sity was there in this case ? It is the old story of Munson 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 201 
 
 over again in another guise. The act was that of an incon- 
 siderate, heartless woman who follows her impulses and 
 inclinations, no matter what may be the consequences." 
 After a moment he added less indignantly, "1 must give 
 her credit for one thing, angry as 1 am — she behaved well 
 in the water, otherwise she would have drowned me." 
 
 "She is not a fool. Most women would have drowned 
 you." 
 
 ''She is indeed not a fool; therefore she's the more to 
 blame. If she is ever so reckless again, may 1 be asleep in 
 my room. Of course one can't stand by and see a woman 
 drown, no matter who or what she is." 
 
 "Jack, what made her so reckless?" Mrs. Alston asked, 
 with a sudden intelligence lighting up her face. 
 
 "flang it all! How should 1 know? What made her 
 torture Munson? She follows her impulses, and they are 
 not always conducive to any one's well-being, not even her 
 own." 
 
 "Mark my words, she has never shown this kind of reck- 
 lessness before." 
 
 "Oh, yes, she has. She was running her horse to death 
 the other hot morning and nearly trampled on a child;" 
 and he told of an unexpected encounter while he was taking 
 a rather extended ramble. 
 
 "Well," exclaimed Mrs. Alston, smiling significantly, 
 "I think I understand her symptoms better than you do. 
 If you are as cold-blooded as you seem, I may have to 
 interfere. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, bah!" he answered impatiently. "Pardon me, but 
 1 should despise myself forever should I become senti- 
 mental, knowing what I do." 
 
 "Jack, had you no compunctions when fearing that such 
 a beautiful girl might perish ? We are going to have an 
 awful night. Hear the wind whistle and moan, and the sky 
 is already black with clouds. The roar of the surface grows 
 louder every hour. Think of that lovely form being out in 
 those black angry waves, darted at and preyed upon by 
 
202 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 horrible slimy monsters. Oh, it fairly makes my flesh 
 creep !' ' 
 
 "And mine too," he said with a strong gesture of dis- 
 gust; "especially when I remember that 1 should have kept 
 her company, lor of course I could not return without her. 
 I confess that when at first I could not find her I was fairly 
 sick- at the thought of her fate. But remember how un- 
 called for it all was — quite as much so as that poor Will 
 Munson is on his way to die with the yellow fever, like 
 enough." 
 
 "Jack," said his cousin, afiectionately, laying her hand 
 on his arm, "blessings on your courage to-day! If what 
 might have happened so easily had occurred, I could never 
 have looked upon the sea again without a shudder. I should 
 have been tormented by a horrible memory all my life. It 
 was brave and noble — " 
 
 "Oh, hush!" he said angrily. "I won't hear another 
 word about it even from you. I'm not brave and noble. 
 1 went because I was compelled to go; I hated to go. I 
 hate the girl, and have more reason now than ever. If we 
 had both drowned, no doubt there would have been less 
 trouble in the world. There would have been one lawyer 
 the less, and a coquette extinguished. Now we shall both 
 prey on society in our different ways indefinitely. ' ' 
 
 "Jack, you are in an awful mood to-day." 
 
 "1 am; never was in a worse." 
 
 "Having so narrowly escaped death, you ought to be 
 subdued and grateful." 
 
 "On the contrary, I'm inclined to profanity. Excuse 
 me; don't wish any dessert. I'll try a walk and a cigar. 
 You will now be glad to be rid of me on any terms." 
 
 "Stay, Jack. See, Miss Van Tyne has so far recovered 
 as to come down. She looked unutterable things at you as 
 she entered. ' ' 
 
 "Of course she did. Very few of ker thoughts concern- 
 ing me or other young men would sound well if uttered. 
 Tell your friends to let this topic alone, or I shall be rude 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 203 
 
 to them," and without a glance toward the girl he had res- 
 cued he left the dining-room. 
 
 *' Well, well," murmured Mrs. Alston, ''I never saw Jack 
 in such a mood before. It is quite as unaccountable as 
 Miss Tyne's recklessness. 1 wonder what is the matter 
 with him/' 
 
 Ackland was speedily driven back from his walk by the 
 rain, which fact he did not regret, for he found himself ex- 
 hausted and depressed. Seeking a retired piazza in order 
 to be alone, he sat down with his hat drawn over his eyes 
 and smoked furiously. Before very long, however, he was 
 startled out of a painful revery by a timid voice saying: 
 
 "Mr. Ackland, won't you permit me to thank you?" 
 
 He rose. Miss Van Tyne stood before him with out- 
 stretched hand. He did not notice it, but bowing coldly, 
 said: 
 
 "Please consider that you have thanked me and let the 
 subject drop." 
 
 "Do not be so harsh with me," she pleaded. "I cannot 
 help it if you are. Mr. Ackland, you saved my life." 
 
 "Possibly." 
 
 "And possibly you think that it is scarcely worth 
 saving." 
 
 "Possibly your own conscience suggested that thought 
 to you. ' ' 
 
 "You are heartless," she burst out indignantly. 
 
 He began to laugh. "That's a droll charge for you to 
 make," he said. 
 
 She looked at him steadfastly for a moment, and then 
 murmured: "You are thinking of your friend, Mr. Munson." 
 
 "That would be quite natural. How many more can you 
 think of?" 
 
 "You are indeed unrelenting, " she faltered, tears coming 
 into her eyes; "but I cannot forget that but for you 2 should 
 now be out there" — and she indicated the sea by a gesture, 
 then covered her face with her hands, and shuddered. 
 
 "Do not feel under obligations. I should have been 
 
204 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 compelled to do as much for any human being. You seem 
 to forget that I stood an even chance of being out there 
 with you, and that there was no more need of the risk than 
 there was that my best friend's life should be blight — " 
 
 ''You — you out there ?" she cried, springing toward him 
 and pointing to the sea. 
 
 ' ' Certainly. You cannot suppose that having once found 
 you, I could come ashore without you. As it was, my 
 strength was rapidly giving way, and were it not for the 
 rope — ' ' 
 
 "Oh, forgive me," she cried passionately, seizing his 
 hand in spite of him. *'It never entered my mind that you 
 could drown. I somehow felt that nothing could harm you. 
 I was reckless — I didn't know what I was doing — I don't 
 understand myself any more. Please— please forgive me, 
 or I shall not sleep to-night." 
 
 "Certainly," he said lightly, "if you will not refer to 
 our little episode again." 
 
 "Please don't speak in that way," she sighed, turning 
 away. 
 
 "I have complied with your request." 
 
 ' ' I suppose I must be content, ' ' she resumed sadly. Then 
 turning her head slowly toward him she added hesitatingly: 
 "Will you forgive me for — for treating your friend — " 
 
 "No," he replied, with such stern emphasis that she 
 shrank from him and trembled. 
 
 "You are indeed heartless,'* she faltered, as she turned 
 to leave him. 
 
 "Miss Van Tyne, " he said indignantly, "twice you have 
 charged me with being heartless. Your voice and manner 
 indicate that I would be unnatural and unworthy of respect 
 were I what you charge. In the name of al] that's rational 
 what does this word 'heartless' mean to you? Where was 
 your heart when you sent my friend away so wretched and 
 humbled that he is virtually seeking the death from which 
 you are so glad to escape ?' ' 
 
 "1 did not love him," she protested faintly. 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 205 
 
 He laughed bitterly, and continued, "Love! That's a 
 word which I believe has no meaning for you at all, but it 
 had for him. You are a remarkably clever woman, Miss 
 Van Tyne. You have brains in abundance. See, I do you 
 justice. What is more, you are beautiful and can be so 
 fascinating that a man who believed in you might easily 
 worship you. You made him believe in you. You tried to 
 beguile me into a condition that with my nature would be 
 ruin indeed. You never had the baby plea of a silly, 
 shallow woman. I took pains to find that out the first 
 evening we met. In your art of beguiling an honest, trust- 
 ing man you were as perfect as you were remorseless, and 
 you understood exactly what you were doing." 
 
 For a time she seemed overwhelmed by his lava-like 
 torrent of words, and stood with bowed head and shrinking, 
 trembling form; but when he ceased she turned to him and 
 said bitterly and emphatically: 
 
 "I did not understand what I was doing, nor would my 
 brain have taught me were I all intellect like yourself. I 
 half wish you had left me to drown," and with a slight, 
 despairing gesture she turned away and did not look 
 back. 
 
 Ackland's face lighted up with a sudden flash of intelli- 
 gence and deep feeling. He started to recall her, hesitated, 
 and watched her earnestly until she disappeared; then look- 
 ing out on the scowling ocean, he took off his hat and 
 exclaimed in a deep, low tone: 
 
 *'By all that's divine, can this be? Is it possible that 
 through the suffering of her own awakening heart she is 
 learning to know the pain she has given to others ? Should 
 this be true, the affair is taking an entirely new aspect, and 
 Munson will be avenged as neither of us ever dreamed 
 would be possible." 
 
 He resumed his old position and thought long and deeply, 
 then rejoined his cousin, who was somewhat surprised to 
 find that his bitter mood had given place to his former 
 composure. 
 
206 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "How is this, Jack?" she asked. "As the storm grows 
 wilder without, you become more serene." 
 
 "Only trying to make amends for my former bearish- 
 ness, ' ' he said carelessly, but with a little rising color. 
 
 "1 don't understand you at all," she continued discon- 
 tentedly. "I saw you sulking in that out-of-the-way cor- 
 ner, and I saw Miss Van Tyne approach you hesitatingly 
 and timidly, with the purpose, no doubt, of thanking you. 
 Of course I did not stay to watch, but a little later I met 
 Miss Van Tyne, and she looked white and rigid. She has 
 not left her room since." 
 
 "You take a great interest in Miss Van Tyne. It is well 
 you are not in my place. ' ' 
 
 "I half wish I was and had your chances. You are more 
 pitiless than the waves from which you saved her. ' ' 
 
 "I can't help being just what I am," he said coldly. 
 "Grood-night. " And he too disappeared for the rest of the 
 evening. 
 
 The rain continued to fall in blinding torrents, and the 
 building fairly trembled under the violence of the wind. 
 The guests drew together in the lighted rooms, and sought 
 by varied amusements to pass the time until the fierceness 
 of the storm abated, few caring to retire while the uproar of 
 the elements was so great. 
 
 At last as the storm passed away, and the late-rising 
 moon threw a sickly gleam on the tumultuous waters, Eva 
 looked from her window with sleepless eyes, thinking sadly 
 and bitterly of the past and future. Suddenly a dark figure 
 appeared on the beach in the track of the moonlight. She 
 snatched an opera-glass, but could not recognize the soli- 
 tary form. The thought would come, however, that it was 
 Ackland; and if it were, what were his thoughts and what 
 place had she in them ? Why was he watching so near the 
 spot that might have been their burial-place ? 
 
 "At least he shall not think that I can stolidly sleep 
 after what has occurred," she thought, and she turned up 
 her light, opened her window, and sat down by it again. 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 207 
 
 Whoever the unseasonable rambler might be, he appeared 
 to recognize the gleam from her window, for he walked 
 hastily down the beach and disappeared. After a time she 
 darkened her room again and waited in vain for his return. 
 *'If it were he, he shuns even the slightest recognition," she 
 thought despairingly ; and the early dawn was not far dis- 
 tant when she fell into an unquiet sleep. 
 
 For the next few days Miss Van Tyne was a puzzle to all 
 except Mrs. Alston. She was quite unlike the girl she had 
 formerly been, and she made no effort to disguise the fact. 
 In the place of her old exuberance of life and spirits, there 
 was lassitude and great depression. The rich color ebbed 
 steadily from her face, and dark lines under her eyes beto- 
 kened sleepless nights. She saw the many curious glances 
 in her direction, but apparently did not care what was 
 thought or surmised. Were it not that her manner to 
 Ackland was so misleading, the tendency to couple their 
 names together would have been far more general. She 
 neither sought nor shunned his society; in fact, she treated 
 him as she did the other gentlemen of her acquaintance. 
 She took him at his word. He had said he would forgive 
 her on condition that she would not speak of what he was 
 pleased to term that "little episode," and she never re- 
 ferred to it. 
 
 Her aunt was as much at fault as the others, and one 
 day querulously complained to Mrs. Alston that she was 
 growing anxious about Eva. *'At first I thought she was 
 disappointed over the indifference of that icy cousin of 
 yours; but she does not appear to care a straw for him. 
 When I mention his name she speaks of him in a natural, 
 grateful way, then her thoughts appear to wander off to 
 some matter that is troubling her. I can't find out whether 
 she is ill or whether she has heard some bad news of which 
 she will not speak. She never gave me or any one that 
 I know of much of her confidence." 
 
 Mrs. Alston listened but made no comments. She was 
 sure she was right in regard to Miss Van Tyne's trouble, 
 
208 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 but her cousin mystified her. Ackland had become per- 
 fectly inscrutable. As far as she could judge by any word 
 or act of his he had simply lost his interest in Miss Van 
 Tyne, and that was all that could be said; and yet a fine 
 instinct tormented Mrs. Alston with the doubt that this 
 was not true, and that the young girl was the subject of a 
 sedulously concealed scrutiny. Was he watching for his 
 friend or for his own sake, or was he, in a spirit of retalia- 
 tion, enjoying the suffering of one who had made others 
 suffer ? His reserve was s6 great that she could not pierce 
 it, and his caution baffled even her vigilance. But she 
 waited patiently, assured that the little drama must soon 
 pass into a more significant phase. 
 
 And she was right. Miss Van Tyne could not maintain 
 the line of action she had resolved upon. She had thought, 
 "I won't try to appear happy when I am not. I won't 
 adopt the conventional mask of gayety when the heart is 
 wounded. How often I have seen through it and smiled 
 at the transparent farce — farce it seemed then, but I now 
 fear it was often tragedy. At any rate there was neither 
 dignity nor deception in it. I have done with being false, 
 and so shall simply act myself and be a true woman. 
 Though my heart break a thousand times, not even by a 
 glance shall I show that it is breaking for him. If he or 
 others surmise the truth, they may; let them. It is a part 
 of my penance; and I will show the higher, stronger pride 
 of one who makes no vain, useless pretence to happy indif- 
 ference, but who can maintain a self-control so perfect that 
 even Mrs. Alston shall not see one unmaidenly advance or 
 overture. ' ' 
 
 She succeeded for a time, as we have seen, but she over- 
 rated her will and underrated her heart, that with deepening 
 intensity craved the love denied her. With increasing fre- 
 quency she said to herself, "I must go away. My only 
 course is to hide my weakness and never see him again. 
 He is inflexible, yet his very obduracy increases my love 
 a hundred- fold." 
 
AZV UNEXPECTED RESULT 209 
 
 At last after a lonely walk on the beach she concluded, 
 **My guardian must take me home on Monday next. He 
 comes to-night to spend Sunday with us, and I will make 
 preparations to go at once. ' ' 
 
 Although her resolution did not fail her, she walked for- 
 ward more and more plowly, her dejection and weariness bcr 
 coming almost overpowering. As she was turning a sharp 
 angle of rocks that jutted well down to the water she came 
 face to face with Ackland and Mrs. Alston. She was off 
 her guard; and her thoughts of him had been so absorbing 
 that she felt he must be conscious of them. She flushed 
 painfully and hurried by with slight recognition and down- 
 cast face, but she had scarcely passed them when, acting 
 under a sudden impulse, she stopped and said in a low tone: 
 
 ''Mr. Ackland—" 
 
 He turned expectantly toward her. For a moment she 
 found it difficult to speak, then ignoring the presence of 
 Mrs. Alston, resolutely began: 
 
 "Mr. Ackland, I must refer once more to a topic which 
 you have in a sense forbidden. I feel partially absolved, 
 however, for I do not think you have forgiven me anything. 
 At any rate I must ask your pardon once more for having 
 so needlessly and foolishly imperilled your life. I say these 
 words now because I may not have another opportunity; 
 we leave on Monday." With this she raised her eyes to 
 his with an appeal for a little kindness which Mrs. Alston 
 was confident could not be resisted. Indeed, she was sure 
 that she saw a slight nervous tremor in Ackland's hands, as 
 if he found it hard to control himself. Then he appeared 
 to grow rigid. Lifting his hat, he said gravely and unre- 
 sponsively : 
 
 "Miss Van Tyne, you now surely have made ample 
 amends. Please forget the whole affair.*' 
 
 She turned from him at once, but not so quickly but 
 that both he and his cousin saw the bitter tears that would 
 come. A moment later she was hidden by the angle of the 
 rock. As long as she was visible Ackland watched her 
 
210 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 without moving, then he slowly turned to his cousin, his 
 face as inscrutable as ever. She walked at his side for a 
 few moments in ill- concealed impatience, then stopped and 
 said decisively: 
 
 *'1'11 go no further with you to-day. I am losing all 
 respect for you." 
 
 Without speaking, he turned to accompany her back to 
 the house. His reticence and coldness appeared to annoy 
 her beyond endurance, for she soon stopped and sat down, 
 on a ledge of the rocks that jutted down the beach where 
 they had met Miss Van Tyne. 
 
 "John, you are the most unnatural man I ever saw in 
 my life," she began angrily. 
 
 "What reason have you for so flattering an opinion," he 
 asked coolly. 
 
 "You have been giving reason for it every day since you 
 came here," she resumed hotly. "I always heard it said 
 that you had no heart; but I defended you and declared 
 that your course toward your mother even when a boy 
 showed that you had, and that you would prove it some 
 day. But I now believe that you are unnaturally cold, 
 heartless, and unfeeling. I had no objection to your wound, 
 ing Miss Van Tyne's vanity and encouraged you when that 
 alone bid fair to suffer. But when she proved she had a 
 heart and that you had awakened it, she deserved at least 
 kindness and consideration on your part. If you could not 
 return her affection, you should have gone away at once; 
 but I believe that you have stayed for the sole and cruel 
 purpose of gloating over her suffering. ' ' 
 
 "She has not suffered more than my friend, or than 
 I would if— " 
 
 "You indeed I The idea of your suffering from any such 
 cause! I half believe you came here with the deliberate 
 purpose of avenging your friend, and that you are keeping 
 for his inspection a diary in which the poor girl's humilia- 
 tion to-day will form the hateful climax." 
 
 They did not dream that the one most interested was 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 211 
 
 near. Miss Van Tjne had felt too faint and sorely 
 wounded to go farther without rest. Believing that the 
 rocks would hide her from those whose eyes she would 
 most wish to shun, she had thrown herself down beyond 
 the angle and was shedding the bitterest tears that she had 
 ever known. Suddenly she heard Mrs. Alston's words but 
 a short distance away, and was so overcome by their import 
 that she hesitated what to do. She would not meet them 
 again for the world, but felt so weak that she doubted 
 whether she could drag herself away without being discov- 
 ered, especially as the beach trended off to the left so 
 sharply a little further on that they might discover her. 
 While she was looking vainly for some way of escape she 
 heard Ackland's words and Mrs. Alston's surmise in reply 
 that he had come with the purpose of revenge. She was so 
 stung by their apparent truth that she resolved to clamber 
 up through an opening of the rocks if the thing were pos- 
 sible. Panting and exhausted she gained the summit, and 
 then hastened to an adjacent grove, as some wounded, 
 timid creature would run to the nearest cover. Ackland 
 had heard sounds and had stepped around the point of the 
 rocks just in time to see her disappearing above the bank. 
 Eeturning to Mrs. Alston, he said impatiently: 
 
 "In view of your opinions my society can have no attrac- 
 tions for you. Shall I accompany you to the hotel ?" 
 
 "No," was the angry reply. "I'm in no mood to speak 
 to you again to-day. " 
 
 He merely bowed and turned as if to pursue his walk. 
 The moment she was hidden, however, he also climbed the 
 rocks in time to see Miss Van Tyne entering the grove. 
 With swift and silent tread he followed her, but could not 
 at once discover her hiding-place. At last passionate sobs 
 made it evident that she was concealed behind a great oak 
 a little on his left. Approaching cautiously, he heard her 
 moan: 
 
 "Oh, this is worse than death! He makes me feel as if 
 even God had no mercy for me. But I will expiate my 
 
212 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 wrong; I will, at the bitterest sacrifice which a woman can 
 make." 
 
 She sprang up to meet Ackland standing with folded 
 arms before her. She started violently and leaned against 
 the tree for support. But the weakness was momentary, 
 for she wiped the tears from her eyes, and then turned to 
 him so quietly that only her extreme pallor proved that she 
 realized the import of her words. 
 
 "Mr. Ackland," she asked, *'have you Mr. Munson's 
 address?" 
 
 It was his turn now to start, but he merely answered: 
 •'Yes." 
 
 "Do — do you think he still cares for me?" 
 
 •* Undoubtedly." 
 
 "Since then you are so near a friend, will you write to 
 him that I will try" — she turned away and would not look 
 at him as, after a moment's hesitation, she concluded her 
 sentence — *'I will try to make him as happy as I can." 
 
 "Do you regret your course?" he asked with a slight 
 tremor in his voice. 
 
 "I regret that I misled — that I wronged him beyond all 
 words. I am willing to make all the amends in my power," 
 
 "Do you love him?" 
 
 She now turned wholly away and shook her head. 
 
 "And yet you would marry him ?" 
 
 *'Yes, if he wished it, knowing all the truth." 
 
 "Can you believe he would wish it?" he asked indig- 
 nantly. ' ' Can you believe that any man — ' ' 
 
 "Then avenge him to your cruel soul's content," she 
 exclaimed passionately. *'Tell him that I have no heart to 
 give to] him or to any one. Through no effort or fault of 
 mine I overheard Mrs. Alston's words and yours. I know 
 your design against me. Assuage your friend's grief by 
 assuring him of your entire success, of which you are al- 
 ready so well aware. Tell him how you triumphed over 
 an untaught, thoughtless girl who was impelled merely by 
 the love of power and excitement, as you are governed 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 213 
 
 by ambition and a remorseless will. I did not know — I did 
 not understand how cruel I was, although now that I do 
 know I shall never forgive myself. But if you had the 
 heart of a man you might have seen that you were subject- 
 ing me to torture. I did not ask or expect that you should 
 care for me; but I had a right to hope for a little kindness, 
 a little manly and delicate consideration, a little healing 
 sympathy for the almost mortal wound that you have made. 
 But I now see that you have stood by and watched like a 
 grand inquisitor. Tell your friend that you have trans- 
 formed the thoughtless girl into a suffering woman. I can- 
 not go to Brazil. I cannot face dangers that might bring 
 rest. I must keep my place in society — keep it too under 
 a hundred observant and curious eyes. You have seen it 
 all of late in this house; I was too wretched to care. It was 
 a part of my punishment, and I accepted it. I would not 
 be false again even in trying to conceal a secret which it is 
 like death to a woman to reveal. I only craved one word 
 of kindness from you. Had I received it, I would have 
 gone away in silence and suffered in silence. But your 
 course and what I have heard have made me reckless and 
 despairing. You do not leave me even the poor consolation 
 of self-sacrifice. You are my stony-hearted fate. I wish 
 you had left me to drown. Tell your friend that I am 
 more wretched than he ever can be, because I am a woman. 
 Will he be satisfied?" 
 
 "He ought to be," was the low, husky reply. 
 
 "Are you proud of your triumph?" 
 
 *'No, 1 am heartily ashamed of it; but I have kept a 
 pledge that will probably cost me far more than it has you. " 
 
 "A pledge?" 
 
 "Yes, my pledge to make you suffer as far as possible 
 as he suffered. ' ' 
 
 She put her hand to her side as if she had received a 
 wound, and after a moment said wearily and coldly: 
 
 "Well, tell him that you succeeded, and be content;" 
 and she turned to leave him. 
 
214 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Stay," he cried impetuously. "It is now your turn. 
 Take your revenge." 
 
 "My revenge ?" slie repeated in unfeigned astonishment. 
 
 '*Yes, your revenge. I have loved you from the mo* 
 ment I hoped you had a woman's heart, yes, and before — 
 when I feared I might not be able to save your life. I 
 know it now, though the very thought of it enraged me 
 then. 1 have watched and waited more to be sure that you 
 had a woman's heart than for aught else, though a false 
 sense of honor kept me true to my pledge. After I met you 
 on the beach I determined at once to break my odious bond 
 and place myself at your mercy. You may refuse me in 
 view of my course — you probably will ; but every one in that 
 house there shall know that you refused me, and your tri- 
 umph shall be more complete than mine." 
 
 She looked into his face with an expression of amaze- 
 ment and doubt; but instead of coldness, there was now a 
 devotion and pleading that she had never seen before. 
 
 She was too confused and astounded, however, to com- 
 prehend his words immediately, nor could the impression 
 of his hostility pass away readily. 
 
 "You are mocking me," she faltered, scarcely knowing 
 what she said. 
 
 "I cannot blame you that you think me capable of mock- 
 ing the noble candor which has cost you so dear, as I can 
 now understand. I cannot ask you to believe that I appre- 
 ciate your heroic impulse of self-sacrifice — your purpose to 
 atone for wrong by inflicting irreparable wrong on yourself. 
 It is natural that you should think of me only as an instru- 
 ment of revenge with no more feeling than some keen-edged 
 weapon would have. This also is the inevitable penalty of 
 my course. When I speak of my love I cannot complain 
 if you smile in bitter incredulity. But I have at least 
 proved that I have a resolute will and that I keep my 
 word; and I again assure you that it shall be known this 
 very night that you have refused me, that I offered you my 
 hand, that you already h^d my heart, where your image is 
 
AN UNEXPECTED RESULT 215 
 
 enshrined with that of my mother, and that I entreated you 
 to be my wife. My cousin alone guessed my miserable 
 triumph; all shall know of yours." 
 
 As he spoke with impassioned earnestness, the confusion 
 passed from her mind. She felt the truth of his words; she 
 knew that her ambitious dream had been fulfilled, and that 
 she had achieved the conquest of a man upon whom all others 
 had smiled in vain. But how immeasurably different were 
 her emotions from those which she had once anticipated! 
 Not her beauty, not her consummate skill in fascination 
 had wrought this miracle, but her woman's heart, awakened 
 at last; and it thrilled with such unspeakable joy that she 
 turned away to hide its reflex in her face. He was misled 
 by the act into believing that she could not forgive him, 
 and yet was perplexed when she murmured with a return 
 of her old piquant humor: 
 
 "You are mistaken, Mr. Ackland; it shall never be 
 known that I refused you." 
 
 "How can you prevent it?" 
 
 "If your words are sincere, you will submit to such terms 
 as I choose to make. ' ' 
 
 "I am sincere, and my actions shall prove it; but I shall 
 permit no mistaken self-sacrifice on your part, nor any 
 attempt to shield me from the punishment I well deserve. ' ' 
 
 She suddenly turned upon him a radiant face in which 
 he read his happiness, and faltered: 
 
 "Jack, I do believe you, although the change seems 
 wrought by some heavenly magic. But it will take a long 
 time to pay you up. 1 hope to be your dear torment for 
 a lifetime. ' ' 
 
 He caught her in such a strong, impetuous embrace that 
 she gasped: 
 
 "I thought you were — cold to our sex." 
 
 "It's not your sex that I am clasping, but you — you, 
 my Eve. Like the first man, I have won my bride under 
 the green trees and beneath the open sky. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, Jack; and I give you my whole heart as truly as 
 
216 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 did the first woman when there was but one man in all the 
 world. Thsii is my revenge,^ ^ 
 
 This is what Will Munson wrote some weeks later: 
 
 *'Well, Jack, I've had the yellow fever, and it was the most fortunate 
 event of my life. I was staying with a charming family, and they would not 
 permit my removal to a hospital. One of my bravest and most devoted nurses 
 has consented to become my wife. I hope you punished that little wretch Eva 
 Van Tyne as she deserved." 
 
 ** Confound your fickle soul!" muttered Ackland. "I 
 punished her as she did not deserve; and I risked more 
 than life in doing so. If her heart had not been as good as 
 gold and as kind as Heaven she never would have looked 
 at me again. ' ' 
 
 Ackland is quite as indifferent to the sex as ever, but 
 Eva has never complained that he was cold to heR 
 
A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT 217 
 
 A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT 
 
 THE Christmas holidays had come, and with them a 
 welcome vacation for Hedley Marstern. Although 
 as yet a briefless young lawyer, he had a case in 
 hand which absorbed many of his thoughts — the conflicting 
 claims of two young women in his native village on the 
 Hudson. It must not be imagined that the young women 
 were pres&ing their claims except as they did so uncon- 
 sciously, by virtue of their sex and various charms. Never- 
 theless, Marstern was not the first lawyer who had clients 
 over whom midnight oil was burned, they remaining un- 
 aware of the fact. 
 
 If not yet a constitutional attorney, he was at least con- 
 stitutionally one. Falling helplessly in love with one girl 
 simplifies matters. There are do distracting pros and cons 
 — nothing required bat a concentration of faculties to win 
 the enslaver, and so achieve mastery. Marstern did not 
 appear amenable to the subtle influences which blind the 
 eyes and dethrone reason, inspiring in its place an over- 
 whelming impulse to capture a fortuitous girl because (to 
 a heated imagination) she surpasses all her sex. Indeed, he 
 was level-headed enough to believe that he would never 
 capture any sucb girl; but he hoped to secure one who 
 promised to make as good a wife as lie would try to be 
 a husband, and with a fair amount of self-esteem, he was 
 conscious of imperfections. Therefore, instead of fancying 
 that any of his fair acquaintances were angels, he had de- 
 liberately and, as some may think, in a very cold-blooded 
 fashion, endeavored to discover what they actually were. 
 
 10— Roe— XI (217) 
 
218 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 He had observed that a good deal of prose followed the 
 poetry of wooing and the lunacy of the honeymoon; and he 
 thought it might be well to criticise a little before marriage 
 as well as after it. 
 
 There were a number of charming girls in the social 
 circle of his native town; and he had, during later years, 
 made himself quite impartially agreeable to them. Indeed, 
 without much effort on his part he had become what is 
 known as a general favorite. He had been too diligent a 
 student to become a society man, but was ready enough in 
 vacation periods to make the most of every country frolic, 
 and even on great occasions to rush up from the city and 
 return at some unearthly hour in the morning when his 
 partners in the dance were not half through their dreams. 
 While on these occasions he had shared in the prevailing 
 hilarity, he nevertheless had the presentiment that some 
 one of the laughing, light-footed girls would one day pour 
 his coffee and send him to his office in either a good or 
 a bad mood to grapple with the problems awaiting him 
 there. He had in a measure decided that when he married 
 it should be to a girl whom he had played with in child- 
 hood and whom he knew a good deal about, and not to a 
 chance acquaintance of the world at large. So, beneath all 
 his diversified gallantries he had maintained a quiet little 
 policy of observation, until his thoughts had gradually 
 gathered around two of his young associates who, uncon- 
 sciously to themselves, as we have said, put in stronger 
 and stronger claims every time he saw them. They asserted 
 these claims in the only way in which he would have recog- 
 nized them — by being more charming, agreeable, and, as 
 he fancied, by being better than the others. He had not 
 made them aware, even by manner, of the distinction ac- 
 corded to them ; and as yet he was merely a friend. 
 
 But the time had come, he believed, for definite action. 
 While he weighed and considered, some prompter fellows 
 might take the case out of his hands entirely ; therefore he 
 welcomed this vacation and the opportunities it afforded. 
 
A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT ,,.,,. 219 
 
 The festivities began with what is termed in the country 
 a "large party"; and Carrie Mitchell and Lottie Waldo 
 were both there, resplendent in new gowns made for the 
 occasion. Marstern thought them both charming. They 
 danced equally well and talked nonsense with much the 
 same ease and vivacity. He could not decide which was 
 the prettier, nor did the eyes and attentions of others afford 
 him any aid. They were general favorites, as well as him- 
 self, although it was evident that to some they might be- 
 come more, should they give encouragement. But they 
 were apparently in the heyday of their girlhood, and thus 
 far had preferred miscellaneous admiration to individual 
 devotion. By the time the evening was over Marstern felt 
 that if life consisted of large parties he might as well settle 
 the question by the toss of a copper. 
 
 It must not be supposed that he was such a conceited 
 prig as to imagine that such a fortuitous proceeding, or his 
 best etforts afterward, could settle the question as it related 
 to the girls. It would only decide his own procedure. He 
 was like an old marauding baron, in honest doubt from 
 which town he can carry off the richest booty — that is, in 
 case he can capture any one of them. His overtures for 
 capitulation might be met with the "slings and arrows of 
 outrageous fortune" and he be sent limping off the field. 
 Nevertheless, no man regrets that he must take the initia- 
 tive, and he would be less than a man who would fear to 
 do so. When it came to this point in the affair, Marstern 
 shrugged his shoulders and thought, "I must take my 
 chances like the rest." But he wished to be sure that 
 he had attained this point, and not lay siege to one girl 
 only to wish afterward it had been the other. 
 
 His course that evening proved that he not only had a 
 legal cast of mind but also a judicial one. He invited both 
 Miss Mitchell and Miss Waldo to take a sleigh-ride with 
 him the following evening, fancying that when sandwiched 
 between them in the cutter he could impartially note his 
 impressions. His unsuspecting clients laughingly accepted, 
 
SKJO TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 utterly unaware of the momentous character of the trial 
 scene before them. 
 
 As -Marstern smoked a cigar before retiring that night, 
 he admitted to himself that it was rather a remarkable court 
 that was about to be held. He was the only advocate for 
 the claims of each, and finally he proposed to take a seat 
 on the bench and judge between them. Indeed, before he 
 slept he decided to take that august position at once, and 
 maintain a judicial impartiality while noting his impres- 
 sions. 
 
 Christmas Eve happened to be a cold, clear, star- lit night; 
 and when Marstern drove to Miss Waldo's door, he asked 
 himself, "Could a fellow ask for anything daintier and finer" 
 than the red- lipped, dark- eyed girl revealed by the hall- 
 lamp as she tripped lightly out, her anxious mamma fol- 
 lowing her with words of unheeded caution about not taking 
 cold, and coming home early. He had not traversed the 
 mile which intervened between the residences of the two 
 girls before he almost wished he could continue the drive 
 under the present auspices, and that, as in the old times, he 
 could take toll at every bridge, and encircle his companion 
 with his arm as they bounced over the " thank- 'ee mams." 
 The frosty air appeared to give keenness and piquancy to 
 Miss Lottie's wit, and the chime of the bells was not merrier 
 or more musical than her voice. But when a little later he 
 saw blue-eyed Carrie Mitchell in her furs and hood silhou- 
 etted in the window, his old dilemma became as perplexing 
 as ever. Nevertheless, it was the most delightful uncer- 
 tainty that he had ever experienced ; and he had a presenti- 
 ment that he had better make the most of it, since it could 
 not last much longer. Meanwhile, he was hedged about 
 with blessings clearly not in disguise, and he gave utterance 
 to this truth as they drove away. 
 
 "Surely there never was so lucky a fellow. Here I am 
 kept warm and happy by the two finest girls in town. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," said Lottie; "and it's a shame you can't sit on 
 both sides of us.** 
 
A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT 221 
 
 *'I assure you I wish it were possible. It would double 
 my pleasure. ' ' 
 
 "I'm very well content," remarked Carrie, quietly, '*as 
 long as I can keep on the right side of people — " 
 
 *'Well, you are not on the right side to-night," inter- 
 rupted Lottie. 
 
 "Good gracious!" thought Marstern, "she's next to my 
 heart. I wonder if that will give her unfair advantage;'* 
 but Carrie explained: 
 
 "Of course I was speaking metaphorically." 
 
 "In that aspect of the case it would be a shame to me if 
 any side I have is not right toward those who have so hon- 
 ored me," he hastened to say. 
 
 "Oh, Carrie has all the advantage — she is next to your 
 heart." 
 
 ' ' Would you like to exchange places ?' ' was the query 
 flashed back by Carrie. 
 
 "Oh, no, I'm quite as content as you are." 
 
 "Why, then, since I am more than content — exultant, 
 indeed — it appears that we all start from excellent premises 
 to reach a happy conclusion of our Christmas Eve," cried 
 Marstern. 
 
 "Now you are talking shop, Mr. Lawyer — Premises and 
 Conclusions, indeed!" said Lottie; "since you are such a 
 happy sandwich, you must be a tongue sandwich, and be 
 very entertaining." 
 
 He did his best, the two girls seconding his efforts so 
 genially that he found himself, after driving ^ve miles, 
 psychologically just where he was physically — between 
 them, as near to one in his thoughts and preferences 
 as to the other. 
 
 "Let us take the river road home," suggested Lottie. 
 
 "As long as you agree," he answered, "you both are 
 sovereign potentates. If you should express conflicting 
 wishes, I should have to stop here in the road till one 
 abdicated in favor of the other, or we all froze." 
 
 "But you, sitting so snugly between us, would not 
 
2&2 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER ST0MIE8 
 
 freeze," said Lottie. "If we were obstinate we should 
 have to assume our pleasantest expressions, and then you 
 could eventually take us home as bits of sculpture. In fact, 
 I'm getting cold already." 
 
 "Are you also. Miss Carrie?" 
 
 "Oh, I'll thaw out before summer. Don't mind me." 
 
 "Well, then, mind me," resumed Lottie. "See how 
 white and smooth the river looks. Why can't we drive 
 home on the ice ? It will save miles — I mean it looks so 
 inviting.^' 
 
 "Oh, dear!" cried Carrie, "I feel like protesting now. 
 The longest way round may be both the shortest and safest 
 way home." 
 
 "You ladies shall decide. This morning I drove over 
 the route we would take to-night, and I should not fear to 
 take a ton of coal over it." 
 
 "A comparison suggesting warmth and a grate- fire. 
 I vote for the river," said Lottie, promptly. 
 
 "Oh, well, Mr. Marstern, if you've been over the ice so 
 recently — I only wish to feel reasonably safe." 
 
 "I declare!" thought Marstern, "Lottie is the braver and 
 more brilliant girl; and the fact that she is not inclined to 
 forego the comfort of the home- fire for the pleasure of my 
 company, reveals the difficulty of, and therefore incentive to, 
 the suit I may decide to enter upon before New Year's." 
 
 Meanwhile, his heart on Carrie's side began to grow 
 warm and alert, as if recognizing an affinity to some object 
 not far off. Granting that she had not been so brilliant as 
 Lottie, she had been eminently companionable in a more 
 quiet way. If there had not been such bursts of enthusiasm 
 at the beginning of the drive, her enjoyment appeared to 
 have more staying powers. He liked her none the less that 
 her eyes were often turned toward the stars or the dark sil- 
 houettes of the leafless trees against the snow. She did not 
 keep saying, "Ah, how lovely! What a fine bit that is!" 
 but he had only to follow her eyes to see something worth 
 looking at. 
 
A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUFP 223 
 
 **A proof that Miss Carrie also is not so preoccupied 
 with the pleasure of my company that she has no thoughts 
 for other things," cogitated Mars tern. "It's rather in her 
 favor that she prefers Nature to a grate fire. They're about 
 even yet." 
 
 Meanwhile the horse was speeding along on the white, 
 hard expanse of the river, skirting the west shore. They 
 now had only about a mile to drive before striking land 
 again; and the scene was so beautiful with the great dim 
 outlines of the mountains before them that both the girls 
 suggested that they should go leisurely for a time. 
 
 "We shouldn't hastily and carelessly pass such a picture 
 as that, any more than one would if a fine copy of it were 
 hung in a gallery," said Carrie. "The stars are so brilliant 
 along the brow of that highland yonder that they form a 
 dia— oh, oh! what is the matter?" and she clung to Mar- 
 stern's arm. 
 
 The horse was breaking through the ice. 
 
 "Whoa!" said Marstern, firmly. Even as he spoke, 
 Lottie was out of the sleigh and running back on the ice, 
 crying and wringing her hands. 
 
 "We shall be drowned," she almost screamed hysteri- 
 cally. 
 
 "Mr. Marstern, what shall we do ? Can't we turn around 
 and go back the way we came ?" 
 
 "Miss Carrie, will you do what I ask ? Will you believe 
 me when I say that I do not think you are in any danger?" 
 
 "Yes, I'll do my best," she replied, catching her breath. 
 She grew calm rapidly as he tried to reassure Lottie, telling 
 her that water from the rising of the tide had overflowed 
 the main ice and that thin ice had formed over it, also that 
 the river at the most was only two or three feet deep at that 
 point. But all was of no avail; Lottie stood out upon the 
 ice in a panic, declaring that he never should have brought 
 them into such danger, and that he must turn around at once 
 and go back as they came. 
 
 "But, Miss Waldo, the tide is rising, and we may find 
 
224 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 wet places returning. Besides, it would bring us home very 
 late. Now, Miss Carrie and I will drive slowly across this 
 place and then return for you. After we have been across 
 It twice you surely won't fear." 
 
 "I won't be left alone; suppose you two should break 
 through and disappear, what would become of me T ' 
 
 ''You would be better off than we," he replied, laughing. 
 
 "I think it's horrid of you to laugh. Oh, I'm so cold 
 and frightened ! I feel as if the ice were giving way under 
 my feet." 
 
 "Why, Miss Lottie, we just drove over that spot where 
 you stand. Here, Miss Carrie shall stay with you while 
 I drive back and forth alone." 
 
 ''Then if you were drowned we'd both be left alone to 
 freeze to death. ' ' 
 
 "I pledge you my word you shall be by that grate-fire 
 within less than an hour if you will trust me five minutes." 
 
 "Oh, well, if you will risk your life and ours too; but 
 Carrie must stay with me." 
 
 "Will you trust me, Miss Carrie, and help me out of this 
 scrape ?" 
 
 Carrie was recovering from her panic, and replied, "I 
 have given you my promise. ' ' 
 
 He was out of the sleigh instantly, and the thin ice broke 
 with him also. "I must carry you a short distance," he 
 said. "I cannot allow you to get your feet wet. Put one 
 arm around my neck, so; now please obey as you promised. " 
 
 She did so without a word, and he bore her beyond the 
 water, inwardly exulting and blessing that thin ice. His 
 decision was coming with the passing seconds; indeed, it 
 had come. Returning to the sleigh he drove slowly for- 
 ward, his horse making a terrible crunching and splashing, 
 Lottie meanwhile keeping up a staccato accompaniment of 
 little shrieks. 
 
 "Ah, ray charming creature," he thought, "with you it 
 was only, 'What will become of meV I might not have 
 found out until it was too late the relative importance of 
 
A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT 225 
 
 'me' in the universe had we not struck this bad crossing; 
 and one comes to plenty of bad places to cross in a life- 
 time." 
 
 The area of thin ice was not very narrow, and he was 
 becoming but a dim and shadowy outline to the girls. Lot- 
 tie was now screaming for his return. Having crossed the 
 overflowed space and absolutely assured himself that there 
 was no danger, he returned more rapidly and found Carrie 
 trying to calm her companion. 
 
 "Oh, ' ' sobbed Lottie, *'my feet are wet and almost frozen. 
 The ice underneath may have borne you, but it won't bear 
 all three of us. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't — I wish I was 
 home; and I feel as if I'd never get there." 
 
 "Miss Lottie, I assure you that the ice will hold a ton, 
 but I'll tell you what I'll do. I shall put you in the sleigh, 
 and Miss Carrie will drive you over. You two together do 
 not weigh much more than I do. I'll walk just behind you 
 with my hands on the back of the sleigh, and if I see the 
 slightest danger I' 11 lift you out of the sleigh first and carry 
 you to safety. ' ' 
 
 This proposition promised so well that she hesitated, and 
 he lifted her in instantly before she could change her mind, 
 then helped Carrie in with a quiet pressure of the hand, as 
 much as to say, "I shall depend on you." 
 
 "But, Mr. Marstern, you'll get your feet wet," protested 
 Carrie. 
 
 "That doesn't matter," he replied good-naturedly. "I 
 shall be no worse off than Miss Lottie, and I'm determined to 
 convince her of safety. Now go straight ahead as I direct." 
 
 Once the horse stumbled, and Lottie thought he was 
 going down head first. "Oh, lift me out, quick, quick!" 
 she cried. 
 
 "Yes, indeed I will. Miss Lottie, as soon as we are oppo- 
 site that grate fire of yours. ' ' 
 
 They were soon safely over, and within a half -hour 
 reached Lottie's home. It was evident she was a little 
 ashamed of her behavior, and she made some effort to re- 
 
2S6 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER ST0EIE8 
 
 trieve herself. But she was cold and miserable, vexed with 
 herself and still more vexed with Marstern. That a latent 
 sense of justice forbade the latter feeling only irritated her 
 the more. Individuals as well as communities must^ have 
 scapegoats; and it is not an unusual impulse on the part of 
 some to blame and dislike those before whom they have hu- 
 miliated themselves. 
 
 She gave her companions a rather formal invitation to 
 come in and get warm before proceeding further; but Mar- 
 stern said very politely that he thought it was too late, un- 
 less Misp Carrie was cold. Carrie protested that she was 
 not so cold but that she could easily wait till she reached 
 her own fireside. 
 
 "Well, good- night, then," and the door was shut a trifle 
 emphatically. 
 
 "Mr. Marstern," said Carrie, sympathetically, "your feet 
 must be very cold and wet after splashing through all that 
 ice- water." 
 
 "They are," he replied; "but I don't mind it. Well, if 
 1 had tried for years I could not have found such a test of 
 character as we had to-night." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, well, you two girls did not behave exactly alike. 
 I liked the way you behaved. You helped me out of a 
 •confounded scrape." 
 
 "Would you have tried for years to find a test?" she 
 asked, concealing the keenness of her query under a laugh. 
 
 "I should have been well rewarded if I had, by such a 
 fine contrast, ' ' he replied. 
 
 Carrie's faculties had not so congealed but that his words 
 set her thinking. She had entertained at times the impres- 
 sion that she and Lottie were his favorites. Had he taken 
 them out that night together in the hope of contrasts, of 
 finding tests that would help his halting decision ? He had 
 ventured where the intuitions of a girl like Carrie Mitchell 
 were almost equal to second-sight; and she was alert for 
 what would come next. 
 
A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT 227 
 
 He accepted her invitation to come in and warm his feet 
 at the glowing fire in the grate, which Carrie's father had 
 made before retiring. Mrs. Mitchell, feeling that her 
 daughter was with an old friend and playmate, did not 
 think the presence of a chaperon essential, and left the 
 young people alone. Carrie bustled about, brought cake, 
 and made hot lemonade, while Marstern stretched his feet 
 to the grate with a luxurious sense of comfort and compla- 
 cency, thinking how homelike it all was and how paradisiacal 
 life would become if such a charming little Hebe presided 
 over his home. His lemonade became nectar offered by 
 such hands. 
 
 She saw the different expression in his eyes. It was 
 now homage, decided preference for one and not mere gal- 
 lantry to two. Outwardly she was demurely oblivious and 
 maintained simply her wonted friendliness. Marstern, how- 
 ever, was thawing in more senses than one, and he was pos- 
 sessed by a strong impulse to begin an open siege at 
 once. 
 
 "I haven't had a single suit of any kind yet, Carrie," he 
 said, dropping the prefix of "Miss," which had gradually 
 been adopted as they had grown up. 
 
 "Oh, well, that was the position of all the great lawyers 
 once, ' ' she replied, laughing. Marstern 's father was wealthy, 
 and all knew that he could afford to be briefless for a time. 
 
 "I may never be great; but I shall work as hard as any 
 of them," he continued. "To tell you the honest truth, 
 however, this would be the happiest Christmas Eve of my 
 life if I had a downright suit on my hands. Why can't I 
 be frank with you and say I'd like to begin the chief suit 
 of my life now and here — a suit for this little hand ? I'd 
 plead for it as no lawyer ever pleaded before. I settled 
 that much down on the ice." 
 
 "And if I hadn't happened to behave on the ice in a 
 manner agreeable to your lordship, you would have pleaded 
 with the other girl?" she remarked, withdrawing her hand 
 and looking him directly in the eyes. 
 
228 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "What makes you think so?" he asked somewhat con 
 fusedly. 
 
 "You do/' 
 
 He sprang up and paced the room a few moments, 
 then confronted her with the words, "You shall have the 
 whole truth. Any woman that I would ask to be my wife 
 is entitled to that," and he told her just what the attitude 
 of his mind had been from the first. 
 
 She laughed outright, then gave him her hand as she 
 said, "Your honesty insures that we can be very good 
 friends; but I don't wish to hear anything more about suits 
 which are close of kin to lawsuits." 
 
 He looked very dejected, feeling that he had blundered 
 fatally in his precipitation. 
 
 "Come now, Hedley, be sensible," she resumed, half 
 laughing, half serious. "As you say, we can be frank with 
 each other. Why, only the other day we were boy and girl 
 together coasting downhill on the same sled. You are ap- 
 plying your legal jargon to a deep experience, to something 
 sacred — the result, to my mind, of a divine instinct. Neither 
 you nor I have ever felt for each other this instinctive pref- 
 erence, this subtle gravitation of the heart. Don't you see? 
 Your head has been concerned about me, and only your 
 head. By a kindred process you would select one bale of 
 merchandise in preference to another. Good gracious! I've 
 faults enough. You'll meet some other girl that will stand 
 some other test far better than I. I want a little of what 
 you call silly romance in my courtship. See; I can talk 
 about this suit as coolly and fluently as you can. We'd 
 make a nice pair of lovers, about as frigid as the ice- water 
 you waded through so good-naturedly;" and the girl's 
 laugh rang out merrily, awakening echoes in the old 
 house. Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell might rest securely when 
 their daughter could laugh like that. It was the mirth of 
 a genuine American girl whose self-protection was better 
 than the care of a thousand duennas. 
 
 He looked at her with honest admiration in his eyes, 
 
A CHRISTMAS-EVE SVIT - 229 
 
 then rose quietly and said, ''That's fine, Carrie. Your 
 head's worth two of mine, and you'd make the better 
 lawyer. You see through a case from top to bottom. 
 You were right— I wasn't in love with you; I don't know 
 whether I'm in love with you now, and you haven't an in- 
 finitesimal spark for me. Nevertheless, I begin my suit 
 here and now, and I shall never withdraw it till you are 
 engaged to another fellow. So there!" 
 
 Carrie looked rather blank at this result of her reductio 
 ad ahsurdum process; and he did not help her by adding, 
 *'A fellow isn't always in love. There must be a begin- 
 ning; and when I arrive at this beginning under the guid- 
 ance of reason, judgment, and observation, I don't see as 
 I'm any more absurd than the fellow who tumbles help- 
 lessly in love, he doesn't know why. What becomes of 
 all these people who have divine gravitations? You and 
 I both know of some who had satanic repulsions afterward. 
 They used their eyes and critical faculties after marriage in- 
 stead of before. The romance exhaled like a morning mist; 
 and the facts came out distinctly. They learned what kind 
 of man and woman they actually were, and two idealized 
 creatures were sent to limbo. Because I don't blunder upon 
 the woman I wish to marry, but pick her out, that's no rea- 
 son I can't and won't love her. Your analysis and judgment 
 were correct only up to date. You have now to meet a suit 
 honestly, openly announced. This may be bad policy on 
 my part; yet I have so much faith in you and respect for 
 you that I don't believe you will let my precipitation 
 create a prejudice. Give me a fair hearing; that's all I 
 ask." 
 
 *' Well, well, I'll promise not to frown, even though some 
 finer paragon should throw me completely in the shade." 
 
 *'You don't believe in my yet," he resumed, after a mo- 
 ment of thought. *'I felt that I had blundered awfully a 
 while ago; but I doubt it. A girl of your perceptions 
 would soon have seen it all. I've not lost anything by 
 being frank from the start. Be just to me, however. It 
 
230 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 wasn't policy that led me to speak, but this homelike scene, 
 and you appearing like the good genius of a home." 
 
 He pulled out his watch, and gave a low whistle as he 
 held it toward her. Then his manner suddenly became 
 grave and gentle. "Carrie," he said, "I wish you, not a 
 merry Christmas, but a happy one, and many of them. It 
 seems to me it would be a great privilege for a man to make 
 a woman like you happy." 
 
 *'Is this the beginning of the suit?" she asked with a 
 laugh that was a little forced. 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps it is; but I spoke just as I 
 felt. Good-night.'* 
 
 She would not admit of a trace of sentiment on her part. 
 *' Good -night," she said. *' Merry Christmas! Go home and 
 hang up your stocking. ' ' 
 
 "Bless me!" she thought, as she went slowly up the 
 stairs,"! thought I was going to be through with him for 
 good and all, except as a friend; but if he goes on this 
 way—" 
 
 The next morning a basket of superb roses was left at 
 her home. There was no card, and mamma queried and 
 surmised; but the girl knew. They were not displeasing to 
 her, and somehow, before the day was over, they found their 
 way to her room; but she shook her head decidedly as she 
 said, "He must be careful not to send me other gifts, for I 
 will return them instantly. Flowers, in moderation, never 
 commit a girl. ' * 
 
 But then came another gift — a book with pencillings here 
 and there, not against sentimental passages, but words that 
 made her think. It was his manner in society, however, 
 that at once annoyed, perplexed, and pleased her. On the 
 first occasion they met in company with others, he made it 
 clear to every one that he was her suitor; yet he was not a 
 burr which she could not shake off. He rather seconded 
 till her efforts to have a good time with any and every one 
 she chose. Nor did he, wallflower fashion, mope in the 
 meanwhile and look unutterable things. He added to the 
 
V :v r A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT 231 
 
 pleasure of a score of others, and even conciliated Lottie, 
 yet at the same time surrounded the girl of his choice with 
 an atmosphere of unobtrusive devotion. She was congratu- 
 lated on her conquest — rather maliciously so by Lottie. Her 
 air of courteous indifference was well maintained; yet she 
 was a woman, and could not help being flattered. Certain 
 generous traits in her nature were touched also by a homage 
 which yielded everything and exacted nothing. 
 
 The holidays soon passed, and he returned to his work. 
 She learned incidentally that he toiled faithfully, instead of 
 mooning around. At every coigne of vantage she found 
 him, or some token of his ceaseless effort. She was com- 
 pelled to think of him, and to think well of him. Though 
 mamma and papa judiciously said little, it was evident that 
 they liked the style of lover into which he was developing. 
 
 Once during the summer she said: **I don't think it's 
 right to let you go on in this way any longer.*' 
 
 ** Are my attentions so very annoying ?" 
 
 **No, indeed. A girl never had a more agreeable or 
 useful friend." 
 
 ** Are you engaged to some other fellow ?" 
 , * * Of course not. Y ou kno w be tter. ' * 
 
 ** There is no *of course not' about it I couldn't and 
 wouldn't lay a straw in the way. You are not bound, 
 but L" 
 
 ** You bound?" 
 
 ** Certainly. You remember what I said." 
 
 "Then I must accept the first man that asks me — " 
 
 **Iaskyou." 
 
 *'No; some one else, so as to unloose your conscience 
 and give you a happy deliverance." 
 
 **You would leave me still bound and hopeless in that 
 ease. I love you now, Carrie Mitchell." 
 
 **0h, dear! you are incorrigible. It*s just a lawyer's 
 persistence in winning a suit." 
 
 '*You can still swear on the dictionary that you don't 
 love me at all ?" <^y wv/'^w .#>t»ivW t«i 
 
 ;Aia'-,i^- 
 
232 TAKEN ALIVE, AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 **I might — on the dictionary. There, I won't talk about 
 Buoh things any more,'* and she resolutely changed the 
 subject. 
 
 But she couldn't swear, even on the dictionary. She 
 didn't know where she stood or how it would all end; but 
 with increasing frequency the words, *'I love you now," 
 haunted her waking and dreaming hours. 
 
 The holidays were near again, and then came a letter 
 from Marstern, asking her to take another sleigh- ride with 
 him on Christmas Eve. His concluding words were: *' There 
 is no other woman in the world that I want on the other 
 side of me." She kissed these words, then looked around 
 in a startled, shamefaced manner, blushing even in the soli- 
 tude of her room. 
 
 Christmas Eve came, but with it a wild storm of wind 
 and sleet. She was surprised at the depth of her disappoint- 
 ment. Would he even come to call through such a tempest ? 
 
 He did come, and come early; and she said demurely: 
 *'l did not expect you on such a night as this. " 
 
 He looked at her for a moment, half humorously, half 
 seriously, and her eyes drooped before his. **You will 
 know better what to expect next time," was his comment. 
 
 "When is next time?" 
 
 *'Any and every time which gives me a chance to see 
 you. Who should know that better than you ?" 
 
 **Are you never going to give up?" she asked with 
 averted face. 
 
 "Not till you become engaged." 
 
 **HushI They are all in the parlor." 
 
 **Well, they ought to know as much, by this time, 
 also." 
 
 She thought it was astonishing how he maae himself at 
 home in the family circle. In half an hour there was 
 scarcely any restraint left because a visitor was present. 
 Yet, as if impelled by some mysterious influence, one after 
 another slipped out; and Carrie saw with strange little 
 thrills of dismay that she would soon be alone with that 
 
A CHRISTMAS-EVE SUIT 288 
 
 indomitable lawyer. She signalled to lier mother, but the 
 old lady's eyes were glued to her knitting. 
 
 At last they were alone, and she expected a prompt and 
 powerful appeal from the plaintiff; but Marstern drew his 
 chair to the opposite side of the hearth and chatted so 
 easily, naturally, and kindly that her trepidation passed 
 utterly. It began to grow late, and a heavier gust than 
 usual shook the house. It appeared to waken him to the 
 dire necessity of breasting the gale, and he rose and said: 
 
 "I feel as if I could sit here forever, Carrie. It's just 
 the impression I had a year ago to-night. You, sitting 
 there by the lire, gave then, and give now to this place the 
 irresistible charm of home. I think I had then the decided 
 beginning of the divine gravitation — wasn't that what you 
 called it? — which has been growing so strong ever since. 
 You thought then that the ice- water I waded was in my 
 veins. Do you think so now ? If you do I shall have to 
 take another year to prove the contrary. Neither am I con- 
 vinced of the absurdity of .my course, as you put it then. 
 I studied you coolly and deliberately before I began to love 
 you, and reason and judgment have had no chance to jeer 
 at my love. ' ' 
 
 "But, Hedley," she began with a slight tremor in her 
 tones, "you are idealizing me as certainly as the blindest. 
 I've plenty of faults." 
 
 "I haven't denied that; so have I plenty of faults. 
 What right have I to demand a perfection I can't offer? 
 I have known people to marry who imagined each other 
 perfect, and then come to court for a separation on the 
 ground of incompatibility of temperament. They learned 
 the meaning of that long word too late, and were scarcely 
 longer about it than the word itself. Now, I'm satisfied that 
 I could cordially agree with you on some points and lov- 
 ingly disagree with you on others. Chief of all it's your 
 instinct to make a home. You appear better at your owa 
 fireside than when in full dress at a reception. You — " 
 
 "See here, Hedley, you've got to give up this suit at 
 
234: TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 last. I'm engaged," and she looked away as if she could 
 not meet his eyes. 
 
 "Engaged ?" he said slowly, looking at her with startled 
 eyes. 
 
 "Well, about the same as engaged. My heart has cer- 
 tainly gone from me beyond recall. ' ' 
 
 He drew a long breath. "I was foolish enough to begin 
 to hope," he faltered. 
 
 "You must dismiss hope to-night, then," she said, her 
 face still averted. 
 
 He was silent and she slowly turned toward him. He 
 had sunk into a chair and buried his face in his hands, the 
 picture of dejected defeat. 
 
 There was a sudden flash of mirth through tear-gemmed 
 eyes, a glance at the clock, then noiseless steps, and she was 
 on her knees beside him, her arm about his neck, her blush- 
 ing face near his wondering eyes as she breathed: 
 
 ' ' Happy Christmas, Hedley ! How do you like your first 
 gift; and what room is there now^ for hope ?' ' 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 
 
 IT was the day before Thanksgiving. The brief cloudy 
 November afternoon was fast merging into early twi- 
 light. The trees, now gaunt and bare, creaked and 
 groaned in the passing gale, clashing their icy branches 
 together with sounds sadly unlike the slumberous rustle 
 of their foliage in June. And that same foliage was now 
 flying before the wind, swept hither and thither, like exiles 
 driven by disaster from the moorings of home, at times find- 
 ing a brief abiding-place, and then carried forward to parts 
 unknown by circumstances beyond control. The street 
 leading into the village was almost deserted; and the few 
 who came aud went hastened on with fluttering garments, 
 head bent down, and a shivering sense of discomfort. The 
 flelds were bare and brown; and the landscape on the up- 
 lands rising in the distance would have been utterly sombre 
 had not green fields of grain, like childlike faith in wintry 
 age, relieved the gloomy outlook and prophesied of the 
 sunshine and golden harvest of a new year and life. 
 
 But bleak November found no admittance in Mrs. Al- 
 ford's cosey parlor. Though, as usual, it was kept as the 
 room for state occasions, it was not a stately room. It was 
 furnished with elegance and good taste; but what was better, 
 the genial home atmosphere from the rest of the house had 
 invaded it, and one did not feel, on entering it from the 
 free-and-easy sitting-room, as if passing from a sunny 
 climate to the icebergs of the Pole. Therefore I am sure 
 my reader will follow me gladly out of the biting, boister- 
 ous wind into the homelike apartment, and as we stand in 
 
 (235) 
 
286 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 fancy before tlie glowing grate, we will make the acquaint- 
 ance of the May- day creature who is its sole occupant 
 
 Elsie Alford, just turning seventeen, appeared younger 
 than her years warranted. Some girls carry the child far 
 into their teens, and blend the mirthful innocence of in- 
 fancy with the richer, fuller life of budding womanhood. 
 This was true of Elsie. Hers was not the forced exotic 
 bloom of fashionable life; but rather one of the native 
 blossoms of her New England home, having all the delicacy 
 and at the same time hardiness of the windflower. She was 
 also as shy and easily agitated, and yet, like the flower she 
 resembled, well rooted among the rocks of principle and 
 truth. She was the youngest and the pet of the household, 
 and yet the *' petting'* was not of that kind that develops 
 selfishness and wilfulness, but rather a genial sunlight of 
 love falling upon her as a focus from the entire family. 
 They always spoke of her as "little Sis," or the "child." 
 And a child it seemed she would ever be, with her kittenish 
 ways, quick impulses, and swiftly alternating moods. As 
 she developed into womanly proportions, her grave, busi- 
 nesslike father began to have misgivings. After one of 
 her wild sallies at the table, where she kept every one on 
 the qui vive by her unrestrained chatter, Mr. Alford said: 
 
 "Elsie, will you ever learn to be a woman ?" 
 
 Looking mischievously at him through her curls, she 
 replied, "Yes; I might if I became as old as Mrs. 
 Methuselah." 
 
 They finally concluded to leave Elsie's cure to care and 
 trouble — two certain elements of earthly life; and yet her 
 experience of either would be slight indeed, could their 
 love shield her. 
 
 But it would not be exactly care or trouble that would 
 sober Elsie into a thoughtful woman, as our story will show. 
 
 Some of the November wind seemed in her curling hair 
 upon this fateful day ; but her fresh young April face was 
 a pleasant contrast to the scene presented from the window, 
 to which she kept flitting with increasing frequency. It 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 237 
 
 certainly was not the dismal and darkening landscape that 
 so intensely interested her. The light oi a great and com- 
 ing pleasure was in her face, and her manner was one of 
 restless, eager expectancy. Little wonder. Her pet brother, 
 the one next older than herself, a promising young theo- 
 logue, was coming home to spend Thanksgiving. It was 
 time he appeared. The shriek of the locomotive had an- 
 nounced the arrival of the train; and her ardent little spirit 
 could scarcely endure the moments intervening before she 
 would almost concentrate herself into a rapturous kiss and 
 embrace of welcome, for the favorite brother had been ab- 
 sent several long months. 
 
 Her mother called her away for a few moments, for the 
 good old lady was busy indeed, knowing well that merely 
 full hearts would not answer for a New England Thanks- 
 giving. But the moment Elsie was free she darted back to 
 the window, just in time to catch a glimpse, as she sup- 
 posed, of her brother's well- remembered dark-gray over- 
 coat, as he was ascending the front steps. 
 
 A tall, grave-looking young man, an utter stranger to 
 the place and family, had his hand upon the doorbell; but 
 before he could ring it, the door flew open, and a lovely 
 young creature precipitated herself on his neck, like a mis- 
 sile fired from heavenly battlements, and a kiss was pressed 
 upon his lips that he afterward admitted to have felt even 
 to the "toes of his boots." 
 
 But his startled manner caused her to lift her face from 
 under his side- whiskers; and though the dusk was deepen- 
 ing, she could see that her arms were around an utter 
 stranger. She recoiled from him with a bound, and trem- 
 bling like a windflower indeed, her large blue eyes dilating 
 at the intruder with a dismay beyond words. How the 
 awkward scene would have ended it were hard to tell had 
 not the hearty voice of one coming up the path called out: 
 
 "Hi, there, you witch! who is that you are kissing, and 
 then standing off to see the effect ?' ' 
 
 There was no mistake this time; so, impelled by love, 
 
238 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 shame, and fear of "that horrid man," she fled, half sob- 
 bing, to his arms. «. 
 
 "No, he isn't a 'horrid man,' either," whispered her 
 brother, laughing. "He is a classmate of mine. Why, 
 Stanhope, how are you ? I did not know that you and 
 my sister were so well acquainted," he added, half banter- 
 ingly and half curiously, for as yet he did not fully under- 
 stand the scene. 
 
 The hall-lamp, shining through the open door, had re- 
 vealed the features of the young man (whom we must now 
 call Mr. Stanhope), so that his classmate had recognized 
 him. His first impulse had been to slip away in the dark- 
 ness, and so escape from his awkward predicament; but 
 George Alford's prompt address prevented this and brought 
 him to bay. He was painfully embarrassed, but managed to 
 stammer : 
 
 "I was taken for you, I think. I never had the pleasure 
 — honor of meeting your sister. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, ho! 1 see now. My wild little sister kissed before 
 she looked. Well, that was your good-fortune. I could 
 keep two Thanksgiving days on the strength of such a kiss 
 as that," cried the light-hearted student, shaking the diffi- 
 dent, shrinking Mr. Stanhope warmly by the hand. "You 
 will hardly need a formal introduction now. But, bless me, 
 where is she ? Has the November wind blown her away ?" 
 
 "I think your sist — the lady passed around to the side 
 entrance. I fear I have annoyed her sadly." 
 
 "Nonsense! A good joke — something to tease the little 
 witch about. But come in. I'm forgetting the sacred rites. ' ' 
 
 And before the bewildered Mr. Stanhope could help 
 himself, he was half dragged into the lighted hall, and the 
 door shut between him and escape. 
 
 In the meantime, Elsie, like a whirlwind, had burst into 
 the kitchen, where Mrs. Alford was superintending some 
 savory dishes. 
 
 "Oh, mother, George has come and has a horrid man 
 with him, who nearly devoured me." 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 289 
 
 And, with this rather feminine mode of stating the case, 
 she darted into the dusky, fire-lighted parlor, from whence, 
 unseen, she could reconnoitre the hall. Mr. Stanhope was 
 just saying: 
 
 *' Please let me go. I have stood between you and your 
 welcome long enough. I shall only be an intruder; and 
 besides, as an utter stranger, I have no right to stay." To 
 all of which Elsie devoutly whispered to herself, **Amen.*' 
 
 But Mrs. Alford now appeared, and after a warm, moth- 
 erly greeting to her son, turned in genial courtesy to wel- 
 come his friend, as she supposed. 
 
 George was so happy that he wished every one else to be 
 the same. The comical episode attending Mr. Stanhope's 
 unexpected appearance just hit his frolicsome mood, and 
 promised to be a source of endless merriment if he could 
 only keep his classmate over the coming holiday. More- 
 over, he long had wished to become better acquainted with 
 this young man, whose manner at the seminary had deeply 
 interested him. So he said: 
 
 ** Mother, this is Mr. Stanhope, a classmate of mine. I 
 wish you would help me persuade him to stay.*' 
 
 *' Why, certainly, I supposed you expected to stay with 
 us, of course," said Mrs. Alford, heartiiy. 
 
 Mr. Stanhope looked ready to sink through the floor, his 
 face crimson with vexation. 
 
 "I do assure you, madam," he urged, '*it is all a mis- 
 take. I am not an invited guest. I was merely calling on 
 a little matter of business, when—" and there he stopped. 
 George exploded into a hearty, uncontrollable laugh; while 
 Elsie, in the darkness, shook her little fist at the stranger, 
 who hastened to add, *' Please let me bid you good-evening. 
 I have not the slightest claim on your hospitality." 
 
 *' Where are you staying?" asked Mrs. Alford, a little 
 mystified. **We would like you to spend at least part of 
 the time with us. ' ' 
 
 '^I do not expect to be here very long. I have a room at 
 the hotel." 
 
240 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 ''Now, look here, Stanhope,'' cried George, barring all 
 egress by planting his back against the door, "do you take 
 me, a half- fledged theologue, for a heathen ? Do you sup- 
 pose that I could be such a churl as to let a classmate stay 
 at our dingy, forlorn little tavern and eat hash on Thanks- 
 giving Day ? I could never look you in the face at recita- 
 tion again. Have some consideration for my peace of mind, 
 and I am sure you will find our home quite as endurable as 
 anything Mr. Starks can provide." 
 
 "Oh! as to that, from even the slight glimpse that I 
 have had, this seems more like a home than anything 
 I have known for many years; but I cannot feel it right 
 that I, an unexpected stranger — " 
 
 "Come, come! No more of that! You know what is 
 written about 'entertaining strangers;' so that is your 
 strongest claim. Moreover, that text works both ways 
 sometimes, and the stranger angel finds himself among 
 angels. My old mother here, if she does weigh well on 
 toward two hundred, is more like one than anything I 
 have yet seen, and Elsie, if not an angel, is at least part 
 witch and part fairy. But you need not fear ghostly en- 
 tertainment from mother's larder. As you are a Christian, 
 and not a Pagan, no more of this reluctance. Indeed, 
 nolens volens, I shall not permit you to go out into this 
 November storm to-night;" and Elsie, to her dismay, saw 
 the new-comer led up to the "spare room" with a sort of 
 hospitable violence. 
 
 With flaming cheeks and eyes half full of indignant tears, 
 she now made onslaught on her mother, who had returned 
 to the kitchen, where she was making preparations for a 
 supper that might almost answer for the dinner the next 
 day. 
 
 "Mother, mother," she exclaimed, "how could you keep 
 that disagreeable stranger! He will spoil our Thanks- 
 giving." 
 
 "Why, child, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Alford, 
 raising her eyes in surprise to her daughter's face, that 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 241 
 
 looked like a red moon through the mist of savory vapors 
 rising from the ample cooking-stove. ''I don't understand 
 you. Why should not your brother's classmate add to the 
 pleasure of our Thanksgiving?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps if we had expected him, if he had come 
 in some other way, and we knew more about him — " 
 
 ''Bless you, child, what a formalist you have become. 
 You stand on a fine point of etiquette, as if it were the broad 
 foundation of hospitality; while only last week you wanted 
 a ragged tramp, who had every appearance of being a thief, 
 to stay all night. Your brother thinks it a special provi- 
 dence that his friend should have turned up so unex- 
 pectedly." 
 
 ''Oh, dear!" sighed Elsie. "If that is what the doctrine 
 of special providence means, I shall need a new confession 
 of faith." Then, a sudden thought occurring to her, she 
 vanished, while her mother smiled, saying: 
 
 "What a queer child she is, to be sure!" 
 
 A moment later Elsie gave a sharp knock at the spare- 
 room door, and in a second was in the further end of the 
 dark hall. George put his head out. 
 
 "Come here," she whispered. "Are you sure it's 
 you?" she added, holding him off at arm's-length. 
 
 His response was such a tempest of kisses and embraces 
 that in her nervous state she was quite panic-stricken. 
 
 "George," she gasped, "have mercy on me!" 
 
 "I only wished to show you how he felt, so you would 
 have some sympathy for him." 
 
 "If you don't stop," said the almost desperate girl, '*! 
 will shut myself up and not appear till he is gone. I will 
 any way, if you don't make me a solemn promise." 
 
 "Leave out the 'solemn.' " 
 
 "No, I won't. Upon your word and honor, promise 
 never to tell what has happened — my mistake, I mean." 
 
 "Oh, Elsie, it's too good to keep," laughed George. 
 
 "Now, George, if you tell," sobbed Elsie, ''you'll spoil 
 my holiday, your visit, and everything." 
 
 11— Roe— XI 
 
242 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "If you feel that way, you foolish child, of course I 
 won't tell. Indeed, I suppose I should not, for Stanhope 
 seems half frightened out of his wits also. ' ' 
 
 "Serves him right, though I doubt whether he has many 
 to lose," said Elsie, spitefully. 
 
 "Well, I will do my best to keep in," said George, 
 soothingly, and stroking her curls. "But you will let it 
 all out; you see. The idea of your keeping anything with 
 your April face!" 
 
 Elsie acted upon the hint, and went to her room in order 
 to remove all traces of agitation before the supper- bell 
 should summon her to meet the dreaded stranger. 
 
 In the meantime, Mr. Alford and James, the second son, 
 had come up from the village, where they had a thriving 
 business. They greeted George's friend so cordially that it 
 went some way toward putting the diffident youth at his 
 ease; but he dreaded meeting Elsie again quite as much as 
 she dreaded meeting him. 
 
 "Who is this Mr. Stanhope?" his parents asked, as they 
 drew George aside for a little private talk after his long 
 absence. 
 
 "Well, he is a classmate with whom I have long wished 
 to get better acquainted; but he is so shy and retiring that 
 I have made little progress. He came from another semi- 
 nary, and entered our class in this the middle year. No one 
 seems to know much about him; and indeed he has shunned 
 all intimacies and devotes himself wholly to his books. The 
 recitation- room is the one place where he appears well — for 
 there he speaks out, as if forgetting himself, or rather, losing 
 himself in some truth under contemplation. Sometimes he 
 will ask a question that wakes up both class and professor; 
 but at other times it seems difficult to pierce the shell of his 
 reserve or diffidence. And yet, from little things I have 
 seen, I know that he has a good warm heart; and the work- 
 ing of his mind in the recitation-room fascinates me. Fur- 
 ther than this I know little about him, but have just learned, 
 from his explanation as to his unexpected appearance^at our 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 243 
 
 door, that he is very poor, and purposed to spend his holi- 
 day vacation as agent for a new magazine that is ofifering 
 liberal premiums. I think his poverty is one of the reasons 
 why he has so shrunk from companionship with the other 
 students. He thinks he ought to go out and continue his 
 efforts to-night." 
 
 "This stormy night!" ejaculated kind Mrs. Alford. 
 "It would be barbarous." 
 
 "Certainly it would, mother. We must not let him. 
 But you must all be considerate, for he seems excessively 
 diffident and sensitive; and besides — but no matter." 
 
 "No fear but that we will soon make him at home. And 
 it's a pleasure to entertain people who are not surfeited with 
 attention. I don't understand Elsie, however, for she seems 
 to have formed a violent prejudice against him. From the 
 nature of her announcement of his presence I gathered that 
 he was a rather forward young man." 
 
 There was a twinkle in George's eye; but he merely 
 said: 
 
 "Elsie is full of moods and tenses; but her kind little 
 heart is always the same, and that will bring her around 
 all right." 
 
 They were soon after marshalled to the supper-room. 
 Elsie slipped in amoDg the others, but was so stately and 
 demure, and with her curls brushed down so straight that 
 you would scarcely have known her. Her father caught 
 his pet around the waist, and was about to introduce her, 
 when George hastened to say with the solemnity of an un- 
 dertaker that Elsie and Mr. Stanhope had met before. 
 
 Elsie repented the promise she had wrung from her 
 brother, for any amount of badinage would be better than 
 this depressing formality. She took her seat, not daring to 
 look at the obnoxious guest; and the family noticed with 
 surprise that they had never seen the little maiden so 
 quenched and abashed before. But George good-naturedly 
 tried to make the conversation general, so as to give them 
 time to recover themselves. 
 
244 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Elsie soon ventured to steal shy looks at Mr. Stanhope, 
 and with her usual quickness discovered that he was more 
 in terror of her than she of him, and she exulted in the fact. 
 
 "I'll punish him well, if I get a chance," she thought 
 with a certain phase of the feminine sense of justice. But 
 the sadness of his face quite disarmed her when her mother, 
 in well-meant kindness, asked: 
 
 "Where is your home located, Mr. Stanhope?" 
 
 "In the seminary," he answered in rather a low tone. 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you have no better one 
 than a forlorn cell in Dogma Hall ?' ' exclaimed George, 
 earnestly. 
 
 Mr. Stanhope crimsoned, and then grew pale, but tried 
 to say lightly, "An orphan of my size and years is not a 
 very moving object of sympathy; but one might well find it 
 difficult not to break the Tenth Commandment while seeing 
 how you are surrounded. ' ' 
 
 Elsie was vexed at her disposition to relent toward him; 
 she so hardened her face, however, that James rallied her: 
 
 "Why, Puss, what is the matter? Yours is the most 
 unpromising Thanksgiving phiz I have seen to-day. 'Count 
 your marcies. ' ' ' 
 
 Elsie blushed so violently, and Mr. Stanhope looked so 
 distressed that James finished his supper in puzzled silence, 
 thinking, however, "What has come over the little witch ? 
 For a wonder, she seems to have met a man that she is 
 afraid of; but the joke is, he seems even more afraid of 
 her." 
 
 In the social parlor some of the stiffness wore off; but 
 Elsie and Mr. Stanhope kept on opposite sides of the room 
 and had very little to say to each other. Motherly Mrs. 
 Alford drew the young man out sufficiently, however, to 
 become deeply interested in him. 
 
 By the next morning time for thought had led him to 
 feel that he must trespass on their hospitality no longer. 
 Moreover, he plainly recognized that his presence was an 
 oppression and restraint upon Elsie; and he was very sorry 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 245 
 
 that he had stayed at all. But when he made known his 
 purpose the family would not listen to it. 
 
 "I should feel dreadfully hurt if you left us now," said 
 Mrs. Alford, so decidedly that he was in a dilemma, and 
 stole a timid look toward Elsie, who at once guessed his 
 motive in going away. Her kind heart got the better of 
 her; and her face relented in a sudden reassuring smile. 
 Then she turned hastily away. Only George saw and un- 
 derstood the little side scene and the reason Mr. Stanhope 
 was induced to remain. Then Elsie, in her quickly vary- 
 ing moods, was vexed at herself, and became more cold and 
 distant than ever. "He will regard me as only a pert, for- 
 ward miss, but I will teach him better," she thought; and 
 she astonished the family more and more by a stateliness 
 utterly unlike herself. Mr. Stanhope sincerely regretted 
 that he had not broken away, in spite of the others; but in 
 order not to seem vacillating he resolved to stay till the fol- 
 lowing morning, even though he departed burdened with the 
 thought that he had spoiled the day for one of the family* 
 Things had now gone so far that leaving might only lead to 
 explanations and more general annoyances, for George had 
 intimated that the little mistake of the previous evening 
 should remain a^ secret. 
 
 And yet he sincerely wished she would relent toward 
 him, for she could not make her sweet little face repellent. 
 The kiss she had given him still seemed to tingle in his 
 very soul, while her last smile was like a ray of warmest 
 sunshine. But her face, never designed to be severe, was 
 averted. 
 
 After having heard the affairs of the nation discussed in 
 a sound, scriptural manner, they all sat down to a dinner 
 such as had never blessed poor Mr. Stanhope's vision be- 
 fore. A married son and daughter returned after church, 
 ^nd half a dozen grandchildren enlivened the gathering. 
 There was need of them, for Elsie, usually in a state of wild 
 effervescence upon such occasions, was now demure and 
 comparatively silent. The children, with whom she was 
 
246 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 accustomed to romp like one of them, were perplexed in- 
 deed; and only the intense excitement of a Thanksgiving 
 dinner diverted their minds from Aunt Elsie, so sadly 
 changed. She was conscious that all were noting her ab- 
 sent manner, and this embarrassed and vexed her more; 
 and yet she seemed under a miserable paralysis that she 
 could neither explain nor escape. 
 
 "If we had only laughed it off at first," she groaned to 
 herself ; ' ' but now the whole thing grows more absurd and 
 disagreeable every moment. ' ' 
 
 "Why, Elsie," said her father, banteringly, "you doubted 
 the other day whether Mrs. Methuselah's age would ever sober 
 you; and yet 1 think that good old lady would have looked 
 more genial on Thanksgiving Day. What is the matter?" 
 
 "I was thinking of the sermon," she said. 
 
 Amid the comic elevation of eyebrows, George said slyly : 
 
 "Tell us the text." 
 
 Overwhelmed with confusion, she darted a reproachful 
 glance at him and muttered: 
 
 "I did not say anything about the text." 
 
 "Well, tell us about the sermon then," laughed James. 
 
 "No," said Elsie, sharply. "I'll quote you a text: 'Eat, 
 drink, and be merry,' and let me alone." 
 
 They saw that for some reason she could not bear teas- 
 ing, and that such badinage troubled Mr. Stanhope also. 
 George came gallantly to the rescue, and the dinner-party 
 grew so merry that Elsie thawed perceptibly and Stanhope 
 was beguiled into several witty speeches. At each one 
 Elsie opened her eyes in wider and growing appreciation. 
 At last, when they rose from their coffee, she come to the 
 surprising conclusion — 
 
 "Why, he is not stupid and bad-looking after all." 
 
 George was bent on breaking the ice between them, and 
 so proposed that the younger members of the family party 
 should go up a swollen stream and see the fall. But Elsie 
 flanked herself with a sister-in-law on one side and a niece 
 on the other, while Stanhope was so diffident that nothing 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 247 
 
 but dow aright encouragement would bring him to her side. 
 So George was almost in despair. Elsie's eyes had been 
 conveying favorable impressions to her reluctant mind 
 throughout the walk. She sincerely regretted that such 
 an absurd barrier had grown up between her and Stanhope, 
 but could not for the life of her, especially before others, do 
 anything to break the awkward spell. 
 
 At last they were on their return, and were all grouped 
 together on a little bluff, watching the water pour foam- 
 ing ly through a narrow gorge. 
 
 "Oh, see," cried Elsie, suddenly pointing to the oppo- 
 site bank, "what beautiful moss that is over there! It is 
 just the kind I have been wanting. Oh, dear I there isn't a 
 bridge within half a mile. ' ' 
 
 Stanhope glanced around a moment, and then said gal- 
 lantly, "I will get you the moss, Miss Alford." They saw 
 that in some inconceivable way he intended crossing where 
 they stood. The gorge was much too wide for the most 
 vigorous leap, so Elsie exclaimed eagerly: 
 
 "Oh, please don't take any risk! What is a little moss?" 
 
 "I say. Stanhope," remonstrated George, seriously, "it 
 would be no laughing matter if you should fall in there." 
 
 But Stanhope only smiled, threw off his overcoat, and 
 buttoned his undercoat closely around him. George groaned 
 to himself, "This will be worse than the kissing scrape," and 
 was about to lay a restraining grasp upon his friend. But 
 he slipped away, and lightly went up hand- over- hand a tall, 
 slender sapling on the edge of the bank, the whole party 
 gathering round in breathless expectation. Having reached 
 its slender, swaying top, he threw himself out on the land 
 side. The tree bent at once to the ground with his weight, 
 but without snapping, showing that it was tough and fibrous. 
 Holding firmly to the top, he gave a strong spring, which, 
 with the spring of the bent sapling, sent him well over the 
 gorge on the firm ground beyond. 
 
 There was a round of applause from the little group he 
 had just left, in which Elsie joined heartily. Her eyes were 
 
248 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 glowing with admiration, for when was not power and dar- 
 ing captivating to a woman ? Then, in sudden alarm and 
 forgetfulness of her former coolness, she exclaimed: 
 
 "But how will you get back?" 
 
 "This is my bridge," he replied, smiling brightly across 
 to her, and holding on to the slender young tree. "You 
 perceive that I was brought up in the country." 
 
 So saying, he tied the sapling down to a root with a 
 handkerchief, and then proceeded to fill another with moss. 
 
 As George saw Elsie's face while she watched Stanhope 
 gather the coveted trifle, he chuckled to himself — 
 
 "The ice is broken between them now." 
 
 But Stanhope had insecurely fastened the sapling down. 
 The strain upon the knot was too severe, and suddenly the 
 young tree flew up and stood erect but quivering, with his 
 handkerchief fluttering in its top as a symbol of defeat. 
 There was an exclamation of dismay and Elsie again 
 asked with real anxiety in her tone : 
 
 "How will you get back now ?". 
 
 Stanhope shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I confess I am defeated, for there is no like sapling on 
 this side; but I have the moss, and can join you at the 
 bridge below, if nothing better offers." 
 
 "Greorge," said Elsie, indignantly, "don't go away and 
 leave Mr. Stanhope's handkerchief in that tree." 
 
 "Bless you, child," cried George, mischievously, and 
 leading the way down the path, "I can't climb anymore 
 than a pumpkin. You will have to go back with him after 
 it, or let it wave as a memento of his gallantry on your 
 behalf." 
 
 "If I can only manage to throw them together without 
 any embarrassing third parties present, the ridiculous re- 
 straint they are under will soon vanish," he thought; and 
 so he hastened his steps. The rest trooped after him, while 
 Stanhope made his way with difficulty on the opposite bank, 
 where there was no path. His progress therefore was slow; 
 and Elsie saw that if she did not linger he would be left be^ 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 249 
 
 hind. Common politeness forbade this, and so she soon 
 found herself alone, carrying his overcoat on one bank, 
 and he keeping pace with her on the other. She comforted 
 herself at first with the thought that with the brawling, 
 deafening stream between them, there would be no chance 
 for embarrassing conversation. But soon her sympathies 
 became aroused, as she saw him toilsomely making his way 
 over the rocks and through the tangled thickets ; and as she 
 could not speak to him, she smiled her encouragement so 
 often that she felt it would be impossible to go back to her 
 old reserve. 
 
 Stanhope now came to a little opening in the brush. The 
 cleared ground sloped evenly down to the stream, and its cur- 
 rent was divided by a large rock. He hailed the opportu- 
 nity here offered with delight, for he was very anxious to 
 speak to her before they should join the others. So he 
 startled Elsie by walking out into the clearing, away from 
 the stream. 
 
 "Well, I declare; that's cool, to go and leave me alone 
 without a word," she thought. 
 
 But she was almost terror-stricken to see him turn and 
 dart to the torrent like an arrow. With a long flying leap, 
 lie landed on the rock in the midst of the stream, and then, 
 without a second's hesitation, with the impetus already ac- 
 quired, sprang for the solid ground where she stood, struck 
 it, wavered, and would have fallen backward into the water 
 had not she, quick as thought, stepped forward and given 
 him her hand. 
 
 "You have saved me from a ducking, if not worse," he 
 said, giving the little rescuing hand a warm pressure. 
 
 "Oh I" exclaimed she, panting, "please don't do any 
 more dreadful things. I shall be careful how I make any 
 wishes in your hearing again. ' ' 
 
 "I am sorry to hear you say that," he replied. And then 
 there was an awkward silence. 
 
 Elsie could think of nothing better than to refer to the 
 handkerchief they had left behind. 
 
250 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Will you wait for me till I run and get it?" he asked* 
 
 "I will go back with you, if you will permit me," she 
 said timidly. 
 
 "Indeed, I could not ask so much of you as that." 
 
 "And yet you could about the same as risk your L»eck to 
 gratify a whim of mine," she said more gratefully than she 
 intended. 
 
 "Please do not think," he replied earnestly, "that I have 
 been practicing cheap heroics. As I said, I was a country 
 boy, and in my early home thought nothing of doing such 
 things." But even the brief reference to that vanished 
 home caused him to sigh deeply, and Elsie gave him a wist- 
 ful look of sympathy. 
 
 For a few moments they walked on in silence. Then Mr. 
 Stanhope turned, and with some hesitation said: 
 
 "Miss Alford, I did very wrong to stay after — after last 
 evening. But my better judgment was borne down by in- 
 vitations so cordial that I hardly knew how to resist them. 
 At the same time I now realize that I should have done so. 
 Indeed, I would go away at once, would not such a course 
 only make matters worse. And yet, after receiving so much 
 kindness from your family, more than has blessed me for 
 many long years — for since my dear mother died I have 
 been quite alone in the world — I feel I cannot go away 
 without some assurance or proof that you will forgive me 
 for being such a kill- joy in your holiday. " 
 
 Elsie's vexation with herself now knew no bounds. She 
 stopped in the path, determining that she would clear up 
 matters, cost what it might. 
 
 "Mr. Stanhope," she said, "will you grant a request that 
 will contain such assurance, or rather, will show you that I 
 am heartily ashamed of my foolish course ? Will you not 
 spend next Thanksgiving with us, and give me a chance to 
 retrieve myself from first to last ?' ' 
 
 His face brightened wonderfully as he replied, "I will 
 only be too glad to do so, if you truly wish it." 
 
 "I do wish it," she said earnestly. "What must you 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 251 
 
 think of me?" (His eyes then expressed much admiration; 
 but hers were fixed on the ground and half filled with tears 
 of vexation.) Then, with a pretty humility that was ex- 
 quisite in its simplicity and artlessness, she added: 
 
 "You have noticed at home that they call me 'child' — 
 and indeed, I am little more than one — and now see that 
 I have behaved like a very silly and naughty one toward 
 you. 1 have trampled on every principle of hospitality, 
 kindness, and good-breeding. I have no patience with 
 myself, and I wish another chance to show that I can do 
 better. I—" 
 
 "Oh, Miss Alford, please do not judge yourself so 
 harshly and unjustly," interrupted Stanhope. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" sighed Elsie, "I'm so sorry for what hap- 
 pened last night. We all might have had such a good 
 time." 
 
 "Well, then," said Stanhope, demurely, "I suppose I 
 ought to be also." 
 
 "And do you mean to say that you are not?" she asked, 
 turning suddenly upon him. 
 
 "Oh, well, certainly, for your sake," he said with rising 
 color. 
 
 "But not for your own?" she asked with almost the 
 naivete of a child. 
 
 He turned away with a perplexed laugh and replied: 
 "Eeally, Miss Alford, you are worse than the Catechism." 
 
 She looked at him with a half-amused, half-surprised 
 expression, the thought occurring to her for the first time 
 that it might not have been so disagreeable to him after all; 
 and somehow this thought was quite a relief to her. But 
 she said: "I thought you would regard me as a hoyden of 
 the worst species. ' ' 
 
 "Because you kissed your brother? I have never for 
 a moment forgotten that it was only your misfortune that 
 1 was not he. ' ' 
 
 "I should have remembered that it was not your fault. 
 But here is your handkerchief, flying like a flag of truce; 
 
252 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 SO let bygones be bygones. My terms are that you come 
 again another year, and give me a chance to entertain my 
 brother's friend as a sister ought." 
 
 "I am only too glad to submit to them," he eagerly re- 
 plied, and then added, so ardently as to deepen the roses 
 already in her cheeks, "If such are your punishments, Miss 
 Alford, how delicious must be your favors!" 
 
 By common consent the subject was dropped; and with 
 tongues released from awkward restraint, they chatted freely 
 together, till in the early twilight they reached her home. 
 The moment they entered George exultingly saw that the 
 skies were serene. 
 
 But Elsie would never be the frolicsome child of the past 
 again. As she surprised the family at dinner, so now at 
 supper they could scarcely believe that the elegant, grace- 
 ful young lady was the witch of yesterday. She had re- 
 solved with all her soul to try to win some place in Mr. 
 Stanhope's respect before he departed, and never did a little 
 maiden succeed better. 
 
 In the evening they had music; and Mr. Stanhope pleased 
 them all with his fine tenor, while Elsie delighted him by 
 her clear, birdlike voice. So the hours fled away. 
 
 "You think better of the 'horrid man,' little Sis," said 
 George, as he kissed her good-night. 
 
 "I was the horrid one," said Elsie, penitently. "I can 
 never forgive myself my absurd conduct. But he has 
 promised to come again next Thanksgiving, and give me 
 a chance to do better; so don't you fail to bring him." 
 
 George gave a long, low whistle, and then said: "Oh! 
 ah I Seems to me you are coming on, for an innocent. Are 
 we to get mixed up again in the twilight?" 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Elsie, with a peony face, and she 
 slammed her door upon him. 
 
 The next morning the young man took his leave, and 
 Elsie's last words were: 
 
 "Mr. Stanhope, remember your promise." 
 
 And he did remember more than that, for this brief 
 
THREE THANKSGIVING KISSES 258 
 
 visit had enshrined a sweet, girlish face within his heart 
 of hearts, and he no longer felt lonely and orphaned. He 
 and George became the closest friends, and messages from 
 the New England home came to him with increasing fre- 
 quency, which he returned with prodigal interest. It also 
 transpired that he occasionally wrote for the papers, and 
 Elsie insisted that these should be sent to her; while he of 
 course wrote much better with the certainty that she would 
 be his critic. Thus, though separated, they daily became 
 better acquainted, and during the year George found it not 
 very difficult to induce his friend to make several visits. 
 
 But it was with joy that seemed almost too rich for 
 earthly experience that he found himself walking up the 
 village street with George the ensuing Thanksgiving Eve. 
 Elsie was at the door; and he pretended to be disconsolate 
 that his reception was not the same as on the previous year. 
 Indeed she had to endure not a little chaffing, for her mis- 
 take was a family joke now. 
 
 It was a peerless Thanksgiving eve and day — one of the 
 sunlighted heights of human happiness. 
 
 After dinner they all again took a walk up the brawling 
 stream, and Stanhope and Elsie became separated from the 
 rest, though not so innocently as on the former occasion. 
 
 "See!" cried Elsie, pointing to the well-remembered 
 sapling, which she had often visited. "There fluttered our 
 flag of truce last year." 
 
 Stanhope seized her hand and said eagerly: "And here 
 I again break the truce, and renew the theme we dropped 
 at this place. Oh, Elsie, I have felt that kiss in the depths 
 of my heart every hour since; and in that it led to my 
 knowing and loving you, it has made every day from that 
 time one of thanksgiving. If you could return my love, as 
 I have dared to hope, it would be a happiness beyond 
 words. If I could venture to take one more kiss, as a token 
 that it is returned, I could keep Thanksgiving forever." 
 
 Her hand trembled in his, but was not withdrawn. Her 
 blushing face was turned away toward the brawling stream-, 
 
254 TAKEN ALIVE, AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 but she saw not its foam, she heard not its hoarse murmurs. 
 A sweeter music was in her ears. She seemed under a de- 
 licious spell, but soon became conscious that a pair of dark 
 eyes were looking down eagerly, anxiously for her answer. 
 Shyly raising hers, that now were like dewy violets, she 
 said, with a little of her old witchery: 
 
 *'l suppose you will have to kiss me this Thanksgiving, 
 to make things even." 
 
 Stanhope needed no broader hint. 
 
 "1 owe you a heavy grudge,*' said Mr. Alford, in the 
 evening. *'A year ago you robbed me of my child, for 
 little, kittenish Elsie became a thoughtful woman from 
 the day you were here; and now you are going to take 
 away the daughter of my old, age. ' ' 
 
 ** Yes, indeed, husband. Now you know how my father 
 felt," said Mrs. Alford, at the same time wiping something 
 from the corner of her eye. 
 
 ** Bless me, are you here?" said the old gentleman, 
 wheeling round to his wife. *'Mr. Stanhope, I have noth- 
 ing more to say. * ' 
 
 **I declare," exulted George, "that 'horrid man' will 
 devour Elsie yet." 
 
 "Haw! haw! haw!" laughed big- voiced, big-hearted 
 James. "The idea of our little witch of an Elsie being 
 a minister's wife!" 
 
 It is again Thanksgiving Eve. The trees are gaunt, the 
 fields bare and brown, with dead leaves whirling across 
 them; but a sweeter than June sunshine seems filling the 
 cosey parlor where Elsie, a radiant bride, is receiving her 
 husband's first kiss almost on the moment that she with 
 her lips so unexpectedly kindled the sacred fire, three 
 years before. 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 
 
 PICNICKING in December would be a dreary experi- 
 ence even if one could command all the appliances 
 of comfort which outdoor life permitted. This would 
 be especially true in the latitude of Boston and on the 
 bleak hills overlooking that city and its environing waters. 
 Dreary business indeed Ezekiel Watkins regarded it as he 
 shivered over the smoky camp-fire which he maintained 
 with difficulty. The sun was sinking into the southwest 
 so early in the day that he remarked irritably: *'Durned if 
 it was worth while for it to rise at all." 
 
 Ezekiel Watkins, or Zeke, as he was generally known 
 among his comrades, had ceased to be a resident on that 
 rocky hillside from pleasure. His heart was in a Connec- 
 ticut valley in more senses than one; and there was not 
 a more homesick soldier in the army. It will be readily 
 guessed that the events of our story occurred more than a 
 century ago. The shots fired at Bunker Hill had echoed 
 in every nook and corner of the New England colonies, and 
 the heart of Zeke Watkins, among thousands of others, 
 had been fired with military ardor. With companions in 
 like frame of mind he had trudged to Boston, breathing 
 slaughter and extermination against the red- coated instru- 
 ments of English tyranny. To Zeke the expedition had 
 many of the elements of an extended bear- hunt, much ex- 
 alted. There was a spice of danger and a rich promise of 
 novelty and excitement. The march to the lines about 
 Boston had been a continuous ovation; grandsires came out 
 from the wayside dwellings and blessed the rustic soldiers; 
 they were dined profusely by the housewives, and if not 
 
 (256) 
 
256 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 wined, there had been slight stint in New England rum 
 and cider; the apple-cheeked daughters of the land gave 
 them the meed of heroes in advance, and abated somewhat 
 of their ruddy hues at the thought of the dangers to be 
 incurred. Zeke was visibly dilated by all this attention, 
 incense, and military glory; and he stepped forth from 
 each village and hamlet as if the world were scarcely large 
 enough for the 'prowess of himself and companions. Even 
 on parade he was as stiff as his long-barrelled flintlock, 
 looking as if England could hope for no quarter at his 
 hands; yet he permitted no admiring glances from bright 
 eyes to escape him. He had not traversed half the distance 
 between his native hamlet and Boston before he was abun- 
 dantly satisfied that pretty Susie Rolliffe had made no mis- 
 take in honoring him among the recruits by marks of espe- 
 cial favor. He wore in his squirrel-skin cap the bit of blue 
 ribbon she had given him, and with the mien of a Homeric 
 hero had intimated darkly that it might be crimson before 
 she saw it again. She had clasped her hands, stifled a little 
 sob, and looked at him admiringly. He needed no stronger 
 assurance than her eyes conveyed at that moment. She 
 had been shy and rather unapproachable before, sought by 
 others than himself, yet very chary of her smiles and favors 
 to all. Her ancestors had fought the Indians, and had be- 
 queathed to the demure little maiden much of their own 
 indomitable spirit. She had never worn her heart on her 
 sleeve, and was shy of her rustic admirers chiefly because 
 none of them had realized her ideals of manhood created by 
 fireside stories of the past. 
 
 Zeke's chief competitor for Susie's favor had been Zeb- 
 ulon Jarvis; and while he had received little encourage- 
 ment, he laid his unostentatious devotion at her feet un- 
 stintedly, and she knew it. Indeed, she was much inclined 
 to laugh at him, for he was singularly bashful, and a frown 
 from her overwhelmed him. Unsophisticated Susie reasoned 
 that any one who could be so afraid of her could not be much 
 of a man. She had never heard of his doing anything bold 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 257 
 
 and spirited. It might be said, indeed, that the attempt to 
 wring a livelihood for his widowed mother and for his 
 younger brothers and sisters from the stumpy, rocky farm 
 required courage of the highest order; but it was not of a 
 kind that appealed to the fancy of a romantic young girl. 
 Nothing finer or grander had Zebulon attempted before the 
 recruiting officer came to Opinquake, and when he came, 
 poor Zeb appeared to hang back so timorously that he lost 
 what little place he had in Susie's thoughts. She was igno- 
 rant of the struggle taking place in his loyal heart. More 
 intense even than his love for her was the patriotic fire 
 which smouldered in his breast; yet when other young men 
 were giving in their names and drilling on the village greeuj 
 he was absent. To the war appeals of those who sought him, 
 he replied briefly: ''Can't leave till fall." 
 
 "But the fighting will be over long before that," it was 
 urged. 
 
 "So much the better for others, then, if not for me." 
 
 Zeke Watkins made it his business that Susie should 
 hear this reply in the abbreviated form of, "So much the 
 better, then." 
 
 She had smiled scornfully, and it must be added, a little 
 bitterly. In his devotion Zeb had been so helpless, so 
 diffidently unable to take his own part and make advances 
 that she, from odd little spasms of sympathy, had taken hia 
 part for him, and laughingly repeated to herself in solitude 
 all the fine speeches which she perceived he would be glad 
 to make. But, as has been intimated, it seemed to her droll 
 indeed that such a great stalwart fellow should appear panic* 
 stricken in her diminutive presence. In brief, he had beea 
 timidity embodied under her demurely-mischievous blue 
 eyes; and now that the recruiting officer had come and 
 marched away with his squad without him, she felt in- 
 censed that such a chicken-hearted fellow had dared to lift 
 his eyes to her. 
 
 "It would go hard with the Widow Jar vis and all those 
 children if Zeb 'listed," Susie's mother had ventured in 
 
258 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 half-hearted defence, for did she not look upon him as a 
 promising suitor. 
 
 "The people of Opinquake wouldn't let the widow or the 
 children starve," replied Susie, indignantly. "If I was a 
 big fellow like him, my country would not call me twice. 
 Think how grandfather left grandma and all the children!" 
 
 ' ' Well, I giiess Zeb thinks he has his hands full wrast- 
 ling with that stony farm." 
 
 "He needn't come to see me any more, or steal glances 
 at me 'tween meetings on Sunday," said the girl, decisively. 
 "He cuts a sorry figure beside Zeke Watkins, who was the 
 first to give in his name, and who began to march like a 
 soldier even before he left us." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. RoUiffe; "Zeke was very forward. If 
 he holds out as he began — Well, well, Zeke alius was a 
 little forward, and able to speak for himself. You are 
 young yet, Susan, and may learn before you reach my 
 years that the race isn't alius to the swift. Don't be in 
 haste to promise yourself to any of the young men." 
 
 "Little danger of my promising myself to a man who is 
 afraid even of me! I want a husband like grandfather. He 
 w'asn't afraid to face anything, and he honored his wife by 
 acting as if she wasn't afraid either." 
 
 Zeb gave Susie no chance to bestow the rebuffs she had 
 premeditated. He had been down to witness the departure 
 of the Opinquake quota, and had seen Susie's farewell to 
 Zeke Watkins. How much it had meant he was not sure — 
 enough to leave no hope or chance for him, he had believed; 
 but he had already fought his first battle, and it had been 
 a harder one than Zeke Watkins or any of his comrades 
 would ever engage in. He had returned and worked on the 
 stony farm until dark. From dawn until dark he continued 
 to work every secular day till September. 
 
 His bronzed face grew as stern as it was thin; and since 
 he would no longer look at her, Susie RoUiffe began to steal 
 an occasional and wondering glance at him " 'tween meet- 
 ings." 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 259 
 
 No one understood the young man or knew his plans 
 except his patient, sad-eyed mother, and she learned more 
 by her intuitions than from his spoken words. She idolized 
 him, and he loved and revered her; but the terrible Puritan 
 restraint paralyzed manifestations of affection. She was not 
 taken by surprise when one evening he said quietly, "Mother, 
 I guess I'll start in a day or two." 
 
 She could not repress a sort of gasping sob however, but 
 after a few moments was able to say steadily, "I supposed 
 you were preparing to leave us." 
 
 *'Yes, mother, I've been a- preparing. I've done my best 
 to gather in everything that would help keep you and the 
 children and the stock through the winter. The corn is all 
 shocked, and the older children can help you husk it, and 
 gather in the pumpkins, the beans, and the rest. As soon 
 as I finish digging the potatoes I think I'll feel better to be 
 in the lines around Boston. I'd have liked to have gone at 
 first, but in order to fight as I ought I'd want to remember 
 there was plenty to keep you and the children." 
 
 ''I'm afraid, Zebulon, you've been fighting as well as 
 working so hard all summer long. For my sake and the 
 children's, you've been letting Susan RoUifie think meanly 
 of you. ' ' 
 
 "I can't help what she thinks, mother; I've tried not to 
 act meanly." 
 
 ''Perhaps the God of the widow and the fatherless will 
 shield and bless you, my son. Be that as it may," she 
 added with a heavy sigh, "conscience and His will must 
 guide in everything. If He says go forth to battle, what 
 am I that I should stay you?" Although she did not 
 dream of the truth, the Widow Jarvis was a disciplined 
 soldier herself. To her, faith meant unquestioning sub- 
 mission and obedience; she had been taught to revere a 
 jealous and an exacting God rather than a loving one. 
 The heroism with which she pursued her toilsome, narrow, 
 shadowed pathway was as sublime as it was unrecognized 
 on her part. After she had retired she wept sorely, not 
 
ISOO TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 only because her eldest child was going to danger, and per- 
 haps death, but also for the reason that her heart clung to 
 him so weakly and selfishly, as she believed. With a ten- 
 derness of which she was half-ashamed she filled his wallet 
 with provisions which would add to his comfort, then, both 
 to his surprise and her own, kissed him good- by. He left 
 her and the younger brood with an aching heart of which 
 there was little outward sign, and with no loftier ambition 
 than to do his duty; she followed him with deep, wistful 
 eyes till he, and next the long barrel of his rifle, disap- 
 peared in an angle of the road, and then her interrupted 
 work was resumed. 
 
 Susie EoUiffe was returning from an errand to a neigh- 
 bor's when she heard the sound of long rapid steps. 
 
 A hasty glance revealed Zeb in something like pursuit. 
 Her heart fluttered slightly, for he had looked so stern and 
 sad of late that she had felt a little sorry for him in spite of 
 herself. But since he could "wrastle" with nothing more 
 formidable than a stony farm, she did not wish to have any- 
 thing to say to him, or meet the embarrassment of explain- 
 ing a tacit estrangement. She was glad, therefore, that her 
 gate was so near, and passed in as if she had not recognized 
 him. She heard his steps become slower and pause at the 
 gate, and then almost in shame in being guilty of too marked 
 discourtesy, she turned to speak, but hesitated in surprise, 
 for now she recognized his equipment as a soldier. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Jarvis, where are you going ?" she exclaimed. 
 
 A dull red flamed through the bronze of his thin cheeks 
 as he replied awkwardly, *'l thought I'd take a turn in the 
 lines around Boston. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, yes," she replied, mischievously, "take a turn in 
 the lines. Then we may expect you back by corn-husking?'* 
 
 He was deeply wounded, and in his embarrassment could 
 think of no other reply than the familiar words, " 'Let not 
 him that girdeth on his harness boast himself as he that 
 putteth it off.' " 
 
 "I can't help hoping, Mr. Jarvis, that neither you nor 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 261 
 
 Others will put it off too soon — not, at least, while King 
 George claims to be our master. When we're Iree 1 can 
 stand any amount of boasting." 
 
 ''You'll never hear boasting from me, Miss Susie;'* and 
 then an awkward silence fell between them. 
 
 Shyly and swiftly she raised her eyes. He looked so 
 humble, deprecatory, and unsoldierlike that she could not 
 repress a laugh. "I'm not a British cannon," she began, 
 *'that you should be so fearful." 
 
 His manhood was now too deeply wounded for further 
 endurance even from her, for he suddenly straightened him- 
 self, and throwing his rifle over his shoulder, said sternly, 
 *'l'm not a coward. I never hung back from fear, but to 
 keep mother from charity, so I could fight or die as God 
 wills. You may laugh at the man who never gave you 
 anything but love, if you will, but you shall never laugh 
 at my deeds. Call that boasting or not as you please," and 
 he turned on his heel to depart. 
 
 His words and manner almost took away the girl's breath, 
 so unexpected were they, and unlike her idea of the man. 
 In that brief moment a fearless soldier had flashed himself 
 upon her consciousness, revealing a spirit that would flinch 
 at nothing — that had not even quailed at the necessity of for- 
 feiting her esteem, that his mother might not want. Hu- 
 miliated and conscience-stricken that she had done him so 
 much injustice, she rushed forward, crying, **Stop, Zebu- 
 Ion; please do not go away angry with me! I do not forget 
 that we have been old friends and playmates. I'm willing 
 to own that I've been wrong about you, and that's a good 
 deal for a girl to do. I only wish I were a man, and I'd go 
 with you." 
 
 Her kindness restored him to his awkward self again, 
 and he stammered, *'I wish you were — no, I don't — I merely 
 stopped, thinking you might have a message; but I'd rather 
 not take any to Zeke Watkins — will, though, if you wish. 
 It cut me all up to have you think I was afraid," and then 
 he became speechless. 
 
262 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 *'Bit you acted as if you were afraid of me, and that 
 seemed so ridiculous." 
 
 He -ooked at her a moment so earnestly with his dark, 
 deep-set eyes that hers dropped. "Miss Susie," he said 
 slowly, and speaking with difficulty, "I am afraid of you, 
 next to God. I don't suppose I've any right to talk to 
 you so, and 1 will say good- by. 1 was reckless when I 
 spoke before. Perhaps — you'll go and see mother. My 
 going is hard on her." 
 
 His eyes lingered on her a moment longer, as if he were 
 taking his last look, then he turned slowly away. 
 
 "Good-by, Zeb," she called softly. "1 didn't — 1 don't 
 understand. Yes, I will go to see your mother." 
 
 Susie also watched him as he strode away. He thought 
 he could continue on steadfastly without looking back, but 
 when the road turned he also turned, fairly tugged right 
 about by his loyal heart. She stood where he had left her, 
 and promptly waved her hand. He doffed his cap, and re- 
 mained a moment in an attitude that appeared to her rever- 
 ential, then passed out of view. 
 
 The moments lapsed, and still she stood in the gateway, 
 looking down the vacant road as if dazed. Was it in truth 
 awkward, bashful Zeb Jarvis who had just left her ? He 
 seemed a new and distinct being in contrast to the youth 
 whom she had smiled at and in a measure scoffed at. The 
 little Puritan maiden was not a reasoner, but a creature of 
 impressions and swift intuitions. Zeb had not set his teeth, 
 faced his hard duty, and toiled that long summer in vain. 
 He had developed a manhood and a force which in one 
 brief moment had enabled him to compel her recognition* 
 
 "He will face anything," she murmured. "He's afraid 
 of only God and me; what a strange thing to say — afraid of 
 me next to God! Sounds kind of wicked. What can 
 he mean ? Zeke Watkiiis wasn't a bit afraid of me. As 
 mother said, he was a little forward, and I was fool enough 
 to take him at his own valuation. Afraid of me! How he 
 stood with his cap off Do men ever love so? Is there a 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 263 
 
 kind of reverence in some men's love? How absurd that 
 a great strong, brave man, ready to face cannons, can bow 
 down to such a little — " Her fragmentary exclamations 
 ended in a peal of laughter, but tears dimmed her blue eyes. 
 
 Susie did visit Mrs. Jarvis, and although the reticent 
 woman said little about her son, what she did say meant 
 volumes to the girl who now had the right clew in inter- 
 preting his action and character. She too was reticent. 
 New England girls rarely gushed in those days, so no one 
 knew she was beginning to understand. Her eyes, experi- 
 enced in country work, were quick, and her mind active. 
 ''It looks as if a giant had been wrestling with this stony 
 farm, " she muttered, ' 
 
 Zeb received no ovations on his lonely tramp to the 
 lines, and the vision of Susie Rolliffe waving her hand 
 from the gateway would have blinded him to all the bright 
 and admiring eyes in the world. He was hospitably enter- 
 tained, however, when there was occasion; but the advent 
 of men bound for the army had become an old story. Hav- 
 ing at last inquired his way to the position occupied by the 
 Connecticut troops, he was assigned to duty in the same 
 company with Zeke Watkins, who gave him but a- cool re- 
 ception, and sought to overawe him by veteran- like airs. 
 At first poor Zeb was awkward enough in his unaccus- 
 tomed duties, and no laugh was so scornful as that of his 
 rival. Young Jarvis, however, had not been many days in 
 camp before he guessed that Zeke's star was not in the as- 
 cendant. There was but little fighti-ng required, but much 
 digging of intrenchments, drill, and monotonous picket duty. 
 Zeke did not take kindly to such tasks, and shirked them 
 when possible. He was becoming known as the champion 
 grumbler in the mess, and no one escaped his criticism, not 
 even "Old Put" — as General Putnam, who commanded the 
 Connecticut quota, was called. Jarvis, on the other hand, 
 performed his military duties as he had worked the farm, 
 and rapidly acquired the bearing of a soldier. Indomitable 
 Putnam gave his men little rest, and was ever seeking to 
 
 y 
 
^t TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 draw his lines nearer to Boston and the enemy's ships. He 
 virtually fought with pick and shovel, and his working par. 
 ties were often exposed to fire while engaged in fortifying 
 the positions successively occupied. The Opinquake boys 
 regarded themselves as well seasoned to such rude compli- 
 ments, and were not a little curious to see how Zeb would 
 handle a shovel with cannon-balls whizzing uncomfortably 
 near. The opportunity soon came. Old Put himself could 
 not have been more coolly oblivious than the raw recrrit 
 At last a ball smashed his shovel to smithereens; he quietly 
 procured another and went on with his work. Then his for- 
 mer neighbors gave him a cheer, while his captain clapped 
 him on the shouWer and said, "Promote you to be a veteran 
 on the spot!" 
 
 The days had grown shorter, colder, and drearier, and 
 the discomforts of camp- life harder to endure. There were 
 few tents even for the officers, and the men were compelled 
 to improvise such shelter as circumstances permitted. Huts 
 of stone, wood, and brush, and barricades against the wind, 
 lined the hillside, and the region already was denuded of 
 almost everything that would burn. Therefore, when De- 
 cember came, Zeke Watkins found that even a fire was a 
 luxury not to be had without trouble. He had become 
 thoroughly disgusted with a soldier's life, and the military 
 glory which had at first so dazzled him now wore the aspect 
 of the wintry sky. He had recently sought and attained 
 the only promotion for which his captain now deemed him 
 fitted — that of cook for about a dozen of his comrades; and 
 the close of the December day found him preparing the 
 meagre supper which the limited rations permitted. By 
 virtue of his ofiice, Zeke was one of the best-fed men in 
 the army, for if there were any choice morsels he could 
 usually manage to secure them; still, he was not happy. 
 King George and Congress were both pursuing policies in- 
 consistent with his comfort, and he sighed more and more 
 frequently for the wide kitchen-hearth of his home, which 
 was within easy visiting distance of the Kollifie farmhouse. 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 265 
 
 His term of enlistment expired soon, and he was already- 
 counting the days. He was not alone in his discontent, for 
 there was much homesickness and disaffection among the 
 Connecticut troops. Many had already departed, unwilling 
 to stay an hour after the expiration of their terms; and not 
 a few had anticipated the periods which legally released them 
 from duty. The organization of the army was so loose that 
 neither appeals nor threats had much influence, and Wash- 
 ington, in deep solicitude, saw his troops melting away. 
 
 It was dark by the time the heavy tramp of the working 
 party was heard returning from the fortifications. The great 
 mess-pot, partly filled with pork and beans, was bubbling 
 over the fire; Zeke, shifting his position from time to time 
 to avoid the smoke which the wind, as if it had a spite 
 against him, blew in his face, was sourly contemplating his 
 charge and his lot, bent on grumbling to the others with 
 even greater gusto than he had complained to himself. His 
 comrades carefully put away their intrenching tools, for they 
 were held responsible for them, and then gathered about the 
 fire, clamoring for supper. 
 
 "Zeke, you lazy loon," cried Nat Atkinson, "how many 
 pipes have you smoked to-day ? If you'd smoke less and 
 forage and dun the commissary more, we'd have a little 
 fresh meat once in a hundred years." 
 
 "Yes, just about once in a hundred years!" snarled 
 Zeke. 
 
 ''You find something to keep fat on, anyhow. We'll 
 broil you some cold night. Trot out your beans if there's 
 nothing else." 
 
 "Growl away," retorted Zeke. " 'Twon't be long be- 
 fore I'll be eating chickens and pumpkin-pie in Opin- 
 quake, instead of cooking beans and rusty pork for a lot 
 of hungry wolves." 
 
 "You'd be the hungriest wolf of the lot if you'd 'a' been 
 picking and shovelling frozen ground all day." 
 
 "I didn't 'list to be a ditch- digger I" said Zeke. "I 
 thought I was going to be a soldier." 
 
 12— Roe— XI 
 
266 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "And you turned out a cook!" quietly remarked Zeb 
 Jarvis. 
 
 "Well, my hero of the smashed shovel, what do you ex- 
 pect to be — Old Put's successor? You know, fellows, it's 
 settled that you're to dig your way into Boston, tunnel un- 
 der the water when you come to it. Of course Put will die 
 of old age before you get half there. Zeb '11 be the chap of 
 all others to command a division of shovellers. I see you 
 with a pickaxe strapped on your side instead of a sword. ' ' 
 
 "Lucky I'm not in command now," replied Zeb, "or 
 you'd shovel dirt under fire to the last hour of your enlist- 
 ment. I'd give grumblers like you something to grumble 
 about. See here, fellows, I'm sick of this seditious talk in 
 our mess. The Connecticut men are getting to be the talk 
 of the army. You heard a squad of New Hampshire boys 
 jeer at us to-day, and ask, 'When are ye going home to 
 mother ?' You ask, Zeke Watkins, what I expect to be. 
 I expect to be a soldier, and obey orders as long as Old 
 Put and General Washington want a man. All I ask is to 
 be home summers long enough to keep mother and the chil- 
 dren off the town. Now what do you expect to be after you 
 give up your cook's ladle ?" 
 
 "None o' your business." 
 
 "He's going home to court Susie Kolliffe," cried Nat 
 Atkinson. "They'll be married in the spring, and go into 
 the chicken business. That'd just suit Zeke." 
 
 "It would not suit Susie Eolliffe," said Zeb, hotly. "A 
 braver, better girl doesn't breathe in the colonies, and the 
 man that says a slurring word against her's got to fight me. " 
 
 "What! Has she given Zeke the mitten for your sake, 
 Zeb ?' ' piped little Hiram Woodbridge. 
 
 "She hasn't given me anything, and I've got no claim; 
 but she is the kind of girl that every fellow from Opinquake 
 should stand up for. We all know that there is nothing 
 chicken-hearted about her." 
 
 "Right, by George — George W., I mean, and not the 
 king," responded Hiram Woodbridge. "Here's to her 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 267 
 
 health, Zeb, and your success! I believe she'd rather 
 marry a soldier thaa a cook." 
 
 ''Thank you," said Zeb. "You stand as good a chance 
 as I do; but don't let's bandy her name about in camp any 
 more'n we would our mother's. The thing for us to do 
 now is to show that the men from Connecticut have as 
 much backbone as any other fellows in the army, North or 
 South. Zeke may laugh at Old Put's digging, but you'll 
 soon find that he'll pick his way to a point where he can 
 give the Britishers a dig under the fifth rib. We've got 
 the best general in the army. Washington, with all his 
 Southern style, believes in him and relies on him. Whether 
 their time's up or not, it's a burning shame that so many of 
 his troops are sneaking off home." 
 
 "It's all very well for you to talk, Zeb Jar vis," growled 
 Zeke. "You haven't been here very long yet; and you 
 stayed at home when others started out to fight. Now that 
 you've found that digging and not fighting is the order of 
 the day, you're just suited. It's the line of soldiering you 
 are cut out for. When fighting men and not ditch-diggers 
 are wanted, you'll find me — " 
 
 "All right, Watkins," said the voice of Captain Dean 
 from without the circle of light. "According to your own 
 story you are just the kind of man needed to-night — no 
 ditch-digging on hand, but dangerous service. I detail 
 you, for you've had rest compared with the other men. I 
 ask for volunteers from those who've been at work all day." 
 
 Zeb Jarvis was on his feet instantly, and old Ezra Stokes 
 also began to rise with difiiculty. "No, Stokes," resumed 
 the officer, "you can't go. I know you've suffered with 
 the rheumatism all day, and have worked well in spite of 
 it. For to-night's work 1 want young fellows with good 
 legs and your spirit. How is it you're here anyhow 
 Stokes? Your time's up." 
 
 "We ain't into Boston yet," was the quiet reply. 
 
 "So you want to stay ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
268 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER ST0EIE8 
 
 '*Then you shall cook for the men till you're better. I 
 won't keep so good a soldier, though, at such work any 
 longer than I can help. Your good example and that of 
 the gallant Watkins has brought out the whole squad. I 
 think I'll put Jarvis in command, though; Zeke might be 
 rash, and attempt the capture of Boston before morning;" 
 and the facetious captain, who had once been a neighbor, 
 concluded, * 'Jarvis, see that every man's piece is primed 
 and ready for use. Be at my hut in fifteen minutes." 
 Then he passed on to the other camp-fires. 
 
 In a few minutes Ezra Stokes was alone by the fire, al- 
 most roasting his lame leg, and grumbling from pain and 
 the necessity of enforced inaction. He was a taciturn, 
 middle-age man, and had been the only bachelor of ma- 
 ture years in Opinquake. Although he rarely said much, 
 he had been a great listener, and no one had been better 
 versed in neighborhood affairs. In brief, he had been the 
 village cobbler, and had not only taken the measure of 
 Susie Rolliffe's little foot, but also of her spirit. Like her- 
 self he had been misled at first by the forwardness of Zeke 
 Watkins and the apparent backwardness of Jarvis. Actual 
 service had changed his views very decidedly. When Zeb 
 appeared he had watched the course of this bashful suitor 
 with interest which had rapidly ripened into warm but un- 
 demonstrative goodwill. The young fellow had taken 
 pains to relieve the older man, had carried his tools for 
 him, and more than once with his strong hands had almost 
 rubbed the rheumatism out of the indomitable cobbler's leg. 
 He had received but slight thanks, and had acted as if he 
 didn't care for any. Stokes was not a man to return favors 
 in words; be brooded over his gratitude as if it were a 
 grudge. **1'11 get even with that young Jarvis yet," he 
 muttered, as he nursed his leg over the fire. **I know he 
 worships the ground that little Rolliffe girl treads on, 
 though she don't tread on much at a time. She never trod 
 on me nuther, though I've had her foot in my hand more'n 
 once. She looked at the man that made her shoes as if she 
 
8USIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 26t^ 
 
 would like to make him happier. When a little tot, she used 
 to say I could come and live with her when I got too old to 
 take care of myself. Lame as I be, I'd walk to Opinquake 
 to give her a hint in her choosin'. Guess Hi Woodbridge 
 is right, and she wouldn't be long in making up her mind 
 betwixt a soger and a cook — a mighty poor one at that. 
 Somehow or nuther I must let her know before Zeke Wat- 
 kins sneaks home and parades around as a soldier 'bove 
 ditch- digging. I've taken his measure. 
 
 '*He'll be putting on veteran airs, telling big stories of 
 what he's going to do when soldiers are wanted, and drill- 
 ing such fools as believe in him. Young gals are often 
 taken by such strutters, and think that men like Jarvis, 
 who darsn't speak for themselves, are of no account But 
 I'll put a spoke in Zeke's wheel, if I have to get the cap- 
 tain to write." 
 
 It thus may be gathered that the cobbler had much 
 to say to himself when alone, though so taciturn to 
 others. 
 
 The clouds along the eastern horizon were stained with 
 red before the reconnoitring party returned. Stokes had 
 managed, by hobbling about, to keep up the fire and to fill 
 the mess-kettle with the inevitable pork and beans. The 
 hungry, weary men therefore gave their new cook a cheer 
 when they saw the good fire and provision awaiting them. 
 A moment later, however, Jarvis observed how lame Stokes 
 had become; he took the cobbler by the shoulder and sat 
 him down in the warmest nook, saying, '*I'll be assistant 
 cook until you are better.- As Zeke says, I'm a wolf sure 
 enough; but as soon's the beast's hunger is satisfied, I'll 
 rub that leg of yours till you'll want to dance a jig;" and 
 with the ladle wrung from Stokes's reluctant hand, he be- 
 gan stirring the seething contents of the kettle. 
 
 Then little Hi Woodbridge piped in his shrill voice, 
 *' Another cheer for our assistant cook and ditch-digger! 
 I say, Zeke, wouldn't you like to tell Erza that Zeb has 
 showed himself fit for something more than digging? You 
 
270 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 expressed jour opinion very plain last night, and may have 
 a different one now. * ' 
 
 Zeke growld something inaudible, and stalked to his hut 
 in order to put away his equipments. 
 
 *'rm cook-in-chief yet," Stokes declared; *'and not a 
 bean will any one of you get till you report all that 
 happened. ' ' 
 
 ''Well," piped Hi, "you may stick a feather in your old 
 cap, Ezra, for our Opinquake lad captured a British oflScer 
 last night, and Old Put is pumping him this blessed minute." 
 
 *'Well, well, that is news. It must have been Zeke who 
 did that neat job," exclaimed Stokes, ironically; "he's been 
 a-pining for the soldier business." 
 
 "No, no; Zeke's above such night scrimmages. He 
 wants to swim the bay and walk right into Boston in broad 
 daylight, so everybody can see him. Come, Zeb, tell how 
 it happened. It was so confounded dark, no one can tell 
 but you." 
 
 "There isn't much to tell that you fellows don't know," 
 was Zeb's laconic answer. "We had sneaked down on the 
 neck so close to the enemy's lines — " 
 
 "Yes, yes, Zeb Jarvis," interrupted Stokes, "that's the 
 kind of sneaking you're up to — close to the enemy's lines. 
 Goon." 
 
 " Well, I crawled up so close that I saw a Britisher going 
 the round of the sentinels, and I pounced on him and 
 brought him out on the run, that's all." 
 
 "Oho! you both ran away, then? That wasn't good 
 soldiering either, was it, Zeke ?' ' commented Stokes, in his 
 dry way. 
 
 "It's pretty good soldiering to stand fire within an inch 
 of your nose," resumed Hi, who had become a loyal friend 
 and adherent of his tall comrade. "Zeb was so close on the 
 Britisher when he fired his pistol that we saw the faces of 
 both in the flash; and a lot of bullets sung after us, I can 
 tell you, as we dusted out of those diggin's. " 
 
 "Compliments of General Putnam to Sergeant Zebulon 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 271 
 
 Jarvis, ' said an orderly, riding out of the dim twilight 
 of the morning. ''The general requests your presence at 
 headquarters. ' ' 
 
 "Sergeant: promoted! Another cheer for Zeb!" and 
 the Opinquake boys gave it with hearty goodwill. 
 
 "Jerusalem, fellows! I'd like to have a chance at those 
 beans before I go!" but Zeb promptly tramped oE with the 
 orderly. 
 
 When he returned he was subjected to a fire of questions 
 by the two or three men still awake, but all they could get 
 out of him was that he had been given a good breakfast. 
 From Captain Dean, who was with the general at the time 
 of the examination, it leaked out that Zeb was in the line of 
 promotion to a rank higher than that of sergeant. 
 
 The next few days passed uneventfully; and Zeke was 
 compelled to resume the pick and shovel again. Stokes did 
 his best to fulfil his duties, but it had become evident to all 
 that the exposure of camp would soon disable him utterly. 
 Jarvis and Captain Dean persuaded him to go home for the 
 winter, and the little squad raised a sum which enabled him 
 to make the journey in a stage. Zeke, sullen toward his 
 jeering comrades, but immensely elated in secret, had shaken 
 the dust—snow and slush rather — of camp-life from his feet 
 the day before. He had the grace to wait till the time of 
 his enlistment expired, and that was more than could be said 
 of many. 
 
 It spoke well for the little Opinquake quota that only 
 two others besides Zeke availed themselves of their liberty. 
 Poor Stokes was almost forced away, consoled by the hope 
 of returning in the spring. Zeb was sore- hearted on the 
 day of Zeke's departure. His heart was in the Connecticut 
 Valley also. No message had come to him from Susie Eol- 
 liffe. Those were not the days of swift and frequent com- 
 munication. Even Mrs. Jarvis had written but seldom, and 
 her missives were brief. Mother-love glowed through the 
 few quaint and scriptural phrases like heat in anthracite 
 coals. All that poor Zeb could learn from them was that 
 
272 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Susie EoUiffe had kept her word and had been to the farm 
 more than once; but the girl had been as reticent as the 
 mother. Zeke was now on his way home to prosecute his 
 suit in person, and Zeb well knew how forward and plausi- 
 ble he could be. There was no deed of daring that he would 
 not promise to perform after spring opened, and Zeb rea- 
 soned gloomily that a present lover, impassioned and im- 
 portunate, would stand a better chance than an absent one 
 who had never been able to speak for himself. 
 
 When it was settled that Stokes should return to Opin- 
 quake, Zeb determined that he would not give up the prize 
 to Zeke without one decisive effort; and as he was rubbing 
 the cobbler's leg, he stammered, "I say Ezra, will you do 
 me a turn? 'Twon't be so much, what I ask, except that 
 I'll like you to keep mum about it, and you're a good hand 
 at keeping mum. ' ' 
 
 "I know what yer driving at, Zeb. Write yer letter and 
 I'll deliver it with my own hands." 
 
 "Well, now, I'm satsified, I can stay on and fight it out 
 with a clear mind. When Zeke marched away last summer, 
 I thought it was all up with me; and 1 can tell you that any 
 fighting that's to do about Boston will be fun compared with 
 the fighting I did while hoeing corn and mowing grass. But 
 I don't believe that Susie Eollifie is promised to Zeke Wat- 
 kins, or any one else yet, and I'm going to give her a chance 
 to refuse me plump. ' ' 
 
 ''That's the way to do it, Zeb," said the bachelor cob- 
 bler, with an emphasis that would indicate much successful 
 experience. "Asking a girl plump is like standing up in a 
 fair fight. It gives the girl a chance to bowl you over, if 
 that's her mind, so there can't be any mistake about it; and 
 it seems to me the women- folks ought to have all the chances 
 that in any way belong to them. They have got few enough 
 anyhow." 
 
 "And you think it'll end in my being bowled over?" 
 
 "How should I know, or you either, unless you make a 
 square trial ? iTou're such a strapping, fighting feller that 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 273 
 
 nothing but a cannon-ball or a woman ever will knock you 
 off your pins." 
 
 "See here, Ezra Stokes, the girl of my heart may refuse 
 me just as plump as I offer myself; and if that's her mind 
 she has a right to do it. But I don't want either you or 
 her to think I won't stand on my feet. I won't even fight 
 any more recklessly than my duty requires. I have a mother 
 to take care of, even if 1 never have a wife." 
 
 "I'll put in a few pegs right along to keep in mind what 
 you say; and I'll give you a fair show by seeing to it that 
 the girl gets your letter before Zeke can steal a march on 
 you." 
 
 "That's all I ask," said Zeb, with compressed lips. 
 "She shall choose between us. It's hard enough to write, 
 but it will be a sight easier than facing her. Not a word 
 of this to another soul, Ezra; but I'm not going to use you 
 like a mail-carrier, but a friend. After all, there are few in 
 Opinquake, I suppose, but know I'd give my eyes for her, 
 so there isn't much use of my putting on secret airs." 
 
 "I'm not a talker, and you might have sent your letter 
 by a worse messenger' n me," was the laconic reply. 
 
 Zeb had never written a love-letter, and was at a loss 
 how to begin or end it. But time pressed, and he had to 
 say what was uppermost in his mind. It ran as follows: 
 
 "I don't know how to write so as to give my words weight. I cannot 
 come home ; I will not come as long as mother and the children can get on 
 without me. And men are needed here ; men are needed. The general fairly 
 pleads with the soldiers to stay. Stokes would stay if he could. We're al- 
 most driving him home. I know you will be kind to him, and remember he 
 has few to care for him. I cannot speak for myself in person very soon, if 
 ever. Perhaps I could not if I stood before you. You laugh at me; but if 
 you knew how I love you and remember you, how I honor and almost worship 
 you in my heart, you might understand me better. Why is it strange I should 
 be afraid of you? Only God has more power over me than you. Will you be 
 my wife? I will do anything to win you that you can ask. Others will plead 
 with you in person. Will you let this letter plead for the absent?" 
 
 Zeb went to the captain's quarters and got some wax 
 with which to seal this appeal, then saw Stokes depart with 
 the feeling that his destiny was now at stake. 
 
274 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Meanwhile Zeke Watkins, with a squad of homeward- 
 bound soldiers, was trudging toward Opinquake. They 
 soon began to look into one another's faces in something 
 like dismay. But little provision was in their wallets when 
 they had started, for there was little to draw upon, and that 
 furnished grudgingly, as may well be supposed. Zeke had 
 not cared. He remembered the continuous feasting that had 
 attended his journey to camp, and supposed that he would 
 only have to present himself to the roadside farmhouses in 
 order to enjoy the fat of the land. This hospitality he pro- 
 posed to repay abundantly by camp reminiscences in which 
 it would not be difficult to insinuate that the hero of the 
 scene was present. 
 
 In contrast to these rose-hued expectations, doors were 
 slammed in their faces, and they were treated little better 
 than tramps. "I suppose the people near Boston have been 
 called on too often and imposed on, too," Zeke reasoned 
 rather ruefully. "When we once get over the Connecticut 
 border we'll begin to find ourselves at home;" and spurred 
 by hunger and cold, as well as hope, they pushed on des- 
 perately, subsisting on such coarse provisions as they could 
 obtain, sleeping in barns when it stormed, and not infre- 
 quently by a fire in the woods. At last they passed the 
 Connecticut border, and led by Zeke they urged their way 
 to a large farmhouse, at which, but a few months before, the 
 table had groaned under rustic dainties, and feather-beds 
 had luxuriously received the weary recruits bound to the 
 front. They approached the opulent farm in the dreary 
 dark of the evening, and pursued by a biting east wind 
 laden with snow. Not only the weather, but the very dogs 
 seemed to have a spite against them; and the family had to 
 rush out to call them off. 
 
 ** Weary soldiers ask for shelter," began Zeke. 
 
 *'0f course you're bound for the lines,'* said the ma- 
 tronly housewife. ' ' Come in. * * 
 
 Zeke thought they would better enter at once before 
 explaining; and truly the large kitchen, with a great fire 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 275 
 
 blazing on the hearth, seemed like heaven. The door lead- 
 ing into the family sitting-room was open, and there was 
 another fire, with the red-cheeked girls and the white-haired 
 grandsire before it, their eyes turned expectantly toward the 
 new-comers. Instead of hearty welcome, there was a ques- 
 tioning look on every face, even on that of the kitchen-maid. 
 Zeke's four companions had a sort of hang-dog look — for 
 they had been cowed by the treatment received along the 
 road; but he tried to bear himself confidently, and began 
 with an insinuating smile, "Perhaps I should hardly expect 
 you to remember me. I passed this way last summer — " 
 
 ** Passed this way last summer?" repeated the matron, 
 her face growing stern. *'We who cannot fight are ready 
 and glad to share all we have with those who fight for us. 
 Since you carry arms we might very justly think you are 
 hastening forward to use them." 
 
 ** These are our own arms; we furnished them ourselves," 
 Zeke hastened to say. 
 
 *'0h, indeed," replied the matron, coldly; **I supposed 
 that not only the weapons, but the ones who carry them, 
 belonged to the country. I hope you are not deserting 
 from the army." 
 
 ''I assure you we are not. Our terms of enlistment have 
 expired.'* 
 
 ''And your country's need was over at the same moment ? 
 Are you hastening home at this season to plow and sow and 
 reap?" 
 
 ^'Well, madam, after being away so long we felt like 
 having a little comfort and seeing the folks. We stayed 
 a long as we agreed. W hen spring opens, or before, if 
 need be — " 
 
 *' Pardon me, sir; the need is now. The country is not 
 to be saved by men who make bargains like day-laborers, 
 and who quit when the hour is up, but by soldiers who give 
 themselves to their country as they would to their wives and 
 sweethearts. My husband and sons are in the army you have 
 deserted. General Washington has written to our governor 
 
276 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 asking whether an example should not be made of the men 
 who have deserted the cause of their country at this critical 
 time when the enemy are receiving re-enforcements. We 
 are told that Connecticut men have brought disgrace on 
 our colony and have imperilled the whole army. You feel 
 like taking comfort and seeing the folks. The folks do not 
 feel like seeing you. My husband and the brave men in 
 the lines are in all the more danger because of your deser- 
 tion, for a soldier's time never expires when the enemy is 
 growing stronger and threatening every home in the land. 
 If all followed your example, the British would soon be 
 upon your heels, taking from us our honor and our all. 
 We are not ignorant of the critical condition of our army; 
 and I can tell you, sir, that if many more of our men come 
 home, the women will take their places." 
 
 Zeke's companions succumbed to the stern arraignment, 
 and after a brief whispered consultation one spoke for the 
 rest. *'Madam," he said, *'you put it in a way that we 
 hadn^t realized before. We'll right-about-face and march 
 back in the morning, for we feel that we'd rather face all 
 the British in Boston than any more Connecticut women.'* 
 
 *'Then, sirs, you shall have supper and shelter and wel- 
 come," was the prompt reply. 
 
 Zeke assumed an air of importance as he said: "There 
 are reasons why I must be at home for a time, but I not only 
 expect to return, but also to take many back with me." 
 
 "I trust your deeds may prove as large as your words," 
 was the chilly reply; and then he was made to feel that be 
 was barely tolerated. Some hints from his old associates 
 added to the disfavor which the family took but little pains 
 to conceal. There was a large vein of selfish calculation in 
 Zeke's nature, and he was not to be swept away by any 
 impulses. He believed he could have a prolonged visit 
 home, yet manage so admirably that when he returned he 
 would be followed by a squad of recruits, and chief of all 
 he would be the triumphant suitor of Susie EoUiffe. Her 
 manner in parting had satisfied him that he had made so 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 277 
 
 deep an impression that it would be folly not to follow it 
 up. He trudged the remainder of the journey alone, and 
 secured tolerable treatment by assuring the people that he 
 was returning for recruits for the army. He reached home 
 in the afternoon of Christmas; and although the day was 
 almost completely ignored in the Puritan household, yet 
 Mrs. Watkins forgot country, Popery, and all, in her 
 mother love, and Zeke supped on the finest turkey of the 
 flock. Old Mr. Watkins, it is true, looked rather grim, but 
 the reception had been reassuring in the main; and Zeke 
 had resolved on a line of tactics which would make him, as 
 he believed, the military hero of the town. After he had 
 satisfied an appetite which had been growing ever since 
 he left camp, he started to call on Susie in all the bravery 
 of his best attire, filled with sanguine expectations inspired 
 by memories of the past and recent potations of cider. 
 
 Meanwhile Susie had received a guest earlier in the day. 
 The stage had stopped at the gate where she had stood in 
 the September sunshine and waved her bewildered farewell 
 to Zeb. There was no bewilderment or surprise now at her 
 strange and unwonted sensations. She had learned why she 
 had stood looking after him dazed and spellbound. Under 
 the magic of her own light irony she had seen her drooping 
 rustic lover transformed into the ideal man who could face 
 anything except her unkindness. She had guessed the 
 deep secret of his timidity. It was a kind of fear of which 
 she had not dreamed, and which touched her innermost 
 soul. 
 
 When the stage stopped at the gate, and she saw the 
 driver helping out Ezra Stokes, a swift presentiment made 
 her sure that she would hear from one soldier who was 
 more to her than all the generals. She was soon down the 
 walk, the wind sporting in her light-gold hair, supporting 
 the cobbler on the other side. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Susie!" he said, "I am about worn out, sole 
 and upper. It breaks my heart, when men are so sorely 
 needed, to be thrown aside like an old shoe.** 
 
278 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 The girl soothed and comforted him, ensconced him by 
 the fireside, banishing the chill from his heart, while Mrs. 
 Eolliffe warmed his blood by a strong, hot drink. Then the 
 mother hastened away to get dinner, while Susie sat down 
 near, nervously twisting and untwisting her fingers, with 
 questions on her lips which she dared not utter, but which 
 brought blushes to her cheeks. Stokes looked at her and 
 sighed over his lost youth, yet smiled as he thought: "Guess 
 I'll get even with that Zeb Jarvis to-day.'* Then he asked, 
 "Isn't there any one you would like to hear about in camp?" 
 
 She blushed deeper still, and named every one who had 
 gone from Opinquake except Zeb. At last she said a little 
 ironically: "I suppose Ezekiel Watkins is almost thinking 
 about being a general about this time ?' ' 
 
 "Hasn't he been here telling you what he is thinking 
 about?" 
 
 "Been here! Do you mean to say he has come home ?" 
 
 "He surely started for home. All the generals and a 
 yoke of oxen couldn't 'a' kept him in camp, he was so 
 homesick — lovesick too, I guess. Powerful compliment to 
 you. Miss Susie,'* added the politic cobbler, feeling his 
 way, "that you could draw a man straight from his duty 
 like one of these 'ere stump-extractors." 
 
 "No compliment to me at all!" cried the girl, indig- 
 nantly. "He little understands me who seeks my favor by 
 coming home at a time like this. The Connecticut women 
 are up in arms at the way our men are coming home. No 
 offence to you, Mr. Stokes. You're sick, and should come; 
 but I'd like to go myself to show some of the strong young 
 fellows what we think of them." 
 
 "Coming home was worse than rheumatism to me, and 
 I'm going back soon 's I kin walk without a cane. Wouldn't 
 'a' come as 'tis, if that Zeb Jarvis hadn't jes' packed me off. 
 By Jocks ! I thought you and he was acquainted, but you 
 don't seem to ask arter him." 
 
 "I felt sure he would try — I heard he was doing his 
 duty," she replied with averted face. 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 279 
 
 "Zeke Watkins says he's no soldier at all — nothing but 
 £1 dirt- digger." 
 
 For a moment, as the cobbler had hoped, Susie forgot 
 her blushes and secret in her indignation. "Zeke Watkins 
 indeed!" she exclaimed. ''He'd better not tell me any such 
 story. 1 don't believe there's a braver, truer man in the — 
 Well," she added in sudden confusion, "he hasn't run away 
 and left others to dig their way into Boston, if that's the 
 best way of getting there." 
 
 '*Ah, I'm going to get even with him yet," chuckled 
 Stokes to himself. "Digging is only the first step. Miss 
 Susie. When Old Put gets good and ready, you'll hear the 
 thunder of the guns a' most in Opinquake." 
 
 "Well, Mr. Stokes," stammered Susie, resolving des- 
 perately on a short cut to the knowledge she craved, 
 "you've seen Mr. Jarvis a-soldiering. What do you think 
 about it?" 
 
 "Well, now, that Zeb Jarvis is the sneakin'ist fel- 
 low—" 
 
 "What?" cried the girl, her face aflame. 
 
 "Wait till I get in a few more pegs," continued Stokes, 
 coolly. "The other night he sneaked right into the enemy's 
 lines and carried off a British officer as a hawk takes a 
 chicken. The Britisher fired his pistol right under Zeb's 
 nose; but, law I he didn't mind that any more'n a 'sketer- 
 bite. I call that soldiering, don't you ? Anyhow, Old Put 
 thought it was, and sent for him 'fore daylight, and made 
 a sergeant of him. If I had as good a chance of gettin' rid 
 of the rheumatiz as he has of bein' captain in six months, 
 I'd thank the Lord." 
 
 Susie sat up very straight, and tried to look severely 
 judicial; but her lip was quivering and her whole plump 
 little form trembling with excitement and emotion. Sud- 
 denly she dropped her face in her hands and cried in a gust 
 of tears and laughter: "He's just like grandfather; he'd 
 face anything!" 
 
 "Anything in the 'tarnal uinverse, 1 guess, 'cept you, 
 
280 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Miss Susie. I seed a cannon-ball smash a shovel in his 
 hands, and he got another, and went on with his work cool 
 as a cucumber. Then I seed him writin' a letter to you, 
 and his hand trembled — " 
 
 "A letter to me!" cried the girl, springing up. 
 
 ** Yes; 'ere it is. I was kind of pegging around till I got 
 to that; and you know — " 
 
 But Susie was reading, her hands trembling so she could 
 scarcely hold the paper. ''It's about you," she faltered, 
 making one more desperate effort at self-preservation. 
 *'He says you'd stay if you could; that they almost drove 
 you home. And he asks that I be kind to you, because 
 there are not many to care for you— and-— and — " 
 
 *'0h, Lord! never can get even with that Zeb Jar vis," 
 groaned Ezra. "But you needn't tell me that's all the 
 letter's about." 
 
 Her eyes were full of tears, yet not so full but that she 
 saw the plain, closing words in all their significance. 
 Swiftly the letter went to her lips, then was thrust into her 
 bosom, and she seized the cobbler's hand, exclaiming: 
 *'Yes, I will! I will! You shall stay with us, and be 
 one of us!" and in her excitement she put her left hand 
 caressingly on his shoulder. 
 
 '' Susan !^^ exclaimed Mr. Eolliife, who entered at that 
 moment, and looked aghast at the scene. 
 
 "Yes, I willP'' exclaimed Susie, too wrought up now for 
 restraint. 
 
 "Will what?" gasped the mother. 
 
 "Be Zebulon Jar vis's wife. He's asked me plump and 
 square like a soldier; and I'll answer as grandma did, and 
 like grandma I'll face anything for his sake." 
 
 " Well^ this is suddent!" exclaimed Mrs. Kolliffe, drop- 
 ping into a chair. "Susan, do you think it is becoming and 
 seemly for a young woman — ' ' 
 
 "Oh, mother dear, there's no use of your trying to make 
 a prim Puritan maiden of me. Zeb doesn't fight like a 
 deacon, and I can't love like one. Ha! ha! ha! to think 
 
SUSIE ROLLIFFE'S CHRISTMAS 281 
 
 that great soldier is afraid of little me, and nothing else! 
 It's too funny and heavenly — '* 
 
 "Susan, I am dumfounded at your behavior!" 
 
 At this moment Mr. Eollilfe came in from the wood-lot, 
 and he was dazed by the wonderful news also. In his eager- 
 ness to get even with Zeb, the cobbler enlarged and expa- 
 tiated till he was hoarse. When he saw that the parents 
 were almost as proud as the daughter over their prospective 
 son-in-law, he relapsed into his old taciturnity, declaring he 
 had talked enough for a month. 
 
 Susie, the only child, who apparently had inherited all 
 the fire and spirit of her fighting ancestors, darted out, and 
 soon returned with her rosebud of a face enveloped in a 
 great calyx of a woollen hood. 
 
 *' Where are you going ?" exclaimed her parents. 
 
 "You've had the news. I guess Mother Jar vis has the 
 next right." And she was off over the hills with almost 
 the lightness and swiftness of a snowbird. 
 
 In due time Zeke appeared, and smiled encouragingly 
 on Mrs. Eolliffe, who sat knitting by the kitchen fire. The 
 matron did not rise, and gave him but a cool salutation. 
 He discussed the coldness of the weather awkwardly for 
 a few moments, and then ventured: "Is Miss Susan at 
 home?" 
 
 "No, sir," replied Mrs. Eolliffe; "she's gone to make a 
 visit to her mother-in-law that is to be, the Widow Jarvis. 
 Ezra Stokes is sittin' in the next room, sent home sick. 
 Perhaps you'd like to talk over camp-life with him." 
 
 Not even the cider now sustained Zeke. He looked as 
 if a cannon-ball had wrecked all his hopes and plans instead 
 of a shovel. "Good- evening, Mrs. Eolliffe," he stammered; 
 "I guess ni— I'll— go home." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Jarvis had a spiritual conflict that day which 
 she never forgot. Susie's face had flashed at the window 
 near which she had sat spinning, and sighing perhaps that 
 Nature had not provided feathers or fur for a brood like 
 hers; then the girl's arms were about her neck, the news 
 
282 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 was stammered out — for the letter could never be shown to 
 any one — in a way that tore primness to tatters. The widow 
 tried to act as if it were a dispensation of Providence which 
 should be received in solemn gratitude; but before she knew 
 it she was laughing and crying, kissing her sweet- faced 
 daughter, or telling how good and brave Zeb had been 
 when his heart was almost breaking. 
 
 Compunction had already seized upon the widow. 
 *' Susan," she began, "I fear we are not mortifyin' the 
 flesh as we ought — " 
 
 "No mortifying just yet, if you please," cried Susie. 
 *'The most important thing of all is yet to be done. Zeb 
 hasn't heard the news; just think of it! You must write 
 and tell him that I'll help you spin the children's clothes 
 and work the farm; that we'll face everything in Opinquake 
 as long as Old Put needs men. Where is the ink-horn? 
 I'll sharpen a pen for you and one for me, and such news 
 as he'll get! Wish I could tell him, though, and see the 
 great fellow tremble once more. Afraid of me ! Ha ! ha ! 
 ha! that's the funniest thing — Why, Mother Jarvis, this 
 is Christmas Day!" 
 
 "So it is," said the widow, in an awed tone. "Susie, 
 my heart misgives me that all this should have happened 
 on a day of which Popery has made so much." 
 
 "No, no," cried the girl. "Thank God it is Christmas! 
 and hereafter I shall keep Christmas as long as love is love 
 and God is good." 
 
JEFF'S TREASURE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ITS DISCOVERY 
 
 JEFF, the hero of my tale, was as truly a part of the 
 Southern Confederacy as the greater Jefi at Eich- 
 mond. Indeed, were it not for the humbler Jeff and 
 the class he represented, the other Jeff would never have 
 attained his eminence. 
 
 Jeff's prospects were as dark as himself. He owned 
 nothing, not even himself, yet his dream of riches is the 
 motive of my tale. Regarded as a chattel, for whom a bill 
 of sale would have been made as readily as for a bullock, 
 he proved himself a man and brother by a prompt exhibi- 
 tion of traits too common to human nature when chance 
 and some heroism on his part gave into his hands the 
 semblance of a fortune. 
 
 Jeff was a native Virginian and belonged to an F. F. V. 
 in a certain practical, legel sense which thus far had not 
 greatly disturbed his equanimity. His solid physique and 
 full shining face showed that slavery had brought no hor- 
 rors into his experience. He had indulged, it is true, in 
 vague yearnings for freedom, but these had been checked 
 by heariiig that liberty meant ** working for Yankees*' — ap- 
 palling news to an indolent soul. He was house-servant 
 and man- of -all- work in a family whose means had always 
 been limited, and whose men were in the Confederate ariny. 
 His '*niissus" evinced a sort of weary content when he had 
 been scolded or threatened into the completion of his tasks 
 by nightfall. He then gave her and her daughters some 
 
 (283) 
 
284 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 compensation for their trials with him by producing his 
 fiddle and making the warm summer evening resonant with 
 a kind of music which the negro only can evoke. Jeff was 
 an artist, and had a complacent consciousness of the fact. 
 He was a living instance of the truth that artists are born, 
 not made. No knowledge of this gifted class had ever sug- 
 gested kinship; he did not even know what the word meant, 
 but when his cheek rested lovingly against his violin he felt 
 that he was made of different clay from other "niggahs." 
 During the day he indulged in moods by the divine right 
 and impulse of genius, imitating his gifted brothers uncon- 
 sciously. In waiting on the table, washing dishes, and 
 hoeing the garden, he was as great a laggard as Pegasus 
 would have been if compelled to the labors of a cart-horse; 
 but when night came, and uncongenial toil was over, his 
 soul expanded. His corrugated brow unwrinkled itself; 
 his great black fingers flew back and forth over the strings 
 as if driven by electricity; and electric ia efi'ect were the 
 sounds produced by his swiftly-glancing bow. 
 
 While the spirit of music so filled his heart that he could 
 play to the moon and silent stars, an audience inspired him 
 with tenfold power, especially if the floor was cleared or a 
 smooth sward selected for a dance. Barely did he play long 
 before all who could trip a measure were on their feet, while 
 even the superannuated nodded and kept time, sighing that 
 they were old. His services naturally came into great de- 
 mand, and he was catholic in granting them — his mistress 
 in good-natured tolerance acceding to requests which prom- 
 ised many forgetful hours at a time when the land was shad- 
 owed by war. So it happened that Jeff was often at the 
 more pretending residences of the neighborhood, sometimes 
 fiddling in the detached kitchen of a Southern mansion to 
 the shuffle of heavy feet, again in the lighted parlor, espe- 
 cially when Confederate troops were quartered near. It 
 was then that his strains took on their most inspiring and 
 elevated character. He gave wings to the dark- eyed South- 
 ern girls; their feet scarcely touched the floor as they whirled 
 
JEFF'S TREASURE 285 
 
 with their cavaliers in gray, or threaded the mazes of the 
 cotillon then and there in vogue. 
 
 Nor did he disdain an invitation to a crossroads tavern, 
 frequented by poor whites and enlisted men, or when the 
 nights were warm, to a moonlit sward, on which he would 
 invite his audience to a reel which left all breathless. Wbile 
 there was a rollicking element in the strains of his fiddle 
 which a deacon could not resist, he, with the intuition of 
 genius, adapted himself to the class before him. In the 
 parlor, he called off the figures of a quadrille with a "by- 
 yer-leave-sah" air, selecting, as a rule, the highest class of 
 music that had blessed his ears, for he was ear- taught only. 
 He would hold a half- washed dish suspended minutes at a 
 time while listening to one "ob de young missys at de 
 pianny. Dat's de way I'se pick up my most scrumptious 
 pieces. Dey oyant play nuffin in de daytime dat I cyant 
 'prove on in de ebenin';" and his vanity did not lead him 
 much astray. But when with those of his own color, or 
 with the humbler classes, he gave them the musical ver- 
 nacular of the region — rude traditional quicksteps and 
 songs, strung together with such variations of his own as 
 made him the envy and despair of all other fiddlers in the 
 vicinity. Indeed, he could rarely get away from a great 
 house without a sample of his powers in this direction, and 
 then blending with the rhythmical cadence of feet, the rustle 
 of garments, would be evoked ripples of mirth and bursts of 
 laughter that were echoed back from the dim pine-groves 
 without. Finally, when with his great foot beating time on 
 the floor and every muscle of his body in motion, he ended 
 with an original arrangement of *' Dixie," the eyes of the 
 gentlest maiden would flash as she joined the chorus of the 
 men in gray, who were scarcely less excited for the moment 
 than they would have been in a headlong cavalry charge. 
 
 These were moments of glory for Jeff. In fact, on all 
 similar occasions he had a consciousness of his power; he 
 made the slave forget his bondage, the poor whites their 
 poverty, maidens the absence of their fathers, brothers. 
 
286 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 and lovers, and the soldier the chances against his re- 
 turn. 
 
 At last there came a summer day when other music than 
 that of Jeff's fiddle resounded through that region. Two 
 armies met and grappled through the long sultry hours. 
 Every moment death wounds were given and received, 
 for thick as insects in woods, grove, and thicket, bullets 
 whizzed on their fatal mission; while from every eminence 
 the demoniacal shells shrieked in exultation over the havoc 
 they wrought. 
 
 Jeff's home was on the edge of the battlefield, and as he 
 trembled in the darkest corner of the cellar, he thought, 
 "Dis yer beats all de thunder-gusts I eber heered crack, run 
 togedder in one big hurricane." 
 
 With the night came silence, except as it was broken by 
 the groans and cries of wounded men; and later the contend- 
 ing forces departed, having accorded to the fallen such poor 
 burial as was given them when life was cheap and death the 
 chief harvester in Virginia. 
 
 For a day or two Jeff's conscience was active, and the 
 memory of the resolutions inspired by the din of war gave 
 to his thin visage a preternatural seriousness. Dishes were 
 washed in such brief time and so thoroughly, and such 
 havoc made in the garden- weeds that the world might make 
 a note of Jeff's idea of reform (to its advantage). In the 
 evening his fiddle wailed out psalm-tunes to the entire ex- 
 clusion of its former carnal strains. 
 
 It must be admitted, however, that Jeff's grace was like 
 the early dew. On the third evening, "Ole Dan Tucker" 
 slipped in among the hymns, and these were played in a 
 time scarcely befitting their character. Then came a bit of 
 news that awakened a wholly different train of thought and 
 desire. A colored boy, more venturous than himself, was 
 said to have picked up some "Linkum" money on the bat- 
 tlefield. This information shed on the wild wooded tract 
 where the war trumpet had raged the most fiercely a light 
 more golden than that of the moon then at its full; and Jeff 
 
JEFF'S TREASURE 287 
 
 resolved that with the coming night he also would explore a 
 region which, nevertheless, had nameless terrors for him. 
 
 "Ef dere's spooks anywhere dey's dereaway," he mut- 
 tered over his hoe; "but den, ki! dey woan 'fere wid dis 
 yer niggah. What hab I'se got ter do wid de wah and de 
 fighten an de jabbin' ? De spooks cyant lay nuffin ter me 
 eben ef ole marse an' de res' am a-fighten ter keep dere 
 slabes, as folks say. ' ' 
 
 Having thus satisfied himself that the manes of the dead 
 thousands could have no controversy with him, Jeff mus- 
 tered sufficient resolution to visit the field that night. He 
 took no one into his confidence, fearing if he discovered 
 treasures of any kind he could not be left in undisturbed 
 possession. During the day the rudiments of imagination 
 which made him a musician had been conjuring up the pos- 
 sible results of his expedition. 
 
 "De ting fer dis cullud pusson ter do is ter p'ramberlate 
 ter de Linkum lines. Ki! I doan wan' what drap outen our 
 sogers' pockets. I kin git Virginny-leaf widouten runnin* 
 'mong de spooks arter it. De place fer a big fine is whar de 
 brush is tick and de Linkum men crawl away so dey woan 
 be tromp on. Who knows but I kin fine a place whar a 
 ginral hide hisself ? Ob cose if he hab a lot of gole he'd 
 stick it in de bush or kiver it right smart, so dat oders 
 moutn't get it foh he could helf hisself." 
 
 Jeff thought he had reasoned himself into such a valor- 
 ous state that he could walk across the deserted battlefield 
 with nonchalance; but as he entered on a deeply shadowed 
 dirt-road long since disused to any extent, he found strange 
 creeping sensations running up and down his back. The 
 moonlight filtered through the leaves with fantastic effects. 
 A young silver poplar looked ghastly in the distance; and 
 now and then a tree cut off by a shot looked almost human 
 in its mutilation. 
 
 He had not gone very far before he saw what appeared 
 to be the body of a man lying across the road. With a 
 sudden chill of blood he stopped and stared at the object. 
 
288 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Gradually it resolved itself into a low mound in the dim 
 light. Approaching cautiously, he discovered with a dull 
 sense of horror that a soldier had been buried where he had 
 fallen, but covered so slightly that the tumulus scarcely more 
 than outlined his form. 
 
 ''Ob cose I knowed I'd hab ter see dese tings foh I 
 started. What I such a fool fer? De P'eds nor de Yanks 
 ain' a-gwine ter bodder me if I ain' steppin' on 'em or ober 
 'em." And he went scrupulously on the other side of the 
 road. 
 
 By and by, however, he came to a part of the wood-lane 
 where men had fallen by the score, and bodies had been cov- 
 ered in twos, threes, and dozens. His head felt as if his very 
 wool were straightening itself out, as he wound here and 
 there and zigzagged in all directions lest he should step on 
 or over a grave. A breeze stirred the forest as if all the 
 thousands buried in its shades had heaved a long deep sigh. 
 With chattering teeth Jeff stopped to listen, then, reassured, 
 continued to pick his tortuous way. Suddenly there was an 
 ominous rustling in a thicket just behind. He broke into a 
 headlong flight across and over everything, when the startled 
 grunt of a hog revealed the prosaic nature of this spook. 
 Scarcely any other sound could have been more reassuring. 
 The animal suggested bacon and hominy and hoe-cake, every- 
 thing except the ghostly. He berated himself angrily: 
 
 "Ki! you niggah! dat ar hog got mo' co'age dan you. 
 He know he hab nuffin mo' ter do wid de spooks dan you 
 hab. De run ain' far, and when I gits ober dat de spooks 
 on de side dis way cyant cross arter me;" and he hastened 
 toward the spot where he supposed the Federals had been 
 massed the most heavily, crossing an open field and splash- 
 ing through a shallow place in the river, that their ghost- 
 ships might be reminded of running water. 
 
 On the further slope were the same sad evidences of poor 
 mortality, graves here and there and often all too shallow, 
 broken muskets, bullet- perforated canteens and torn knap- 
 sacks—the debris of a pitched battle. Many trees and shrubs 
 
JEFF*S TREASURE 289 
 
 were so lacerated that their foliage hung limp and vnlting, 
 while boughs with shrivelled leaves strewed the ground. 
 Nature's wounds indicated that men had fought here and 
 been mutilated as ruthlessly. 
 
 For a time nothing of value rewarded Jeff's search, and 
 he began to succumb to the grewsome associations of the 
 place. At last he resolved to examine one more thicket 
 that bordered an old rail- fence, and then make a long de- 
 tour rather than go back by the graveyard road over which 
 he had come. Pushing the bushes aside, he peered among 
 their shadows for some moments, and then uttered an ex- 
 clamation of surprise and terror as he bounded backward. 
 There was no mistake this time; he had seen the figure of a 
 man with a ray of moonlight filtering through the leaves on 
 a ghastly bullet-hole in his temple. He sat with his back 
 against the fence, and had not moved after receiving the 
 shock. At his feet, dropped evidently from his nerveless 
 hand, lay a metal box. All had flashed almost instantane- 
 ously on Jeff's vision. 
 
 For some moments he was in doubt whether to take to 
 his heels homeward or reconnoitre again. The soldier sat 
 in such a lifelike attitude that while Jeff knew the man 
 must be dead, taking the box seemed like robbing the liv- 
 ing. Yes, worse than that, for, to the superstitious 
 negro, the dead soldier appeared to be watching his 
 treasure. 
 
 Jeff's cupidity slowly mastered his fears. Cautiously 
 approaching the figure, he again pushed aside the screening 
 boughs, and with chattering teeth and trembling limbs, 
 looked upon the silent guardian of the treasure, half ex- 
 pecting the dead man to raise his head, and warn him off 
 Vith a threatening gesture. Since the figure remained mo- 
 tionless, Jeff made a headlong plunge, clutched the box, 
 then ran half a mile without thinking to look back. 
 
 Not for his life would he cross the battlefield again ; so 
 it was late when by wide circuit he approached the dwelling 
 of his mistress. His panic had gradually subsided, and as 
 
 13--R0E— XI 
 
290 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 he noted familiar objects, he felt that he was beyond the 
 proper range of the unjust spirits of the dead. 
 
 The soldier he had left sitting against the fence troubled 
 him, it is true; and he was not quite sure that he was 
 through with one so palpably robbed. That he had not 
 been followed appeared certain; that the question of future 
 ownership of the treasure could be settled was a matter of 
 superstitious belief. There was only one way — he must 
 hide the box in a secret nook, and if it remained undis- 
 turbed for a reasonable length of time, he might hope for 
 its undisturbed enjoyment. Accordingly he stole into a 
 dense copse and buried his booty at the foot of a persim- 
 mon-tree, then gained his humble quarter and slept so late 
 and soundly that he had to be dragged almost without the 
 door the next morning before he shook off his lethargy. 
 
JEFF'S TREASURE 291 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ITS INFLUENCE 
 
 WITH the exception of aptitude which enabled Jeff 
 to catch and fix a tune in his mind with a fair 
 degree of correctness, his mental processes were 
 slow. Moreover, whether he should ever have any trouble 
 with *' spooks" or not, one thing was true of him, as of 
 many others in all stations of life, he was haunted by the 
 ghost of a conscience. This uneasy spirit suggested to him 
 with annoying iteration that his proceedings the night be- 
 fore had been of very unusual and doubtful character. 
 When at last fully awake, he sought to appease the accus- 
 ing voice by unwonted diligence in all his tasks, until the 
 fat cook, a devout Baptist, took more than one occasion to 
 say, '* You'se in a promisin' frame, Jeff. Ef I'se ony shoah 
 dat yer hole out long anuff ter get 'mersed, I'd hab hopes 
 on yer, but, law! yer'U be a-fiddlin' de debil's tunes 'fo' 
 de week is out. I'se af eared dat dere must be an awful 
 prov'dence, like a battle or harricane, onst a week, ter keep 
 yer ser'ous;" and the old woman sniffed down at him with 
 ill-concealed disdain from her superior spiritual height. 
 
 Jeff was as serious as could have been wished all that 
 day, for there was much on his mind. Perplexing questions 
 tinged with supernatural terrors tormented him. Passing 
 over those having a moral point, the most urgent one was, 
 *'S'pose dat ar soger miss him box an' come arter it ter- 
 night. Ki! If I go ter see, I mout run right on ter de 
 spook. I'se a-gwine ter gib 'im his chance, an' den take 
 mine." So that evening Jeff fortified himself and increased 
 
292 TAKEN ALIVE. AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 the cook's hope by a succession of psalm-tunes in which 
 there was no lapse toward the "debil's" music. 
 
 Next morning, after a long sleep, Jeff's nerves were 
 stronger, and he began to take a high hand with conscience. 
 
 "Dat ar soger has hab his chance, " he reasoned. "Ef 
 he want de box he mus' 'a' com arter it las' night. I'se 
 done bin fa'r wid him, an' now ter-night, ef dat ar box ain' 
 'sturbed, I'se a-gwine ter see de 'scription an' heft on it. 
 Toder night I was so 'fuscated dat 1 couldn't know nuffin 
 liitraight. ' ' 
 
 When all were sleeping, he stole to the persimmon- tree 
 und was elated to find his treasure where he had slightly 
 buried it. The little box seemed heavy, and was wholly 
 unlike anything he ever seen before. 
 
 "Ob cose it's got money m it," Jeff reasoned. '*Nuf!in 
 else 'ud be done up to tight and strong. I'se woan open it 
 jes' yet, feared de missus or de colored boys 'spec' some- 
 ting. Ki! I isn't a-gwine ter be tied up, an' hab dat box 
 whip out in me. I'll tink how I kin hide an' spen' de 
 money kine of slowcution like." With this he restored 
 the prize to its shallow excavation and covered it with 
 leaves that no trace of fresh earth might be visible. 
 
 Jeff's deportment now began to evince a new evolution 
 in mental and moral process. The influence of riches was 
 quite as marked upon him as upon so many of his white 
 brothers and sisters, proving their essential kinship. To- 
 day he began to sniff disdainfully at his menial tasks; and 
 in the evening *'01e Dan Tucker" resounded from his fiddle 
 with a rollicking abandon over which the cook groaned in 
 despair, "Dat ar niggah's 'ligion drop off ob 'im like a yal- 
 ler pig from de bush. 'Ligion dat's skeert inter us hain't 
 no 'count anyhow. ' ' 
 
 During the next few days it was evident that Jeff was 
 falling from grace rapidly. Never had he been so slow 
 and careless in his tasks. More than once the thought 
 crossed his mind that he had better take his box and "cut 
 stick" for Washington, where he believed that wealth and 
 
JEFF'S TREASURE 298 
 
 his fiddle would give him prominence over his race. For 
 prudential and other reasons he was in no haste to opem 
 the box, preferring rather to gloat over it and to think 
 how he could spend the money to the greatest advantage. 
 He had been paying his court to a girl as black as himself 
 on a neighboring plantation; but he now regarded that affair 
 as preposterous. 
 
 ''She ain' good nuff fer me no mo\" he reasoned. "I'se 
 a-gwine ter shine up ter dat yeller Suky dat's been a-holdin' 
 her head so high ober ter Marse Perkins's. I'se invited tea: 
 play ober dar ter-night, an' I'll make dat gal open her eye. 
 Ki! she links no culled gemmen in dese parts fit ter hole a 
 cannle when she braid her long straight ha'r, but when she 
 see de ribbin I kin git her ter tie dat ha'r up wid, an' de 
 earrings I kin put in her ears, she larf on toder side ob her 
 face. 'Fo' I go I'se a-gwine ter buy dat ar gole ring ob 
 Sam Milkins down at de tavern. S'pose it does take all I'se 
 been sabin' up, I'se needn't sabe any mo'. Dat ar box got 
 nuff in it ter keep me like a lawd de rest ob my life. I'd 
 open it ter-night if I wasn't goin' ter Marse Perkins's." 
 
 Jeff carried out his high-handed measures and appeared 
 that evening at "Marse Perkins's" with a ring of portentous 
 size squeezed on the little finger of his left hand. It had 
 something of the color of gold, and that is the best that can 
 be said of it; but it had left its purchaser penniless. This 
 fact sat lightly on Jeff's mind, however, as he remembered 
 the box at the foot of the persimmon-tree; and he stalked 
 into the detached kitchen, where a dusky assemblage were 
 to indulge in a shuiiie, with the air of one who intends that 
 his superiority shall be recognized at once. 
 
 "Law sakes, Jeff!" said Mandy, his hitherto ebon flame, 
 "yer comes in like a turkey gobbler. Doesn't yer know 
 me?" 
 
 "Sartin I know yer, Mandy. You'se a good gal m 
 you'se way, but, law! you'se had yer spell. A culled 
 gemmen kin change his min' when he sees dat de 'finity's 
 done gone." 
 
294 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "Look here, Jeff Wobbles, does yer mean ter give me 
 desack?" 
 
 "I mean ter gib yer good-ebenin', Miss Mandy Munson. 
 Yer kyant 'spec' a gemmen to be degaged in de music an' a 
 gal at de same time," replied Jeff, with oppressive gravity. 
 
 "Mister Johnsing, I'se tank yer fo' yer arm," said Mandy 
 to a man near, with responsive dignity. "Yer wait on me 
 here, an' yer kin wait on me home. I'se 'shamed on my- 
 sef dat I took up wid a lout dat kin do nuffin but fiddle; 
 but I was kine ob sorry fer him, he sich a fool." 
 
 "Go 'long," remarked Jeff, smilmg mysteriously. "Ef 
 yer knowed, yer 'ud be wringin' yer ban's wuss dan yer did 
 at de las' 'tracted meetin'. Ah, Miss Suky, dat you?" and 
 Jeff for the first time doffed his hat. 
 
 "Wat's in de win', Jeff, dat yer so scrumptious an 
 bumptious like dis ebenin' ?" Suky asked a trifle scornfully 
 
 "Wen de 'freshments parse 'roun', I'se 'steem it a ob 
 lergation ter me ef yer' 11 let me bring yer de cake an' cider 
 I'se sumpin fer yer. Gemmen an' ladies, took yer places,' 
 he added in a stentorian voice; "I ax yer 'sideration fer bein 
 late, cose I had 'portant business; now, 
 
 "Bow dar, scrape dar; 
 
 Doan hang about de doah. 
 Shine up ter de pretty gals, 
 An,' lead 'em on de floah" — 
 
 his fiddle seconding his exhortation with such inciting 
 strains that soon there was not a foot but was keeping 
 time. 
 
 Suky observed that the musician had eyes for her only, 
 and that toward all others he maintained his depressing 
 superiority. In vain did Mandy lavish tokens of favor on 
 "Mister Johnsing." Jeff did not iose his sudden and un- 
 expected indifference; while the great ring glistening on 
 his finger added to the mystery. There were many whis- 
 pered surmises; but gradually the conjecture that he had 
 "foun' a heap ob Linkum money" was regarded as the best 
 explanation of the marked change in his bearing. 
 
JEFF'S TREASURE 295 
 
 Curiosity soon became more potent than Jeff's fiddle, 
 and the " 'freshments" were hurried up. So far from re- 
 senting this, Jeff put his violin under his arm and stalked 
 across the improvised ball-room to Miss Suky, oblivious of 
 the fact that she had a suitor on either side. 
 
 "Gemmen," he remarked with condescension, "dis lady 
 am degaged ter me durin' de * 'freshments period,' " and 
 he held out his arm in such a way that the massive ring 
 glittered almost under Suky's nose. The magnet drew. 
 His arm was taken in spite of the protests of the enamored 
 swains. 
 
 "Permit me de suggestation, " continued Jeff, "dat ter a 
 lady ob yer 'finement, dis place am not fit ter breve in. 
 Wha's mo', I doan 'cline ter hab dese yer common niggahs 
 a-whisperin' an' a-pintin' an' a-'jecturin' about us. Lemme 
 yet yer a seat under de lite ob de risin' moon. De dusk '11 
 obscuate yer loveleness so I'se dar' tell all de news." 
 
 Suky, mystified and expectant, but complacent over 
 another conquest, made no objections to these whispered 
 *'suggestations," and was led to a seat under the shadow 
 of a tree. A chorus of not very flattering remarks broke 
 out, ceasing as suddenly when Jeff returned for a portion 
 of the cake and cider. 
 
 ''Mister Wobbles, yer's prettin' on high de airs ter- 
 night," Suky remarked, with an interrogation point in her 
 voice. 
 
 "Here's ter de health ob Mrs. Wobbles," he answered, 
 lifting the cider to his lips. 
 
 "I'se no 'jectionfi ter dat. Who is she ter be?" replied 
 Suky, very innocently. 
 
 "It's not my 'tention ter go furder and far' wuss. Dis 
 am a case wha de presen' compauy am not 'cepted." 
 
 "No, not axcepted jes' yet, Mr. Wobbles, if yer'se 'dress- 
 in' yer remarks ter me. Yer is goin' on jes' a little too far." 
 
 "P'raps a little far; but yer' 11 soon catch up wid me. 
 Yer'se a lady dat got a min' ob her own, I hope ?" 
 
 'It's mine yet, anyhow." „ j 
 
296 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "An' yer kin keep as mum as a possum w'en de cawn is 
 in de milk?*' 
 
 "Dat 'pends." 
 . "Ob cose it does. But I'll trus' yer; yer ain' de one ter 
 bite yer own nose ofi. Does yer see dat ar ring, Suky ? 
 Law! how pretty dat look on yer degaged finger!'* 
 
 " 'Tain' daryet." 
 
 "Lemme put it dar. Ki! wouldn't dey look an' gape 
 an' pint in dar yonder w'en yer come a-sailin' in wid dat 
 ring on ?' ' 
 
 "Yes; dey tink me a big fool ter be captivated by a ring 
 — brass, too, like anuff." 
 
 "No, Suky, it's gole— yallow gole, di 'plexion ob yer 
 own fair ban'. But, law! dis ain' nuffin ter what I'se '11 git 
 yer. Yer'se shall hab rings an' dresses an' jules till yer 
 'stinguish de oder gals like de sun put out de stars." 
 
 "What yer foun', JeS Wobbles?" 
 
 "I'se foun' what'U make yer a lady if yer hab sense. 
 I'se gib yer de compliment ob s'lecting yer ter shar' my 
 fine if yer'll lemme put dis ring on yer degaged finger." 
 
 "Yer doan say nuffin 'bout lub in dis yer *rangement," 
 Suky simpered, sidling up to him. 
 
 "Oh, dat kind ob sent'ment *11 do fer common niggahs," 
 JeS explained with dignity. "I'se hurd my missus talk 
 *bout 'liances 'twixt people of quality. Ki! Suky, I'se in 
 a 'sition now ter make a 'liance wid yer. Yer ain' like dat 
 low gal, Mandy. What Mister Johnsing ebber hab ter gib 
 her but a lickin' some day? I'se done wid dat common 
 class; I may fiddle fur *em now an' den, jes' ter see dem 
 sport deysefs, while I'se lookin' on kin' ob s'periur like, 
 yer know. But den, dey ain' our kin' ob folks. Yer'se 
 got qulities dat' 11 shine like de risin' moon dar." Then in 
 a whisper he added, "De Linkum sogers is off dar ter the 
 east'erd. One night's trabel an' dey'd sen' us on ter 
 Washin'on. Oust yer git dar, an' hab all de jules an' 
 dresses dat I gib yer, dar's not a culled gemmen dereaway 
 but 'ud bow down ter yer. " 
 
JEFF'S TREASURE 297 
 
 Here was a dazzling vista that Suky could not resist. 
 Her ideas of freedom, like those of Jej5, were not very 
 exalted. At that period, slave property in the vicinity of 
 the Union lines was fast melting away; and scarcely a night 
 elapsed but some one was missing, the more adventurous 
 and intelligent escaping first, and others following as oppor- 
 tunity and motive pointed the way. The region under con- 
 sideration had not yet been occupied by the Federals, and 
 there was still no slight risk involved in flight. Suky did 
 not realize the magnitude of the project. She was not the 
 first of her sex to be persuaded by a cavalier and promised 
 gold to take a leap into the dark. 
 
 As a result of Jeff's representations the '"liance" was 
 made there and then, secrecy promised, and an escape to 
 Washington agreed upon as soon as circumstances per- 
 mitted — Suky's mind, I regret to say, dwelling more on 
 "gemmen bowing down" to her than on the devotion of 
 the allied suitor. 
 
 No lady of rank in Timbuctoo could have sailed into the 
 kitchen ball-room with greater state than Suky now after 
 the compact had been made, Jeff supporting her on his arm 
 with the conscious air of one who has taken the prize from 
 all competitors. With the assurance of a potentate he 
 ensconced himself in the orchestra corner and called the 
 dancers to their feet. 
 
 But the spirit of mutiny was present. Eager eyes noted 
 that the ring on his bow- hand was gone. Then it was seen 
 glistening on Suky's hand as she ostentatiously fanned her- 
 self. The clamor broke out, "Mister Johnsing," incited by 
 Mandy and the two swains between whom Suky had been 
 sandwiched, leading the revolt against Jeff's arrogance and 
 success. 
 
 There were many, however, who had no personal wrongs 
 to right, and who did not relish being made a cat's-paw by 
 the disaffected. These were bent on the natural progression 
 and conclusion of the dance. In consequence of the 
 wordy uproar the master of the premises appeared and 
 
W8 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER TORIES 
 
 cleared them all out, sending liis own servants to their 
 qnarters. 
 
 Jefi nearly came to grief that night, for a party of the 
 malcontents followed him on his homeward walk. Suspect- 
 ing their purpose, he dodged behind some shrubbery, heard 
 their threats to break his head and smash his fiddle, and 
 then went back to a tryst with Suky. 
 
 That sagacious damsel had been meditating on the pro- 
 posed alliance. Even in her rather sophisticated mind she 
 had regarded a semblance of love as essential; but since 
 Jeff had put everything on such superior grounds, she felt 
 that she should prove herself fit for new and exalted con- 
 ditions of life by seeing to it that he made good all his 
 remarkable promises. She remembered that he had not yet 
 opened the box of money, and became a little sceptical 
 as to its contents. Somebody might have watched Jeff, and 
 have carried it off. 
 
 > True, she had the ring, but that was not the price of her 
 hand. Nothing less than had been promised would answer 
 now; and when she stole out to meet Jeff she told him so. 
 Under the witching moonlight he began to manifest ten- 
 dencies to sentiment and tenderness. Her response was 
 prompt: ''Go 'long! what dese common niggah ways got 
 ter do wid a ' liance ? Yer show me de gole in dat box — 
 dat's de bargain. Den de 'liance hole me fas', an' I'll help 
 yer spen' de money in Washin'on. We'll hab a weddin' 
 scrumptious as white folks. But, law sakes! Jeff Wob- 
 bles, 't ain' no kin' ob 'liance till I see dat gole an' hab 
 some ob it too!" 
 
 Jeff had to succumb like many a higher- born suitor be- 
 fore him, with the added chagrin of remembering that he 
 had first suggested the purely businesslike aspect of his 
 motive. 
 
 *' Berry well; meet me here ter-morrer night when I 
 whistle like a whip-o'-will. But yer ain' so smart as yer 
 tink yer are, Suky. Yer'se made it cl'ar ter me dat I'se 
 got ter keep de han'lin' ob dat gole or you'll be a-carryin' 
 
JEFF'S TREASURE 299 
 
 dis 'liance business too far! If I gib yer gole, 1 expec' yer 
 ter shine up an be 'greeable-like ter me ebbery way yer 
 know how. Dat's only fa'r, doggoned ef it ain' !" and Jeff 
 spoke in a very aggrieved tone. 
 
 Wily Suky chucked him under the chin, saying: "Show 
 me de color ob de gole an' de 'liance come out all right." 
 Then she retired, believing that negotiations had proceeded 
 far enough for the present. 
 
 Jeff went home feeling that he had been forewarned and 
 forearmed. Since her heart responded to a golden key only, 
 he would keep that key and use it judiciously. 
 
 During the early hours of the following night Jeff was 
 very wary and soon discovered that he was watched. He 
 coolly slipped the collar from a savage dog, and soon there 
 was a stampede from a neighboring grove. An hour after, 
 when all had become quiet again, he took the dog and, 
 armed with an axe, started out, fully resolved on breaking 
 the treasure- box which he had been hoarding. 
 
 The late moon had risen, giving to Jeff a gnome-like 
 aspect as he dug at the root of the persimmon-tree. The 
 mysterious box soon gleamed with a pale light in his hand, 
 like the leaden casket that contained Portia's radiant face. 
 Surely, when he struck the "open sesame" blow, that 
 beauty which captivates young and old alike would dazzle 
 his eyes. With heart now devoid of all compunction, and 
 exultant in anticipation, he struck the box, shaving off the 
 end he held furthest from him. An "ancient fish-like smell" 
 filled the air; Jeff sank on the ground and stared at sardines 
 and rancid oil dropping instead of golden dollars from his 
 treasure-box. They scarcely touched the ground before the 
 dog snapped them all up. 
 
 The bewildered negro knew not what to think. Had fish 
 been the original contents of the box, or had the soldier's 
 spook transformed the gold into this horrid mess? One 
 thing, however, was clear — he had lost, not only Suky, but 
 prestige. The yellow girl would scorn him, and tell of his 
 preposterous promises. Mandy had been offended beyond 
 
800 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 hope, and he would become the laughing-stock and byword 
 of all the colored boys for miles around. 
 
 "Dar's nuffin lef fer me but ter put out fer freedom, " 
 he soliloquized; "ki! I'se a-gwine ter git eben wid dat 
 yallar gal yet. I'll cut stick ter-mOrrer night and she'll 
 tink I 'sconded alone, to tin' de box wid me, and dat she 
 was too sharp in dat 'liance business." 
 
 So it turned out; Jeff and his fiddle vanished, leaving 
 nothing to sustain Suky under the gibes of her associates 
 except the ring, which she eventually learned was as brazen 
 as her own ambition. 
 
 Jeff wandered into the service of a Union officer whose 
 patience he tried even more than that of his tolerant South- 
 ern mistress; but when by the camp-fire he brought out his 
 violin, all his shortcomings were condoned. 
 
CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE 
 
 THE August morning was bright and fair, but Herbert 
 Scofield's brow was clouded. He had wandered off 
 to a remote part of the grounds of a summer hotel 
 on the Hudson, and seated in the shade of a tree, had lapsed 
 into such deep thought that his cigar had gone out and the 
 birds were becoming bold in the vicinity of his motionless 
 figure. 
 
 It was his vacation time and he had come to the country 
 ostensibly for rest. As the result, he found himself in the 
 worst state of unrest that he had ever known. Minnie 
 Madison, a young lady he had long admired, was the mag- 
 net that had drawn him hither. Her arrival had preceded 
 his by several weeks; and she had smiled a little con- 
 sciously when in looking at the hotel register late one 
 afternoon his bold chirography met her eye. 
 
 "There are so many other places to which he might have 
 gone," she murmured. 
 
 Her smile, however, was a doubtful one, not expressive 
 of gladness and entire satisfaction. In mirthful, saucy fash- 
 ion her thoughts ran on: "The time has come when he 
 might have a respite from business. Does he still mean 
 business by coming here ? Fm not sure that I do, although 
 the popular idea seems to be that a girl should have no 
 vacation in the daily effort to find a husband. I continually 
 disappoint the good people by insisting that the husband 
 must find me. I have a presentiment that Mr. Scofield is 
 looking for me; but there are some kinds of property which 
 cannot be picked up and carried off, nolens volens^ when 
 found." 
 
 (301) 
 
802 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Scofield had been animated by no such clearly defined 
 purpose as he was credited with when he sought the summer 
 resort graced by Miss Madison. His action seemed to him 
 tentative, his motive ill-defined even in his own conscious- 
 ness, yet it had been strong enough to prevent any hesi- 
 tancy. He knew he was weary from a long year's work. 
 He purposed to rest and take life very leisurely, and he 
 had mentally congratulated himself that he was doing a 
 wise thing in securing proximity to Miss Madison. She 
 had evoked his admiration in New York, excited more than 
 a passing interest, but he felt that he did not know her very 
 well. In the unconventional life now in prospect he could 
 see her daily and permit his interest to be dissipated or 
 deepened, as the case might be, while he remained, in the 
 strictest sense of the world, uncommitted. It was a very 
 prudent scheme and not a bad one. He reasoned justly: 
 "This selecting a wife is no bagatelle. A man wishes to 
 know something more about a woman than he can learn in 
 a drawing-room or at a theatre party." 
 
 But now he was in trouble. He had been unable to 
 maintain this judicial aspect. He had been made to under- 
 stand at the outset that Miss Madison did not regard herself 
 as a proper subject for deliberate investigation, and that 
 she was not inclined to aid in his researches. So far from 
 meeting him with engaging frankness and revealing her 
 innermost soul for his inspection, he found her as elusive 
 as only a woman of tact can be when so minded, even at 
 a place where people meet daily. It was plain to him from 
 the first that he was not the only man who favored her with 
 admiring glances; and he soon discovered that young Merri- 
 weather aijd his friend Hackley had passed beyond the neu- 
 tral ground of non-committal. He set himself the task of 
 learning how far these suitors had progressed in her good 
 graces; he would not be guilty of the folly of giving chase 
 to a prize already virtually captured. This too had proved 
 a failure. Clearly, would he know what Mr. Merriweather 
 and Mr. Hackley were to Miss Madison he must acq^uire 
 
CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE 303 
 
 the power of mind reading. Each certainly appeared to be 
 a very good friend of hers — a much better friend than he 
 could claim to be, for in his case she maintained a certain 
 unapproachableness which perplexed and nettled him. 
 
 After a week of rest, observation, and rather futile effort 
 to secure a reasonable share of Miss Madison's society and 
 attention, he became assured that he was making no prog- 
 ress whatever so far as she was concerned, but very decided 
 progress in a condition of mind and heart anything but 
 agreeable should the affair continue so one-sided. He had 
 hoped to see her daily, and was not disappointed. He 
 had intended to permit his mind to receive such impres- 
 sions as he should choose; and now his mind asked no 
 permission whatever, but without volition occupied itself 
 with her image perpetually. He was not sure whether she 
 satisfied his preconceived ideals of what a wife should be 
 or not, for she maintained such a firm reticence in regard 
 to herself that he could put his finger on no aflB.nities. She 
 left no doubt as to her intelligence, but beyond that she 
 would not reveal herself to him. He was almost satisfied 
 that she discouraged him utterly and that it would be wiser 
 to depart before his feelings became more deeply involved. 
 At any rate he had better do this or else make love in dead 
 earnest. Which course should he adopt ? 
 
 There came a day which brought him to a decision. 
 
 A party had been made up for an excursion into the 
 Highlands, Miss Madison being one of the number* She 
 was a good pedestrian and rarely missed a chance for a 
 ramble among the hills. Scofield's two rivals occasionally 
 got astray with her in the perplexing wood -roads, but he 
 never succeeded in securing such good- fortune. On this 
 occasion, as they approached a woodchopper's cottage (or 
 rather, hovel), there were sounds of acute distress within — 
 the piercing cries of a child evidently in great pain. There 
 was a moment of hesitancy in the party, and then Miss Mad- 
 ison's graceful indifference vanished utterly. As she ran 
 hastily to the cabin, Scofield felt that now probably was a 
 
804 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 chance for more than mere observation, and he kept beside 
 her. An ugly cur sought to bar entrance; but his vigorous 
 kick sent it howling away. She gave him a quick pleased 
 look as they entered. A slatternly woman was trying to 
 soothe a little boy, who at all her attempts only writhed 
 and shrieked the more. "I dunno what ails the young 
 one," she said. "I found him a moment ago yellin' at the 
 foot of a tree. Suthin's the matter with his leg." 
 
 "Yes," cried Miss Madison, delicately feeling of the 
 member — an operation which, even under her gentle touch, 
 caused increased outcry, "it is evidently broken. Let me 
 take him on my lap;" and Scofield saw that her face had 
 softened into the tenderest pity. 
 
 "I will bring a surgeon at the earliest possible moment," 
 exclaimed Scofield, turning to go. 
 
 Again she gave him an approving glance which warmed 
 his heart. "The ice is broken between us now," he thought, 
 as he broke through the group gathering at the open door. 
 
 Never before had he made such time down a mountain, 
 for he had a certain kind of consciousness that he was not 
 only going after the doctor, but also after the girl. Secur- 
 ing a stout horse and wagon at the hotel, he drove furiously 
 for the surgeon, explained the urgency, and then, with the 
 rural healer at his side, almost killed the horse in returning. 
 
 He found his two rivals at the cabin door, the rest of the 
 party having gone on. Miss Madison came out quickly. 
 An evanescent smile flitted across her face as she saw his 
 kindled eyes and the reeking horse, which stood trembling 
 and with bowed head. His ardor was a little dampened 
 when she went directly to the poor beast and said, "This 
 horse is a rather severe indictment against you, Mr. Sco- 
 field. There was need of haste, but — " and she paused 
 significantly. 
 
 "Yes," added the doctor, springing out, "1 never saw 
 such driving! It's lucky our necks are not broken " 
 
 "You are all right, Doctor, and ready for your work," 
 Scofield remarked brusquely. "As for the horse, I'll soon 
 
CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE 305 
 
 bring him around;" and he rapidly began to unhitch the 
 over-driven animal. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" Miss Madison asked 
 curiously. 
 
 '*Kub him into as good shape as when he started." 
 
 She turned away to hide a smile as she thought, "He has 
 waked up at last. ' ' 
 
 The boy was rendered unconscious, and his leg speedily 
 put in the way of restoration. "He will do very well now 
 if my directions are carried out strictly," the physician was 
 saying when Scofield entered. 
 
 Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley stood rather help- 
 lessly in the background and were evidently giving more 
 thought to the fair nurse than to the patient. The mother 
 was alternating between lamentations and invocations of 
 good on the "young leddy's" head. Finding that he would 
 come in for a share of the latter, Scofield retreated again. 
 Miss Madison walked quietly out, and looking critically at 
 the horse, remarked, "You have kept your word very 
 well, Mr. Scofield. The poor creature does look much 
 improved." She evidently intended to continue her walk 
 with the two men in waiting, for she said demurely with an 
 air of dismissal, "You will have the happy consciousness of 
 having done a good deed this morning. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," replied Scofield, in significant undertone; "you, 
 of all others, Miss Madison, know how inordinately happy 
 I shall be in riding back to the village with the doctor." 
 
 She raised her eyebrows in a little well- feigned surprise 
 at his words, then turned away. 
 
 During the remainder of the day he was unable to see 
 her alone for a moment, or to obtain any further reason to 
 believe that the ice was in reality broken between them. 
 But his course was no longer noncommittal, even to th« 
 most careless observer. The other guests of the house 
 smiled; and Mr. Merriweather and Mr. Hackley looked 
 askance at one who threw their assiduous attentions quite 
 into the shade. Miss Madison maintained her composure, 
 
306 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 was oblivious as far as possible, and sometimes when she 
 could not appear blind, looked a little surprised and even 
 offended. 
 
 He had determined to cast prudence and circumlocution 
 to the winds. On the morning following the episode in the 
 mountains he was waiting to meet her when she came down 
 to breakfast. "I've seen that boy, Miss Madison, and he's 
 doing well." 
 
 "What I so early? You are a very kind-hearted man, 
 Mr. Scofield." 
 
 "About as they average. That you are kind-hearted I 
 know — at least to every one except me — for I saw your ex- 
 pression as you examined the little fellow's injury yester- 
 day. You thought only of the child — " 
 
 "I hope you did also, Mr. Scofield," she replied with an 
 exasperating look of surprise. 
 
 "You know well I did not," he answered bluntly. "I 
 thought it would be well worth while to have my leg broken 
 if you would look at me in the same way. ' ' 
 
 "Truly, Mr. Scofield, I fear you are not as kind-hearted 
 as I supposed you to be;" and then she turned to greet Mr. 
 Merriweather. 
 
 "Won't you let me drive you up to see the boy ?" inter- 
 posed Scofield, boldly. 
 
 "I'm sorry, but I promised to go up with the doctor this 
 morning. ' ' 
 
 And so affairs went on. He thought at times her color 
 quickened a little when he approached suddenly; he fancied 
 that he occasionally surprised a half-wistful, half-mirthful 
 glance, but was not sure. He knew that she was as well 
 aware of his intentions and wishes as if he had proclaimed 
 them through a speaking-trumpet. His only assured ground 
 of comfort was that neither Mr. Merriweather nor Mr. Hack- 
 ley had yet won the coveted prize, though they evidently 
 were receiving far greater opportunities to push their suit 
 than he had been favored with. 
 
 At last his vacation was virtually at an end. But two 
 
CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE 807 
 
 more days would elapse before he must be at his desk again 
 Iq the city. And now we will go back to the time when we 
 found him that early morning brooding over his prospects, 
 remote from observation. What should he do — propose by 
 letter? *'No," he said after much cogitation. "lean see 
 that little affected look of surprise with which she would 
 read my plain declaration of what she knows so well. Shall 
 I force a private interview with her ? The very word 'force, ' 
 which 1 have unconsciously used, teaches me the folly of 
 this course. She doesn't care a rap for me, and I should 
 have recognized the truth long ago. I'll go back to the 
 hotel and act toward her precisely as she has acted toward 
 me. I can then at least take back to town a little shred of 
 dignity." 
 
 He appeared not to see her when she came down to 
 breakfast. After the meal was over he sat on the piazza 
 engrossed in the morning paper. An excursion party for 
 the mountains was forming. He merely bowed politely as 
 she passed him to join it, but he ground his teeth as he saw 
 Merriweather and Hackley escorting her away. When they 
 were out of sight he tossed the paper aside and went down 
 to the river, purposing to row the fever out of his blood. 
 He was already satisfied how difficult his tactics would be 
 should he continue to see her, and he determined to be ab- 
 sent all day, to so tire himself out that exhaustion would 
 bring early sleep on his return. 
 
 Weary and leaden- spirited enough he was, as late in the 
 afternoon he made his way back, but firm in sudden resolve 
 to depart on an early train in the morning and never volun- 
 tarily to see the obdurate lady of his affections again. 
 
 Just as the sun was about sinking he approached a small 
 wooded island about half a mile from the boat-house, and 
 was surprised to notice a rowboat high and dry upon the 
 beach. *'Some one has forgotten that the tide is going 
 out," he thought, as he passed; but it was no affair of 
 his. 
 
 A voice called faintly, "Mr. Scofield!" 
 
308 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 He started at the familiar tones, and looked again. 
 Surely that was Miss Madison standing by the prow of the 
 stranded skiff! He knew well indeed it was she; and he 
 put his boat about with an energy not in keeping with his 
 former languid strokes. Then, recollecting himself, he be- 
 came pale with the self-control he purposed to maintain. 
 "She is in a scrape," he thought; "and calls upon me as 
 she would upon any one else to get her out of it." 
 
 Weariness and discouragement inclined him to be some- 
 what reckless and brusque in his words and manner. Un- 
 der the compulsion of circumstances she who would never 
 graciously accord him opportunities must now be alone with 
 him; but as a gentleman, he could not take advantage of her 
 helplessness, to plead his cause, and he felt a sort of rage 
 that he should be mocked with an apparent chance which 
 was in fact no chance at all. 
 
 His boat stranded several yards from the shore. Throw- 
 ing down his oars, he rose and faced her. Was it the last 
 rays of the setting sun which made her face so rosy, or was 
 it embarrassment ? 
 
 "I'm in a dilemma, Mr. Scoiield," Miss Madison began 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 "And you would rather be in your boat," he added. 
 
 "That would not help me any, seeing where my boat is. 
 I have done such a stupid thing ! I stole away here to finish 
 a book, and — well — I didn't notice that the tide was running 
 out. I'm sure I don't know what I'm going to do." 
 
 Scofield put his shoulder to an oar and tried to push his 
 craft to what deserved the name of shore, but could make 
 little headway. He was glad to learn by the effort, how- 
 ever, that the black mud was not unfathomable in depth. 
 Hastily reversing his action, he began pushing his boat 
 back in the water. 
 
 "Surely, Mr. Scofield, you do not intend to leave me," 
 began Miss Madison. 
 
 "Surely not," he replied; "but then, since you are «o 
 averse to my company, I must make sure that my boat 
 
CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE 309 
 
 does not become as fast as yours on this ebb-tide, otherwise 
 we should both have to wait till the flood." 
 
 *'0h, beg pardon! I now understand. But how can 
 you reach me?" 
 
 "Wade," he replied coolly, proceeding to take ofE his 
 shoes and stockings. 
 
 "What! through that horrid black mud?" 
 
 "I couldn't leap that distance, Miss Madison." 
 
 "It's too bad! I'm so provoked with myself! The mud 
 may be very deep, or there may be a quicksand or some- 
 thing." 
 
 "In which case I should merely disappear a little ear- 
 lier;" and he sprang overboard up to his knees, dragged 
 the boat till it was sufficiently fast in the ooze to be station- 
 ary, then he waded ashore. 
 
 "Well," she said with a little deprecatory laugh, "it's a 
 comfort not to be alone on a desert island." 
 
 "Indeed! Can I be welcome under any circumstances?" 
 
 "Truly, Mr. Scofield, you know that you were never 
 more welcome. It's very kind of you." 
 
 "Any man would be glad to come to your aid. It is 
 merely your misfortune that I happen to be the one." 
 
 "I'm not sure that I regard it as a very great misfor- 
 tune. You proved in the case of that little boy that you 
 can act very energetically. ' ' 
 
 "And get lectured for my intemperate zeal. Well, Miss 
 Madison, I cannot make a very pleasing spectacle with 
 blackamoor legs, and it's time I put my superfluous energy 
 to some use. Suppose you get in your boat, and I'll try to 
 push it off." 
 
 She complied with a troubled look in her face. He 
 pushed till the veins knotted on his forehead. At this she 
 sprang out, exclaiming, "You'll burst a blood-vessel." 
 
 "That's only a phase of a ruptured heart, and you are 
 used to such phenomena. ' ' 
 
 "It's too bad for you to talk in that way," she cried. 
 
 "It certainly is. I will now attend strictly to business." 
 
^10 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 "I donH see what you can do. " ^ 
 
 "Carry you out to my boat — that is all I can do/* 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Scofield!" 
 
 "Can you suggest anything else?" 
 
 She looked dubiously at the intervening black mud, and 
 was silent. 
 
 ' ' 1 could go up to the hotel and bring Mr. Merriweather 
 and Mr. Hackley. " 
 
 She turned away to hide her tears. 
 
 "Or I could go after a brawny boatman; but delay is 
 serious, for the tide is running out fast and the stretch of 
 mud growing wider. Can you not imagine me Mike or Tim, 
 or some fellow of that sort. ' ' 
 
 "No, I can't." 
 
 "Then perhaps you wish me to go for Mike or Tim ?" 
 
 "But the tide is running out so fast, you said." 
 
 "Yes, and it will soon be dark." 
 
 "Oh, dear!" and there was distress in her tones. 
 
 He now said kindly, "Miss Madison, I wish that like Sir 
 Walter Raleigh I had a mantle large enough for you to walk 
 over. You can at least imagine that I am a gentleman, that 
 you may soon be at the hotel, and no one ever be any the 
 wiser that you had to choose between me and the deep — ah, 
 well — mud." 
 
 "There is no reason for such an allusion, Mr. Scofield." 
 
 "Well, then, that you had no other choice." 
 
 "That's better. But how in the world can you man- 
 age it?" 
 
 ' ' You will have to put your arm around my neck. ' ' 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "You would put your arm around a post, wouldn't 
 you ?" he asked with more than his old brusquenese. 
 
 "Yes-s; but—" 
 
 * ' But the tide is going out. My own boat will soon be 
 fast. Dinner will grow cold at the hotel, and you are only 
 the longer in dispensing with me. You must consider the 
 other dire alternatives. ' ' 
 
CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE 311 
 
 *'0h, I forgot that you were in danger of losing a warm 
 dinner." 
 
 ''You know I have lost too much to think of that or 
 much else. But there is no need of satire, Miss Madison. 
 1 will do whatever you wish. That truly is carte blanche 
 enough even for this occasion. ' ' 
 
 "1 didn't mean to be satirical. I— I — Weil, have your 
 own way." 
 
 "Not if you prefer some other way." 
 
 "You have shown that practically there isn't any other 
 way. I'm sorry that my misfortune, or fault rather, should 
 also be your misfortune. You don't know how heavy — " 
 
 "I soon will, and you must endure it all with such grace 
 as you can. Put your arm round my neck, so — oh, that 
 will never do! Well, you'll hold tight enough when I'm 
 floundering in the mud* ' ' 
 
 Without further ado he picked her up, and started rap- 
 idly for his boat. Stepping on a smooth stone he nearly 
 fell, and her arm did tighten decidedly. 
 
 "If you try to go so fast," she said, "you will fall." 
 
 "I was only seeking to shorten your ordeal, but for obvi- 
 ous reasons must go slowly;" and he began feeling his 
 way. 
 
 "Mr. Scofield, am I not very heavy ?" she asked softly. 
 
 "Not as heavy as my heart, and you know it." • 
 
 "I'm sure I — " 
 
 "No, you are not to blame. Moths have scorched their' 
 wings before now, and will always continue to do so. ' ' 
 
 Her head rested slightly against his shoulder; her breath 
 fanned his cheek; her eyes, soft and lustrous, sought his. 
 But he looked away gloomy and defiant, and she felt his 
 grasp tighten vise- like around her. "I shall not affect any 
 concealment of the feelings which she has recognized so 
 often, nor shall 1 ask any favors, " he thought. "There," 
 he said, as he placed her in his boat, "you are safe enough 
 now. Now go aft while I push off. " 
 
 When she was seated he exerted himself almost as greatly 
 
S12 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 as before, and the boat gradually slid into the water. He 
 sprang in and took the oars. 
 
 "Aren't you going to put on your shoes and stockings ?" 
 
 *' Certainly, when I put you ashore." 
 
 "Won't that be a pretty certain way of revealing the 
 plight in which you found me?" 
 
 "Pardon my stupidity; I was preoccupied with the 
 thought of relieving you from the society which you have 
 hitherto avoided so successfully;" and bending over his 
 shoes lie tied them almost savagely. 
 
 There was a wonderful degree of mirth and tenderness 
 in her eyes as she watched him. They had floated by a lit- 
 tle point; and as he raised his head he saw a form which 
 he recognized as Mr. Merriweather rowing toward them. 
 "There comes one of your shadows," he said mockingly. 
 "Be careful how you exchange boats when he comes along- 
 side. I will give you no help in such a case." 
 
 She looked hastily over her shoulder at the approaching 
 oarsman. "I think it will be safer to remain in your boat," 
 she said. 
 
 "Oh, it will be entirely safe," he replied bitterly. 
 
 "Mr. Merriweather must have seen you carrying me." 
 
 "That's another thing which I can't help." 
 
 "Mr. Scofield," she began softly. 
 
 He arrested his oars, and turned wondering eyes to hers. 
 They were sparkling with mirth as she continued, "Are 
 you satisfied that a certain young woman whom you once 
 watched very narrowly is entirely to your mind?" 
 
 He caught her mirthful glance and misunderstood her. 
 With dignity he answered, "I'm not the first man who blun- 
 dered to his cost, though probably it would have made no 
 difference. You must do me the justice, however, to admit 
 that I did not maintain the role of observer very long — that 
 I wooed you so openly that every one was aware of my suit. 
 Is it not a trifle cruel to taunt me after I had made such 
 ample amends?" 
 
 "I was thinking of Mr. Merriweather — '* 
 
CAUGHT ON THE EBB-TIDE 313 
 
 "Undoubtedly" 
 
 "Since he has seen me with my arm around your neck 
 — you know I couldn't help it — perhaps he might row the 
 other way if — if — well, if he saw you — what shall I say — 
 sitting over here — by me — or — Somehow 1 don't feel very 
 hungry, and I wouldn't mind spending another hour — " 
 
 Scofield nearly upset the boat in his precipitous effort 
 to gain a seat beside her — and Mr. Merri weather did row 
 another way. 
 
 14— Roe— XI 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 
 
 IT was the beginning of a battle. The skirmish line of 
 the Union advance was sweeping rapidly over a rough 
 mountainous region in the South, and in his place on 
 the extreme left of this line was Private Anson Marlow. 
 Tall trees rising from underbrush, rocks, bowlders, gulches 
 worn by spring torrents, were the characteristics of the field, 
 which was in wild contrast with the parade-grounds on 
 which the combatants had first learned the tactics of war. 
 The majority, however, of those now in the ranks had since 
 been drilled too often under like circumstances, and with 
 lead and iron shotted guns, not to know their duty, and the 
 lines of battle were as regular as the broken country allowed. 
 So far as many obstacles permitted, Marlow kept his proper 
 distance from the others on the line and fired coolly when 
 he caught glimpses of the retreating Confederate skirmish- 
 ers. They were retiring with ominous readiness toward a 
 wooded height which the enemy occupied with a force of 
 unknown strength. That strength was soon manifested in 
 temporary disaster to the Union forces, which were driven 
 back with heavy loss. 
 
 Neither the battle nor its fortunes are the objects of our 
 present concern, but rather the fate of Private Marlow. 
 The tide of battle drifted away and left the soldier des- 
 perately wounded in a narrow ravine, through which bab- 
 bled a small stream. Excepting the voices of his wife and 
 children no music had ever sounded so sweetly in his ears. 
 With great difficulty he crawled to a little bubbling pool 
 formed by a tiny cascade and encircling stones, and partially 
 slaked his intolerable thirst. 
 (814) 
 
^^SBISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 315 
 
 He believed lie was dying — bleeding to death. The very 
 thought blunted his faculties for a time; and he was con- 
 scious of little beyond a dull wonder. Could it be possible 
 that the tragedy of his death was enacting in that peaceful, 
 secluded nook ? Could Nature be so indifferent or so un- 
 conscious if it were true that he was soon to lie there dead ? 
 He saw the speckled trout lying motionless at the bottom of 
 the pool, the gray squirrels sporting in the boughs over his 
 head. The sunlight shimmered and glinted through the 
 leaves, flecking with light his prostrate form. He dipped 
 his hand in the blood that had welled from his side, and it 
 fell in rubies from his fingers. Could that be his blood — his 
 life-blood; and would it soon all ooze away? Could it be 
 that death was coming through all the brightness of that 
 summer afternoon ? 
 
 From a shadowed tree further up the glen, a wood- 
 thrush suddenly began its almost unrivalled song. The 
 familiar melody, heard so often from his cottage-porch in 
 the June twilight, awoke him to the bitter truth. His wife 
 had then sat beside him, while his little ones played here 
 and there among the trees and shrubbery. They would 
 hear the same song to-day; he would never hear it again. 
 That counted for little; but the thought of their sitting 
 behind the vines and listening to their favorite bird, spring 
 after spring and summer after summer, and he ever absent, 
 overwhelmed him. 
 
 "Oh, Gertrude, my wife, my wife! Oh, my children I" 
 he groaned. 
 
 His breast heaved with a great sigh; the blood welled 
 afresh from his wound; what seemed a mortal weakness 
 crept over him; and he thought he died. 
 
 "Say, Bb, is he done gone?" 
 
 " 'Clar to grashus if I know. 'Pears mighty like it." 
 These words were spoken by two stout negroes, who had 
 stolen to the battlefield as the sounds of conflict died away. 
 "I'm doggoned if I tink dat he's dead. He's only 
 
816 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES ' 
 
 swoonded," asserted the man addressed as Eb. " 'Twon't 
 
 do to lebe 'im here to die, Zack." , 
 
 "Sartin Dot; we'd hab bad luck all our days." 
 
 "I reckon ole man Pearson will keep him; and his wife's 
 
 a po'ful nuss." 
 
 "Pearson orter; he's a Unioner." 
 
 "S'pose we try him; 'tain't so bery fur off." 
 
 On the morning of the 24th of December, Mrs. Anson 
 Marlow sat in the living-room of her cottage, that stood 
 well out in the suburbs of a Northern town. Her eyes were 
 hollow and full of trouble that seemed almost beyond tears, 
 and the bare room, that had been stripped of nearly every 
 appliance and suggestion of comfort, but too plainly indi- 
 cated one of the causes. Want was stamped on her thin 
 face, that once had been so full and pretty; poverty in its 
 bitter extremity was unmistakably shown by the uncarpeted 
 floor, the meagre fire, and scanty furniture. It was a period 
 of depression; work had been scarce, and much of the time 
 she had been too ill and feeble to do more than care for her 
 children. Away back in August her resources had been 
 running low; but she had daily expected the long arrears 
 of pay which her husband would receive as soon as the exi- 
 gencies of the campaign permitted. Instead of these funds, 
 so greatly needed, came the tidings of a Union defeat, with 
 her husband's name down among the missing. Beyond 
 that brief mention, so horrible in its vagueness, she had 
 never heard a word from the one who not only sustained 
 her home, but also her heart. Was he languishing in a 
 Southern prison, or, mortally wounded, had he lingered 
 out some terrible hours on that wild battlefield, a brief de- 
 scription of which had been so dwelt upon by her morbid 
 fancy that it had become like one of the scenes in Dante's 
 "Inferno" ? For a long time she could not and would not 
 believe that such an overwhelming disaster had befallen her 
 and her children, although she knew that similar losses had 
 come to thousands of others. Events that the world regards 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 317 
 
 as not only possible but probable are often so terrible in 
 their personal consequences that we shrink from even the 
 bare thought of their occurrence. 
 
 If Mrs. Marlow had been told from the first that her 
 husband was dead, the shock resulting would not have 
 been so injurious as the suspense that robbed her of rest 
 for days, weeks, and months. She haunted the post-office, 
 and if a stranger was seen coming up the street toward her 
 cottage she watched feverishly for his turning in at her gate 
 with the tidings of her husband's safety. Night after night 
 she lay awake, hoping, praying that she might hear his step 
 returning on a furlough to which wounds or sickness had 
 entitled him. The natural and inevitable result was illness 
 and nervous prostration. 
 
 Practical neighbors had told her that her course was all 
 wrong; that she should be resigned and even cheerful for 
 her children's sake; that she needed to sleep well and live 
 well, in order that she might have strength to provide for 
 them. She would make pathetic attempts to follow this 
 sou^nd and thrifty advice, but suddenly when at her work 
 or in her troubled sleep, that awful word "missing'* would 
 pierce her heart like an arrow, and she would moan, and at 
 times in the depths of her anguish cry out, "Oh, where is 
 he ? Shall 1 ever see him again ?' ' 
 
 But the unrelenting demands of life are made as surely 
 upon the breaking as upon the happy heart. She and her 
 children must have food, clothing, and shelter. Her illness 
 and feebleness at last taught her that she must not yield to 
 her grief, except so far as she was unable to suppress it; 
 that for the sake of those now seemingly dependent upon 
 her, she must rally every shattered nerve and every relaxea 
 muscle. With a heroism far beyond that of her husband 
 and his comrades in the field, she sought to fight the wolf 
 from the door, or at least to keep him at bay. Although 
 the struggle seemed a hopeless one, she patiently did her 
 best from day to day, eking out her scanty earnings by the 
 sale or pawning of such of her household goods as she could 
 
818 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 best spare. She felt that she would do anything rather than 
 reveal her poverty or accept charity. Some help was more 
 or less kindly offered, but beyond such aid as one neighbor 
 may receive of another, she had said gently but firmly, 
 *'Notyet." 
 
 The Marlows were comparative strangers in the city 
 where they had resided. Her husband had been a teacher 
 in one of its public schools, and his salary small. Patriotism 
 had been his motive for entering the army, and while it had 
 cost him a mighty struggle to leave his family, he felt that 
 he had no more reason to hold back than thousands of 
 others. He believed that he could still provide for those 
 dependent upon him, and if he fell, those for whom he 
 died would not permit his widow and children to suffer. 
 But the first popular enthusiasm for the war had largely 
 died out; the city was full of widows and orphans; there 
 was depression of spirit, stagnation in business, and a very 
 general disposition on the part of those who had means, to 
 take care of themselves, and provide for darker days that 
 might be in the immediate future. Sensitive, retiring Mrs. 
 Marlow.was not the one to push her claims or reveal her 
 need. Moreover, she could never give up the hope that 
 tidings from her husband might at any time bring relief 
 and safety. 
 
 But the crisis had come at last; and on this dreary 
 December day she was face to face with absolute want. 
 The wolf, with his gaunt eyes, was crouched beside her 
 cold hearth. A pittance owed to her for work had not been 
 paid. The little food left in the house had furnished the 
 children an unsatisfying breakfast; she had eaten nothing. 
 On the table beside her lay a note from the agent of the 
 estate of which her home was a part, bidding her call that 
 morning. She knew why — the rent was two months in ar- 
 rears. It seemed like death to leave the house in which 
 her husband had placed her, and wherein she had spent her 
 happiest days. It stood well away from the crowded town. 
 The little yard and garden, with their trees, vines, and 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 31^ 
 
 shrubbery, some of which her husband had planted, were 
 all dear from association. In the rear there was a grove and 
 open fields, which, though not belonging to the cottage, 
 were not forbidden to the children; and they formed a 
 wonderland of delight in spring, summer, and fall. Must 
 she take her active, restless boy Jamie, the image of his 
 father, into a crowded tenement? Must golden-haired 
 Susie, with her dower of beauty, be imprisoned in one 
 close room, or else be exposed to the evil of corrupt asso- 
 ciation just beyond the threshold ? 
 
 Moreover, her retired home had become a refuge. Here 
 she could hide her sorrow and poverty. Here she could 
 touch what he had touched, and sit during the long winter 
 evenings in his favorite corner by the fire. Around her, 
 within and without, were the little appliances for her com- 
 fort which his hands had made, flow could she leave all 
 this and live? Deep in her heart also the hope would 
 linger that he would come again and seek her where he 
 had left her. 
 
 *'0 Godr* she cried suddenly. ''Thou wouldst not, 
 couldst not permit him to die without one farewell word," 
 and she buried her face in her hands and rocked back and 
 forth, while hard, dry sobs shook her slight, famine-pinched 
 form. 
 
 The children stopped their play and came and leaned 
 upon her lap. 
 
 * ' Don* t cry, mother, ' ' said Jamie, a little boy of ten. ' * I* 11 
 soon be big enough to work for you; and I'll get rich, and 
 you shall have the biggest house in town. I'll take care 
 of you if papa don't come back." 
 
 Little Sue knew not what to say, but the impulse of her 
 love was her best guide. She threw her arms around her 
 mother's neck with saoh an impetuous and childlike out- 
 burst of affection that the poor woman's bitter and despair- 
 ing thoughts were banished for a time. The deepest chord 
 of her nature, mother love, was touched; and for her chil- 
 dren's sake she rose up once more and faced the hard prob* 
 
320 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 lems of her life. Putting on her bonnet and thin shawl (she 
 had parted with much that she now so sorely needed), 
 she went out into the cold December wind. The sky was 
 clouded like her hopes, and the light, even in the morning 
 hours, was dim and leaden-hued. 
 
 She first called on Mr. Jackson, the agent from whom 
 she rented her home, and besought him to give her a little 
 more time. 
 
 '*I will beg for work from door to door," she said. 
 *' Surely in this Christian city there must be those who will 
 give me work; and that is all I ask." 
 
 The sleek, comfortable man, in his well-appointed office, 
 was touched slightly, and said in a voice that was not so 
 gruff as he at first had intended it should be: 
 
 "Well, I will wait a week or two longer. If then you 
 cannot pay something on what is already due, my duty to 
 my employers will compel me to take the usual course. 
 You have told me all along that your husband would 
 surely return, and I have hated to say a word to discour- 
 age you; but I fear you will have to bring yourself to face 
 the truth and act accordingly, as so many others have done. 
 I know it's very hard for you, but I am held responsible by 
 my employer, and at my intercession he has been lenient, 
 as you must admit. You could get a room or two in town 
 for half what you must pay where you are. Good-morn- 
 ing." 
 
 She went out again into the street, which the shrouded 
 sky made sombre in spite of preparations seen on every 
 side for the chief festival of the year. The fear was grow- 
 ing strong that like Him in whose memory the day was 
 honored, she and her little ones might soon not know 
 where to lay their heads. She succeeded in getting the 
 small sum owed to her and payment also for some sewing 
 just finished. More work she could not readily obtain, for 
 every one was busy and preoccupied by the coming day of 
 gladness. 
 
 "Call again," some said kindly or carelessly, according 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 821 
 
 to their nature. "After the holidays are over we will try 
 to have or make some work for you. ' ' 
 
 *'But I need — I must have work now," she ventured to 
 say whenever she had the chance. 
 
 In response to this appeal there were a few offers of 
 charity, small indeed, but from which she drew back with 
 an instinct so strong that it could not be overcome. On 
 every side she heard the same story. The times were very 
 hard; requests for work and aid had been so frequent that 
 purses and patience were exhausted. Moreover, people had 
 spent their Christmas money on their households and 
 friends, and were already beginning to feel poor. 
 
 At last she obtained a little work, and having made 
 a few purchases of that which was absolutely essential, 
 she was about to drag her weary feet homeward when the 
 thought occurred to her that the children would want to 
 hang up their stockings at night; and she murmured : "It 
 may be the last chance I shall ever have to put a Christmas 
 gift in them. Oh, that I were stronger ! Oh, that I could 
 take my sorrow more as others seem to take theirs! But I 
 cannot, I cannot! My burden is greater than I can bear. 
 The cold of this awful day is chilling my very heart, and 
 my grief, as hope dies, is crushing my soul. Oh, he must 
 be dead, he must be dead! That is what they all think. 
 God help my little ones! Oh, what will become of them 
 if I sink, as I fear I shall ! If it were not for them I feel 
 as if I would fall and die here in the street. Well, be our 
 fate what it may, they shall owe to me one more gleam of 
 happiness;" and she went into a confectioner's shop and 
 bought a few ornamented cakes. These were the only gifts 
 she could afford, and they must be in the form of food. 
 
 Before she reached home the snow was whirling in the 
 frosty air, and the shadows of the brief winter day deepen- 
 ing fast. With a smile far more pathetic than tears she 
 greeted the children, who were cold, hungry, and fright- 
 ened at her long absence; and they, children- like, saw only 
 the smile, and not the grief it masked. They saw also the 
 
822 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 basket which she had placed on the table, and were quick 
 to note that it seemed a little fuller than of late. 
 
 "Jamie," she said, "run to the store down the street for 
 some coal and kindlings that I bought, and then we will 
 have a good fire and a nice supper;" and the boy, at such 
 a prospect, eagerly obeyed. 
 
 She was glad to have him gone, that she might hide her 
 weakness. She sank into a chair, so white and faint that 
 even little Susie left off peering into the basket, and came 
 to her with a troubled face. 
 
 "It's nothing, dearie," the poor creature said. "Mam- 
 ma's only a little tired. See," she added, tottering to the 
 table, "I have brought you a great piece of gingerbread." 
 
 The hungry child grasped it, and was oblivious and 
 happy. 
 
 By the time Jamie returned with his first basket of 
 kindling and coal, the mother had so far rallied from her 
 exhaustion as to meet him smilingly again and help him 
 replenish the dying fire. 
 
 "Now you shall rest and have your gingerbread before 
 going for your second load, ' ' she said cheerily ; and the boy 
 took what was ambrosia to him, and danced around the 
 room in joyous reaction from the depression of the long 
 weary day, during which, lonely and hungry, he had won- 
 dered why his mother did not return. 
 
 "So little could make them happy, and yet I cannot 
 seem to obtain even that little," she sighed. "I fear — in- 
 deed, 1 fear — I cannot be with them another Christmas; 
 therefore they shall remember that I tried to make them 
 happy once more, and the recollection may survive the long 
 sad days before them, and become a part of my memory. ' ' 
 
 The room was now growing dark, and she lighted the 
 lamp. Then she cowered shiveringly over the reviving fire, 
 feeling as if she could never be warm again. 
 
 The street-lamps were lighted early on that clouded, 
 stormy evening, and they were a signal to Mr. Jackson, 
 the agent, to leave his office. He remembered that he had 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 823 
 
 ordered a holiday dinner, and now found himself in a mood 
 to enjoy it. He had scarcely left his door before a man, 
 coming up the street with great strides and head bent down 
 to the snow- laden blast, brushed roughly against him. The 
 stranger's cap was drawn over his eyes, and the raised collar 
 of his blue army overcoat nearly concealed his face. The 
 man hurriedly begged pardon, and was hastening on when 
 Mr. Jackson's exclamation of surprise caused him to stop 
 and look at the person he had jostled. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Marlow," the agent began, *'I'm glad to see 
 you. It's a pleasure I feared I should never have again." 
 
 "My wife," the man almost gasped, "she's still in the 
 house I rented of you ?" 
 
 "Oh, certainly," was the hasty reply. "It'll be all right 
 now." 
 
 "What do you mean? Has it not been all right?" 
 
 "Well, you see," said Mr. Jackson, apologetically, "we 
 have been very lenient to your wife, but the rent has not 
 been paid for over two months, and — " 
 
 "And you were about to turn her and her children out- 
 of-doors in midwinter," broke in the soldier, wrathfully. 
 "That is the way you sleek, comfortable stay-at-home 
 people care for those fighting your battles. After you 
 concluded that I was dead, and that the rent might not 
 be forthcoming, you decided to put my wife into the street. 
 Open your office, sir, and you shall have your rent." 
 
 "Now, Mr. Marlow, there's no cause for pitching into 
 me in this way. You know that I am but an agent, and — " 
 
 "Tell your rich employer, then, what I have said, and 
 ask him what he would be worth to-day were there not men 
 like myself, who are willing to risk everything and suffer 
 everything for the Union. But Ive no time to bandy 
 words. Have you seen my wife lately?" 
 
 "Yes," was the hesitating reply; "she was here to- 
 day, and I—" 
 
 "How is she? What did you say to her?" 
 
 "Well, she doesn't look very strong. I felt sorry for 
 
6S4 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 her, and gave her more time, taking the responsibility 
 myself — " 
 
 ''How much timer' 
 
 ' ' I said two weeks, but no doubt I could have had the 
 time extended." 
 
 "I have my doubts. Will you and your employer please 
 accept my humble gratitude that you had the grace not to 
 turn her out-of-doors during the holiday season? It might 
 have caused remark ; but that consideration and some oth- 
 ers that I might name are not to be weighed against a few 
 dollars and cents. I shall now remove the strain upon your 
 patriotism at once, and will not only pay arrears, but also 
 for two months in advance." 
 
 ''Oh, there's no need of that to-day." 
 
 "Yes, there is. My wife shall feel to-night that she has 
 a home. She evidently has not received the letter 1 wrote 
 as soon as I reached our lines, or you would not have been 
 talking to her about two weeks more of shelter." 
 
 The agent reopened his office and saw a roll of bills ex- 
 tracted from Marlow's pocket that left no doubt of the sol- 
 dier's ability to provide for his family. He gave his receipt 
 in silence, feeling that words would not mend matters, and 
 then trudged off to his dinner with a flagging appetite. 
 
 As Marlow strode away he came to a sudden resolution 
 — he would look upon his wife and children before they saw 
 him; he would feast his eyes while they were unconscious 
 of the love that was beaming upon them. The darkness 
 and storm favored his project, and in brief time he saw the 
 light in his window. Unlatching the gate softly, and with 
 his steps muffled by the snow that already carpeted the 
 frozen ground, he reached the window, the blinds of which 
 were but partially closed. His children frolicking about 
 the room were the first objects that caught his eye, and he 
 almost laughed aloud in his joy. Then, by turning another 
 blind slightly, he saw his wife shivering over the fire. 
 
 "Great God!" he muttered, "how she has suflered!" and 
 he was about to rush in and take her into his arms. On the 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 326 
 
 threshold he restrained himself, paused, and said, "No, not 
 yet; I'll break the news of my return in my own way. The 
 shock of my sudden appearance might be too great for her;" 
 and he went back to the window. The wife's eyes were fol- 
 lowing her children with such a wistful tenderness that the 
 boy, catching her gaze, stopped his sport, came to her side, 
 and began to speak. They were but a few feet away, and 
 Mariow caught every word. 
 
 "Mamma," the child said, "you didn't eat any break- 
 fast, and I don't believe you have eaten anything to-day. 
 You are always giving everything to us. Now I declare I 
 won't eat another bit unless you take half of my cake;" 
 and he broke off a piece and laid it in her lap. 
 
 "Oh, Jamie," cried the poor woman, "you looked so like 
 your father when you spoke that I could almost see him;" 
 and she caught him in her arms and covered him with kisses. 
 
 "I'll soon be big enough to take care of you. I'm going 
 to grow up just like papa and do everything for you, ' ' the 
 boy said proudly as she released him. 
 
 Little Susie also came and placed what was left of her 
 cake in her mother's lap, saying: 
 
 "I'll work for you, too, mamma; and to-morrow I'll sell 
 the doll Santa Glaus gave me last Christmas, and then we'll 
 all have plenty to eat. ' ' 
 
 Anson Mariow was sobbing outside the window as only 
 a man weeps; and his tears in the bitter cold became drops 
 of ice before they reached the ground. 
 
 "My darlings!" the mother cried. "Oh, Grod spare me 
 to you and provide some way for us! Your love should 
 make me rich though I lack all else. There, I won't cry 
 any more, and you shall have as happy a Christmas as I can 
 give you. Perhaps He who knew what it was to be home- 
 less and shelterless will provide for our need; so we'll try 
 to trust Him and keep His birthday. And now, Jamie, go 
 and bring the rest of the coal, and then we will make the 
 dear home that papa gave us cheery and warm once more. 
 If he were only with us we wouldn't mind hunger or cold, 
 
826 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 would we? Oh, my husband!" she broke out afresh, "if 
 you could only come back, even though crippled and help- 
 less, I feel that I could live and grow strong from simple 
 gladness, ' ' 
 
 "Don't you think, mamma," Jamie asked, "that God 
 will let papa come down from heaven and spend Christmas 
 with us ? He might be here like the angels, and we not see 
 him." 
 
 "I'm afraid not," the sad woman replied, shaking her 
 head and speaking more to herself than to the child. "I 
 dont see how he could go back to heaven and be happy if 
 he knew all. No, we must be patient and try to do our 
 best, so that we can go to him. Go now, Jamie, before it 
 gets too late. I'll get supper, and then we'll sing a Christ- 
 mas hymn; and you and Susie shall hang up your stock- 
 ings, just as' you did last Christmas, when dear papa was 
 with us. We'll try to do everything he would wish, and 
 then by and by we shall see him again." 
 
 As the boy started on his errand his father stepped back 
 out of the light of the window, then followed the child with 
 a great yearning in his heart. He would make sure the boy 
 was safe at home again before he carried out his plan. From 
 a distance he saw the little fellow receive the coal and start 
 slowly homeward with the burden, and he followed to a point 
 where the light of the street-lamps ceased, then joined the 
 child, and said in a gruff voice, "Here, little man, I'm going 
 your way. Let me carry your basket;" and he took it and 
 strode on so fast that the boy had to run to keep pace with 
 him. Jamie shuffled along through the snow as well as he 
 could, but his little legs were so short in comparison with 
 those of the kindly stranger that he found himself gradually 
 falling behind. So he put on an extra burst of speed and 
 managed to lay hold of the long blue skirt of the army 
 overcoat. 
 
 "Please, sir, don't go quite so fast," he panted. 
 
 The stranger slackened his pace, and in a constrained 
 tone of voice, asked: 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIM^ 327 
 
 *'How far are you going, little man?" 
 
 "Only to our house — mamma's. She's Mrs. Mario w, 
 you know." 
 
 "Yes, I know — that is, 1 reckon I do. How much fur- 
 ther is it?" 
 
 "Oh, not much; we're most half-way now. I say, you're 
 a soldier, aren't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, my boy," said Marlow, with a lump in his throat. 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Well, you see, my papa is a soldier, too, and 1 thought 
 you might know him. We haven't heard from him for a 
 good while, and — " choking a bit— "mamma's afraid he is 
 hurt, or taken prisoner or something." He could not bring 
 himself to say "killed." 
 
 Jamie let go the overcoat to draw his sleeve across his 
 eyes, and the big man once more strode on faster than ever, 
 and Jamie began to fear lest the dusky form might disap- 
 pear in the snow and darkness with both basket and coal; 
 but the apparent stranger so far forgot his part that he put 
 down the basket at Mrs. Marlow 's gate, and then passed on 
 so quickly that the panting boy had Dot time to thank him. 
 Indeed, Anson Marlow knew that if he lingered but a mo- 
 ment he would have the child in his arms. 
 
 "Why, Jamie," exclaimed his mother, "how could you 
 get back so soon with that heavy basket? It was too heavy 
 for you, but you will have to be mamma's little man 
 now. ' ' 
 
 "A big man caught up with me and carried it. I don't 
 care if he did have a grujff voice, I'm sure he was a good 
 kind man. He knew where we lived too, for he put the 
 basket down at our gate before I could say a word, I was 
 so out of breath, and then he was out of sight in a minute." 
 Some instinct kept him from saying anything about the 
 army overcoat. 
 
 "It's some neighbor that lives further up the street, I 
 suppose, and saw you getting the coal at the store," Mrs. 
 Marlow said "Yes, Jamie, it was a good, kind act to help 
 
828 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 a little boy, and I think he'll have a happier Christmas for 
 doing it." 
 
 "Do you really think he'll have a happier Christmas, 
 mamma ?' ' 
 
 "Yes, I truly think so. We are so made that we cannot 
 do a kind act without feeling the better for it." 
 
 "Well, I think he was a queer sort of a man if he was 
 kind. I never knew any one to walk so fast. I spoke to 
 him once, but he did not answer. Perhaps the wind roared 
 so he couldn't hear me." 
 
 "No doubt he was hurrying home to his wife and chil- 
 dren, ' ' she said with a deep sigh. 
 
 When his boy disappeared within the door of the cot- 
 tage, Marlow turned and walked rapidly toward the city, 
 first going to the grocery at which he had been in the habit 
 of purchasing his supplies. The merchant stared for a 
 moment, then stepped forward and greeted his customer 
 warmly. 
 
 "Well," he said, after his first exclamations of surprise 
 were over, "the snow has made you almost as white as a 
 ghost; but I'm glad you're not one. We scarce ever thought 
 to see you again. ' ' 
 
 "Has my wife an open account here now ?" was the brief 
 response. 
 
 "Yes, and it might have been much larger. I've told 
 her so too. She stopped taking credit some time ago, and 
 when she's had a dollar or two to spare she's paid it on the 
 old score. She bought so little that I said to ber once that 
 she need not go elsewhere to buy ; that I'd sell to her as cheap 
 as any one; that I believed you'd come back all right, and 
 if you didn't she could pay me when she could. What do 
 you think she did? Why, she burst out crying, and said, 
 *God bless you, sir, for saying my husband will come back! 
 So many have discouraged me. ' I declare to you her feel- 
 ing was so right down genuine that I had to mop my own 
 eyes. But she wouldn't take any more credit, and she 
 bought so little that I've been troubled. I'd have sent 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 329 
 
 her something, but your wife somehow ain't one of them 
 kind that you can give things to, and — " 
 
 Marlow interrupted the good- hearted, garrulous shopman 
 by saying significantly, ' ' Come with me to your back-office' ' ; 
 for the soldier feared that some one might enter who would 
 recognize him and carry the tidings to his home prema- 
 turely. 
 
 "Mr. Wilkins," he said rapidly, "1 wanted to find out if 
 you too had thriftily shut down on a soldier's wife. You 
 shall not regret your kindness." 
 
 "Hang it all I" broke in Wilkins, with compunction, "I 
 haven't been very kind. I ought to have gone and seen 
 your wife and found out how things were; and I meant to, 
 but I've been so confoundedly busy — " 
 
 "No matter now; I've not a moment to spare. You 
 must help me to break the news of my return in my own 
 way. I mean they shall have such a Christmas in the little 
 cottage as was never known in this town. You could send 
 a load right over there, couldn't you?" 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," said Wilkins, under the impulse 
 of both business thrift and goodwill; and a list of tea, cof- 
 fee, sugar, flour, bread, cakes, apples, etc., was dashed off 
 rapidly; and Marlow had the satisfaction of seeing the 
 errand-boy, the two clerks, and the proprietor himself 
 busily working to fill the order in the shortest possible 
 space of time. 
 
 He next went to a restaurant, a little further down the 
 street, where he had taken his meals for a short time before 
 he brought his family to town, and was greeted with almost 
 equal surprise and warmth. Marlow cut short all words by 
 his almost feverish haste. A huge turkey had just been 
 roasted for the needs of the coming holiday, and this with 
 a cold ham and a pot of coffee was ordered to be sent in a 
 covered tray within a quarter of an hour. Then a toy-shop 
 was visited, and such a doll purchased ! for tears came into 
 Marlow's eyes whenever he thought of his child's offer to 
 sell her dolly for her mother's sake. 
 
830 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 After selecting a sled for Jamie, and directing that they 
 should be sent at once, he could restrain his impatience no 
 longer, and almost tore back to his station at tbe cottage 
 window. His wife was placing the meagre little supper on 
 the table, and how poor and scanty it was! 
 
 "Is that the best the dear soul can do on Christmas 
 Eve?" he groaned. "Why, there's scarcely enough for 
 little Sue. Thank God, my darling, I will sit down with 
 you to a rather different supper before long!" 
 
 He bowed his head reverently with his wife as she asked 
 God's blessing, and wondered at her faith. Then he looked 
 and listened again with a heart- hunger which had been grow- 
 ing for months. 
 
 "Do you really think Santa Glaus will fill our stockings 
 to-night?" Sue asked. 
 
 "I think he'll have something for you,'' she replied. 
 "There are so many poor little boys and girls in the city 
 that he may not be able to bring very much to you." 
 
 "Who is Santa Glaus, anyway?" questioned Jamie. 
 
 Tears came into the wife's eyes as she thought of the one 
 who had always remembered them so kindly as far as his 
 modest means permitted. 
 
 She hesitated in her reply; and before she could decide 
 upon an answer there was a knock at the door. Jamie ran 
 to open it, and started back as a man entered with cap, eye- 
 brows, beard, and shaggy coat all white with the falling 
 snow. He placed two great baskets of provisions on the 
 floor, and said they were for Mrs. Anson Marlow. 
 
 "There is some mistake," Mrs. Marlow began; but the 
 children, after staring a moment, shouted, "Santa Glaus! 
 Santa Glaus!" 
 
 The grocer's man took the unexpected cue instantly, and 
 said, "No mistake, ma'am. They are from Santa Glaus;" 
 and before another word could be spoken he was gone. 
 The face of the grocer's man was not very familiar to Mrs. 
 Marlow, and the snow had disguised him completely. The 
 children had no misgivings and pounced upon the baskets 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 331 
 
 and with exclamations of delight drew out such articles as 
 they could lift. 
 
 *'I can't understand it," said the mother, bewildered and 
 almost frightened. 
 
 "Why, mamma, it's as plain as day," cried Jamie. 
 •*Didn't he look just like the pictures of Santa Claus — 
 white beard and white eyebrows? Oh, mamma, mamma, 
 here is a great paper of red-cheeked apples!" and he and 
 Susie tugged at it until they dragged it over the side of the 
 basket, when the bottom of the bag came out, and the fruit 
 flecked the floor with red and gold. Oh, the bliss of pick- 
 ing up those apples; of comparing one with another; of 
 running to the mother and asking which was the biggest 
 and which the reddest and most beautifully streaked ! 
 
 *' There must have been some mistake," the poor woman 
 kept murmuring as she examined the baskets and found how 
 liberal and varied was the supply, **for who could or would 
 have been so kind ?" 
 
 "Why, mommie," said little Sue, reproachfully, "Santa 
 Claus brought 'em. Haven't you always told us that Santa 
 Claus liked to make us happy ?" 
 
 The long-exiled father felt that he could restrain himself 
 but a few moments longer, and he was glad to see that the 
 rest of his purchases were at the door. With a look so in- 
 tent, and yearning concentration of thought so intense that 
 it was strange that they could not feel his presence, he bent 
 his eyes once more upon a scene that would imprint itself 
 upon his memory forever. 
 
 But while he stood there, another scene came before his 
 mental vision. Oddly enough his thought went back to 
 that far-off Southern brookside, where he had lain with his 
 hands in the cool water. He leaned against the window- 
 casing, with the Northern snow whirling about his head; 
 but he breathed the balmy breath of a Southern forest, the 
 wood-thrush sang in the trees overhead, and he could — so 
 it seemed to him — actually feel the water- worn pebbles under 
 his palms as he watched the life-blood ebbing from his side. 
 
332 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 Then there was a dim consciousness of rough but kindly 
 arms bearing him through the underbrush, and more dis- 
 tinctly the memory of weary weeks of convalescence in a 
 mountaineer's cabin. All these scenes of peril, before he 
 finally reached the Union lines, passed before him as he 
 stood in a species of trance beside the window of his 
 home. 
 
 The half- grown boys sent from the restaurant and toy- 
 shop could not be mistaken for Santa Glaus even by the 
 credulous fancy of the children, and Mrs. Marlow stepped 
 forward eagerly and said: 
 
 "I am sure there is some mistake. You are certainly 
 leaving these articles at the wrong house. ' ' The faces of 
 the children began to grow anxious and troubled also, for 
 even their faith could not accept such marvellous good- for- 
 tune. Jamie looked at the sled with a kind of awe, and saw 
 at a glance that it was handsomer than any in the street. 
 ''Mr. Lansing, a wealthy man, lives a little further on," 
 Mrs. Marlow began to urge; **and these things must be 
 meant — " 
 
 "Isn't your name Mrs. Anson Marlow?" asked the boy 
 from the restaurant. 
 
 ''Yes." 
 
 *'Then I must do as I've been told;" and he opened his 
 tray and placed the turkey, the ham, and the coffee on the 
 table. 
 
 "If he's right, I'm right too," said he of the toy-shop. 
 "Them was my directions;" and they were both about to 
 depart when the woman sprang forward and gasped: 
 "Stay!" 
 
 She clasped her hands and trembled violently. 
 
 "Who sent these things?" she faltered. 
 
 "Our bosses, mum," replied the boy from the restaurant, 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 She sprang toward him, seized his arm, and looked im- 
 ploringly into his face. "Who ordered them sent?" she 
 asked in a low, passionate voice. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE IN WAR TIMES 338 
 
 The young fellow began to smile, and stammered awk- 
 wardly, "I don't think I'm to tell." 
 
 She released his arm and glanced around with a look of 
 intense expectation. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" she gasped with quick short sobs, "can it 
 be — " Then she sprang to the door, opened it, and looked 
 out into the black, stormy night. What seemed a shadow 
 rushed toward her; she felt herself falling, but strong arms 
 caught and bore her, half fainting, to a lounge within the 
 room. 
 
 Many have died from sorrow, but few from joy. With 
 her husband's arms around her Mrs. Marlow's weakness 
 soon passed. In response to his deep, earnest tones of 
 soothing and entreaty, she speedily opened her eyes and 
 gave him a smile so full of content and unutterable joy 
 that all anxiety in her behalf began to pass from his mind. 
 
 "Yes," she said softly, "I can live now. It seems as if 
 a new and stronger life were coming back with every breath. " 
 
 The young fellows who had been the bearers of the gifts 
 were so touched that they drew their rough sleeves across 
 their eyes as they hastened away, closing the door on the 
 happiest family in the city. 
 
A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS 
 
 A TRADITION OF THE REVOLUTION 
 
 NOT very far from the Highlands of the Hudson, but 
 at a considerable distance from the river, there 
 stood, one hundred years ago, a farmhouse that 
 evidently had been built as much for strength and defence 
 as for comfort. The dwelling was one story and a half in 
 height, and was constructed of hewn logs, fitted closely to- 
 gether, and made impervious to the weather by old-fash- 
 ioned mortar, which seems to defy the action of time. Two 
 entrances facing each other led to the main or living room, 
 and they were so large that a horse could pass through 
 them, dragging in immense back-logs. These, having been 
 detached from a chain when in the proper position, were 
 rolled into the huge fireplace that yawned like a sooty 
 cavern at the farther end of the apartment. A modern 
 housekeeper, who finds wood too dear an article for even 
 the air-tight stove, would be appalled by this fireplace. 
 Stalwart Mr. Eeynolds, the master of the house, could 
 easily walk under its stony arch without removing his 
 broad- brimmed Quaker hat. From the left side, and at a 
 convenient height from the hearth, a massive crane swung 
 in and out; while high above the centre of the fire was an 
 iron hook, or trammel, from which by chains were sus- 
 pended the capacious iron pots used in those days for culi- 
 nary or for stock-feeding purposes. This trammel, which 
 hitherto had suggested only good cheer, was destined to 
 have in coming years a terrible significance to the house- 
 hold. 
 (334 
 
A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS 335 
 
 When the blaze was moderate, or the bed of live coals 
 not too ample, the children could sit on either side of the 
 fireplace and watch the stars through its wide flue; and this 
 was a favorite amusement of Phebe Eeynolds, the eldest 
 daughter of the house. 
 
 A door opened from the living-room into the other 
 apartments, furnished in the old massive style that out- 
 lasts many generations. All the windows were protected 
 by stout oaken shutters which, when closed, almost trans- 
 formed the dwelling into a fortress, giving security against 
 any ordinary attack. There were no loopholes in the walls 
 through which the muzzle of the deadly rifle could be thrust 
 and fired from within. This feature, so common in the primi- 
 tive abodes of the country, was not in accordance with John 
 Keynolds's Quaker principles. While indisposed to fight, it 
 was evident that the good man intended to interpose between 
 himself and his enemies all the passive resistance that his 
 stout little domicile could offer. 
 
 And he knew that he had enemies of the bitterest and 
 most unscrupulous character. He was a stanch Whig, loyal 
 to the American cause, and, above all, resolute and active 
 in the maintenance of law and order in those lawless times. 
 He thus had made himself obnoxious to his Tory neighbors, 
 and an object of hate and fear to a gang of marauders, who, 
 under the pretence of acting with the British forces, plun- 
 dered the country far and near. Claudius Smith, the Kobin 
 Hood of the Highlands and the terror of the pastoral low 
 country, had formerly been their leader; and the sympathy 
 shown by Mr. Eeynolds with all the efforts to bring him to 
 justice which finally resulted in his capture and execution, 
 and awakened among his former associates an intense desire 
 for revenge. This fact, well known to the farmer, kept him 
 constantly on his guard, and filled his wife and daughter 
 Phebe with deep apprehension. 
 
 At the time of our story, Phebe was only twelve years of 
 age, but was mature beyond her years. There were several 
 younger children, and she had become almost womanly in 
 
386 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 aiding her mother in their care. Her stout, plump little 
 body had been developed rather than enfeebled by early 
 toil, and a pair of resolute and often mirthful blue eyes 
 bespoke a spirit not easily daunted. She was a native 
 growth of the period, vitalized by pure air and out-of-door 
 pursuits, and she abounded in the shrewd intelligence and 
 demure refinement of her sect to a degree that led some of 
 their neighbors to speak of her as "a little old woman." 
 When alone with the children, however, or in the woods 
 and fields, she would doff her Quaker primness, and romp, 
 climb trees, and frolic with the wildest. 
 
 But of late, the troublous times and her father's peril 
 had brought unwonted thoughtfulness into her blue eyes, 
 ^nd more than Quaker gravity to the fresh young face, 
 which, in spite of exposure to sun and wind, maintained 
 much of its inherited fairness of complexion. Of her own 
 accord she was becoming a vigilant sentinel, for a rumor 
 had reached Mr. Eeynolds that sooner or later he would 
 have a visit from the dreaded mountain gang of hard riders. 
 Two roads leading to the hills converged on the main high- 
 way not far from his dwelling; and from an adjacent knoll 
 Phebe often watched this place, while her father, with a lad 
 in his employ, completed their work about the barn. When 
 the shadows deepened, all was made as secure as possible 
 without and within, and the sturdy farmer, after commit- 
 ting himself and his household to the Divine protection, 
 slept as only brave men sleep who are clear in conscience 
 and accustomed to danger. 
 
 His faith was undoubtedly rewarded; but Providence in 
 the execution of its will loves to use vigilant human eyes 
 and ready, loving hands. The guardian angel destined to 
 protect the good man was his blooming daughter Phebe, 
 who had never thought of herself as an angel, and indeed 
 rarely thought of herself at all, as is usually the case with 
 those who do most to sweeten and brighten the world. She 
 was a natural, wholesome, human child, with all a child's 
 unconsciousness of self. She knew she could not protect 
 
A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS 837 
 
 her father like a great stalwart son, but she could watch 
 and warn him of danger, and as the sequel proved, she 
 could do far more. 
 
 The farmer's habits were well known, and the ruffians 
 of the mountains were aware that after he had shut himself 
 in he was much like Koah in his ark. If they attempted to 
 burn him out, the flames would bring down upon them 
 a score of neighbors not hampered bj Quaker principles. 
 Therefore they resolved upon a sudden onslaught before 
 he had finished the evening labors of the farm. This was 
 what the farmer feared; and Phebe, like a vigilant outpost, 
 was now never absent from her place of observation until 
 called in. 
 
 One spring evening she saw two mounted men descend- 
 ing one of the roads which led from the mountains. Instead 
 of jogging quietly out on the highway, as ordinary travel- 
 lers would have done, they disappeared among the trees. 
 Soon afterward she caught a glimpse of two other horsemen 
 on the second mountain road. One of these soon came into 
 , full view, and looked up and down as if to see that all was 
 clear. Apparently satisfied, he gave a low whistle, when 
 three men joined him. Phebe waited to see no more, but 
 sped toward the house, her flaxen curls flying from her 
 flushed and excited face. 
 
 "They are coming, father! Thee must be quick!" she 
 cried. 
 
 But a moment or two elapsed before all were within the 
 dwelling, the doors banged and barred, the heavy shutters 
 closed, and the home-fortress made secure. Phebe' s warn- 
 ing had come none too soon, for they had scarcely time to 
 take breath before the tramp of galloping horses and the 
 oaths of their baffled foes were heard without. The maraud- 
 ers did not dare make much noise, for fear that some pass- 
 ing neighbor might give the alarm. Tying their horses 
 behind the house, where they would be hidden from the 
 road, they tried various expedients to gain an entrance, 
 
 but the logs and heavy planks bafiled them. At last one 
 15— Roe— XI 
 
338 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 of the number suggested that they should ascend the roof 
 and climb down the wide flue of the chimney. This plan 
 was easy of execution, and for a few moments the stout 
 farmer thought that his hour had come. With a heroism 
 far beyond that of the man who strikes down his assailant, 
 he prepared to suffer all things rather than take life with 
 his own hands. 
 
 But his wife proved equal to this emergency. She had 
 been making over a bed, and a large basket of feathers was 
 within reach. There were live coals on the hearth, but they 
 did not give out enough heat to prevent the ruffians from 
 descending. Two of them were already in the chimney, 
 and were threatening horrible vengeance if the least resist- 
 ance was offered. Upon the coals on the hearth the house- 
 wife instantly emptied her basket of feathers; and a great 
 volume of pungent, stifling smoke poured up the chimney. 
 The threats of the men, who by means of ropes were cau- 
 tiously descending, were transformed into choking, half- 
 suffocated sounds, and it was soon evident that the in- 
 truders were scrambling out as fast as possible. A hurried^ 
 consultation on the roof ensued, and then, as if something 
 had alarmed them, they galloped off. With the exception 
 of the cries of the peepers, or hylas, in an adjacent swamp, 
 the night soon grew quiet around the closed and darkened 
 dwelling. Farmer Reynolds bowed in thanksgiving over 
 their escape, and then after watching a few hours, slept as 
 did thousands of others in those times of anxiety. 
 
 But Phebe did not sleep. She grew old by moments that 
 night as do other girls by months and years; as never before 
 she understood that her father's life was in peril. How 
 much that life meant to her and the little brood of which 
 she was the eldest! How much it meant to her dear mother, 
 who was soon again to give birth to a little one that would 
 need a father's protection and support! As the young girl 
 lay in her little attic room, with dilated eyes and ears intent 
 on the slightest sound, she was ready for any heroic self- 
 sacrifice, without once dreaming that she was heroic. 
 
A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS 839 
 
 The news of the night-attack spread fast, and there was 
 a period of increased vigilance which compelled the outlaws 
 to lie close in their mountain fastnesses. But Phebe knew 
 that her father's enemies were still at large with their hate 
 only stimulated because baffled for a time. Therefore she 
 did not in the least relax her watchfulness; and she be- 
 sought their nearest neighbors to come to their assistance 
 should any alarm be given. 
 
 When the spring and early summer passed without fur- 
 ther trouble, they all began to breathe more freely, but one 
 July night John Keynolds was betrayed by his patriotic im- 
 pulses. He was awakened by a loud knocking at his door. 
 Full of misgiving, he rose and hastily dressed himself; 
 Phebe, who had slipped on her clothes at the first alarm, 
 joined him and said earnestly: 
 
 "Don't thee open the door, father, to anybody, at this 
 time of night;" and his wife, now lying ill and helpless on 
 a bed in the adjoining room, added her entreaty to that 
 of her daughter. In answer, however, to Mr. Eey nolds's 
 inquiries a voice from without, speaking quietly and seem- 
 ingly with authority, asserted that they were a squad from 
 Washington's forces in search of deserters, and that no 
 harm would ensue unless he denied their lawful request. 
 Conscious of innocence, and aware that detachments were 
 often abroad on such authorized quests, Mr. Eeynolds un- 
 barred his door. The moment he opened it he saw his ter- 
 rible error; not soldiers, but the members of the moun- 
 tain gang, were crouched like wild beasts ready to spring 
 upon him. 
 
 "Fly, father!" cried Phebe. "They won't hurt us;" but 
 before the bewildered man could think what to do, the door 
 flew open from the pressure of half a dozen wild-looking 
 desperadoes, and he was powerless in their grasp. They 
 evidently designed murder, but not a quick and merciful 
 ** taking off"; they first heaped upon their victim the vilest 
 epithets, seeking in their thirst for revenge to inflict all the 
 terrors of death in anticipation. The good man, however, 
 
340 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 now face to face with his fate, grew calm and resigned. 
 Exasperated by his courage, they began to cut and torture 
 him with their swords and knives. Phebe rushed forward 
 to interpose her little form between her father and the 
 ruffians, and was dashed, half stunned, into a corner of 
 the room. Even for the sake of his sick wife, the brave 
 farmer could not refrain from uttering groans of anguish 
 which brought the poor woman with faltering steps into his 
 presence. After one glance at the awful scene she sank, 
 half fainting, on a settee near the door. 
 
 When the desire for plunder got the better of their fiend- 
 ish cruelty, one of the gang threw a noosed rope over Mr. 
 Keynolds's head, and then they hanged him to the trammel 
 or iron hook in the great chimney. 
 
 *'You can't smoke us out this time," they shouted. 
 "You've now got to settle with the avengers of Claudius 
 Smith; and you and some others will find us ugly custom- 
 ers to settle with." 
 
 They then rushed oQ to rob the house, for the farmer 
 was reputed to have not a little money in his strong box. 
 The moment they were gone Phebe seized a knife and cut 
 her father down. Terror and excitement gave her almost 
 supernatural strength, and with the aid of the boy in her 
 father's service she got the poor man on a bed which he had 
 occupied during his wife's illness. Her reviving mother was 
 beginning to direct her movements when the ruffians again 
 entered; and furious with rage, they again seized and hanged 
 her father, while one, more brutal than the others, whipped 
 the poor child with a heavy rope until he thought she was 
 disabled. The girl at first cowered and shivered under the 
 blows, and then sank as if lifeless on the floor. But the 
 moment she was left to herself she darted forward and once 
 more cut her father down. The robbers then flew upon the 
 prostrate man and cut and stabbed him until they supposed 
 he was dead. Toward his family they meditated a more 
 terrible and devilish cruelty. After sacking the house and 
 taking all the plunder they could carry, they relieved the 
 
A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS 341 
 
 horror-stricken wife and crying, shrieking children of their 
 presence. Their further action, however, soon inspired Phebe 
 with a new and more awful fear, for she found that they 
 had fastened the doors on the outside and were building 
 a fire against one of them. 
 
 For a moment an overpowering despair at the prospect 
 of their fate almost paralyzed her. She believed her father 
 was dead. The boy who had aided her at first was now 
 dazed and helpless from terror. If aught could be done in 
 this supreme moment of peril she saw that it must be done 
 by her hands. The smoke from the kindling fire without 
 was already curling in through the crevices around the 
 door. There was not a moment, not a second to be lost. 
 The ruffians' voices were growing fainter and she heard 
 the sounds of their horses' feet. Would they go away in 
 time for her to extinguish the fire ? She ran to her attio 
 room and cautiously opened the shutter. Yes, they were 
 mounting; and in the faint light of the late- rising moon 
 she saw that they were taking her father's horses. A mo- 
 ment later, as if fearing that the blaze might cause imme- 
 diate pursuit, they dashed off toward the mountains. 
 
 The clatter of their horses' hoofs had not died away be- 
 fore the intrepid girl had opened the shutter of a window 
 nearest the ground, and springing lightly out with a pail 
 in her hand she rushed to the trough near the barn, which 
 she knew was full of water. Back and forth she flew be- 
 tween the fire and the convenient reservoir with all the 
 water that her bruised arms and back permitted her to 
 carry. Fortunately the night was a little damp, and the 
 stout thick door had kindled slowly. To her intense joy 
 she soon gained the mastery of the flames, and at last ex- 
 tinguished them. 
 
 She did not dare to open the door for fear that the rob- 
 bers might return, but clambering in at the window, made 
 all secure as had been customary, for now it was her im- 
 pulse to do just as her father would have done. 
 
 She found her mother on her knees beside her father, 
 
842 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 who would indeed have been a ghastly and awful object to 
 all but the eyes of love. 
 
 "Oh, Phebe, I hope— I almost believe thy father lives!" 
 cried the woman. ''Is it my throbbing palm, or does his 
 heart still beat?" 
 
 "I'm sure it beats, mother!" cried the girl, putting her 
 little hand on the gashed and mangled body. 
 
 "Oh, then there's hope! Here, Abner," to the boy, 
 "isn't there any man in thee ? Help Phebe get him on the 
 bed, and then we must stop this awful bleeding. Oh, that 
 I were well and strong! Phebe, thee must now take my 
 place. Thee may save thy father's life. I can tell thee 
 what to do if thee has the courage. ' ' 
 
 Phebe had the courage and with deft hands did her 
 mother's bidding. She stanched the many gaping wounds; 
 she gave spirits at first drop by drop, until at last the man 
 breathed and was conscious. Even before the dawn began 
 to brighten over the dreaded Highlands which their ruth- 
 less enemies were already climbing, Phebe was flying, bare- 
 headed, across the fields to their nearest neighbor. The 
 good people heard of the outrage with horror and indigna- 
 tion. A half-grown lad sprang on the bare back of a young 
 horse and galloped across the country for a surgeon. A few 
 moments later the farmer, equipped for chase and battle, 
 dashed away at headlong pace to alarm the neighborhood. 
 The news sped from house to house and hamlet to hamlet 
 like fire in prairie grass. ' The sun had scarcely risen before 
 a dozen bronzed and stern-browed men were riding into 
 John Reynolds' s farm-yard under the lead of young Hal 
 June — the best shot that the wars had left in the region. 
 The surgeon had already arrived, and before he ceased from 
 his labors he had dressed thirty wounds. 
 
 The story told by Phebe had been as brief as it was ter- 
 rible — for she was eager to return to her father and sick 
 mother. She had not dreamed of herself as the heroine of 
 the affair, and had not given any such impression, although 
 more than one had remarked that she was "a plucky little 
 
A BRAVE LITTLE QUAKERESS 343 
 
 chick to give the alarm before it was light." But when the 
 proud mother faintly and tearfully related the particulars 
 of the tragedy, and told how Phebe had saved her father's 
 life and probably her mother's — for, "I was too sick to 
 climb out of a window," she said; when she told how the 
 child after a merciless whipping had again cut her father 
 down from the trammel-hook, had extinguished the fire, 
 and had been nursing her father back to life, while all the 
 time in almost agony herself from the cruel blows that had 
 been rained upon her— Phebe was dazed and bewildered at 
 the storm of applause that greeted her. And when the sur- 
 geon, in order to intensify the general desire for vengeance, 
 showed the great welts and scars on her arms and neck, 
 gray-bearded fathers who had known her from infancy took 
 her into their arms and blessed and kissed her. For once 
 in his life young Hal June wished he was a gray- beard, but 
 his course was much more to the mind of Phebe than any 
 number of caresses would have been. Springing on his 
 great black horse, and with his dark eyes burning with 
 a fire that only blood could quench, he shouted: 
 
 *'Come, neighbors, it's time for deeds. That brave little 
 woman ought to make a man of every mother's son of us;" 
 and he dashed away so furiously that Phebe thought with 
 a strange little tremor at her heart that he might in his 
 speed face the robbers all alone. The stout yeomen clat- 
 tered after him; the sound of their pursuit soon died away; 
 and Phebe returned to woman's work of nursing, watching, 
 and praying. 
 
 The bandits of the hills, not expecting such prompt re- 
 taliation, were overtaken, and then followed a headlong 
 race over the rough mountain roads — guilty wretches fly- 
 ing for life, and stern men almost reckless in the burning 
 desire to avenge a terrible wrong. Although the horses 
 of the marauders were tired, their riders were so well ac- 
 quainted with the fastnesses of the wilderness tjiat they 
 led the pursuers through exceedingly difficult and danger- 
 ous paths. At last, Jup'^ ^ver in the van, caught sight of 
 
844 TAKEN ALIVE: AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 a man's form, and almost instantly his rifle awoke a hun- 
 dred echoes among the hills. When they reached the place, 
 stains of blood marked the ground, proving that at least 
 a wound had been given. Just beyond, the gang evidently 
 had dispersed, each one for himself, leaving behind every- 
 thing that impeded their progress. The region was almost 
 impenetrable in its wildness except by those who knew all 
 its rugged paths. The body of the man whom June had 
 wounded, however, was found, clothed in a suit of Quaker 
 drab stolen from Mr. Eeynolds. The rest of the band with 
 few exceptions met with fates that accorded with their 
 deeds. 
 
 Phebe had the happiness of nursing her father back to 
 health, and although maimed and disfigured, he lived 
 to a ripe old age. If the bud is the promise of the flower, 
 Phebe must have developed a womanhood that was regal 
 in its worth; at the same time I believe that she always 
 remained a modest, demure little Quakeress, and never 
 thought of her virtues except when reminded of them in 
 plain English. 
 
 Note — In the preceding narrative I hare followed almost literally a family 
 tradition of events which actually occurred. 
 
 THE ENE 
 
THE HOME ACRE 
 
 Copyright, 1886 and 1887, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 Copyright, 1889, by DODD, MEAD, & COMPANY. 
 All rights rtserved. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 Tree-Planting . 5 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 Fruit-Trees and Grass . . . . c 22 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 The GrARDEN c .... 38 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 The Vineyard and Orchard 65 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 The Raspberry 74 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 The Currant 90 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 Strawberries 107 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 The Kitchen-Garden 126 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 The Kitchen-Garden {Concluded) 141 
 
THE HOME ACRE 
 
 CHAPTER 1 
 
 TREE-PLANTING 
 
 LAND hunger is so general that it may be regarded as 
 a natural craving. Artificial modes of life, it is true, 
 can destroy it, but it is apt to reassert itself in later 
 generations. To tens of thousands of bread-winners in cities 
 a country home is the dream of the future, the crown and 
 reward of their life-toil. Increasing numbers are taking 
 what would seem to be the wiser course, and are combin- 
 ing rural pleasures and advantages with their business. 
 As the questions of rapid transit are solved, the welfare of 
 children will turn the scale more and more often against 
 the conventional city house or flat. A home can be created 
 in rented dwellings and apartments; but a home for which 
 we have the deed, a cottage surrounded by trees, flowers, 
 lawn, and garden, is the refuge which best satisfies the 
 heart. By means of such a suburban nook we can keep up 
 our relations with Nature and all her varied and health-giv- 
 ing life. The tired man returning from business finds that 
 his excited brain will not cease to act. He can enjoy restor- 
 ing rest in the complete diversion of his thoughts; he can 
 think of this tree or that plant, and how he can fill to ad- 
 vantage unoccupied spaces with other trees, flowers, and 
 vegetables. If there is a Jersey cow to welcome him with 
 her placid trust, a good roadster to whinny for an airing, 
 and a flock of chickens to clamor about his feet for their 
 supper, his jangling nerves will be quieted, in spite of all 
 
 (6) 
 
b THE HOME ACRE 
 
 the bulls and bears of Wall Street. Best of all, he will see 
 that his children have air and space in which to grow nat- 
 urally, healthfully. His fruit-trees will testify to his wis- 
 dom in providing a country home. For instance, he will 
 observe that if sound plums are left in contact with stung 
 and decaying specimens, they too will be infected; he will 
 see that too close crowding renders the prospect for good 
 fruit doubtful; and, by natural transition of thought, will 
 be glad that his boys and girls are not shut in to the fortui- 
 tous associations of hall- way and stfreet. 
 
 The area of land purchased will depend largely on the de- 
 sires and purse of the buyer; but about one acre appears to 
 satisfy the majority of people. This amount is not so great 
 that the business man is burdened with care, nor is its limit 
 so small that he is cramped and thwarted by line fences. If 
 he can give to his bit of Eden but little thought and money, 
 he will find that an acre can be so laid out as to entail com- 
 paratively small expense in either the one or the other; if 
 he has the time and taste to make the land his play -ground 
 as well as that of his children, scope is afforded for an al- 
 most infinite variety of pleasing labors and interesting ex- 
 periments. When we come to co-work with Nature, all we 
 do has some of the characteristics of an experiment. The 
 labor of the year is a game of skill, into which also enter 
 the fascinating elements of apparent chance. What a tree, 
 a flower, or vegetable bed will give, depends chiefly upon 
 us; yet all the vicissitudes of dew, rain, frost, and sun, 
 have their part in the result. We play the game with Na- 
 ture, and she will usually let us win if we are not careless, 
 ignorant, or stupid. She keeps up our zest by never per- 
 mitting the game to be played twice under the same condi- 
 tions. We can no more carry on our garden this season 
 precisely as we did last year than a captain can sail his ship 
 exactly as he did on the preceding voyage. A country 
 home makes even the weather interesting; and the rise and 
 fall of the mercury is watched with scarcely less solicitude 
 than the mutations of the market. 
 
TREE-PLANTING 7' 
 
 In this chapter and in those which may ensue I merely 
 hope to make some useful suggestions and give practical 
 advice — the result of experience, my own and others' — 
 which the reader may carry out and modify according to 
 his judgment. 
 
 We will suppose that an acre has been bought; that it is 
 comparatively level, with nothing of especial value upon it 
 — in brief, that the home and its surroundings are still to be 
 created. 
 
 It is not within my design to treat of the dwelling, its 
 architecture, etc., but we shall have something to say fur-- 
 ther on in regard to its location. Before purchasing, the 
 most careful investigations should be made as to the health- 
 fulness of the region and the opportunities for thorough 
 drainage. Having bought the acre, the question of remov- 
 ing all undue accumulations of water on or beneath the sur- 
 face should be attended to at first. The dry appearance of 
 the soil during much of the year may be misleading. It 
 should be remembered that there are equinoctial storms 
 and melting snows. Superabundant moisture at every 
 period should have channels of immediate escape, for 
 moisture in excess is an injury to plant as well as to fam- 
 ily life; while thoroughly and quickly drained land en*» 
 dures drought far better than that which is rendered heavy 
 and sour by water stagnating beneath the surface. Tile- 
 drains are usually the cheapest and most effective; but if 
 there are stones and rocks upon the place, they can be util- 
 ized and disposed of at the same time by their burial in^ 
 ditches — and they should be covered so deeply that a plow, 
 although sunk to the beam, can pass over them. Tiles or 
 the top ot a stone drain should be at least two feet below 
 the surface. If the ground of the acre is underlaid with a 
 porous subsoil, there is usually an adequate natural drainage. 
 
 Making haste slowly is often the quickest way to desired 
 results. It is the usual method to erect the dwelling first, 
 and afterward to subdue and enrich the ground gradually. 
 This in many instances may prove the best course; but when. 
 
8 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 it is practicable, I should advise that building be deferred 
 until the land (with the exception of the spaces to be occu- 
 pied with the house and barn) can be covered with a heavy 
 dressing of barnyard manure, and that this be plowed under 
 in the autumn. Such general enriching of the soil may seem 
 a waste in view of the carriage-drive and walks yet to be laid 
 out; but this will not prove true. It should be remembered 
 that while certain parts of the place are to be kept bare of 
 surface-vegetation, they nevertheless will form a portion of 
 the root-pasturage of the shade and fruit trees. The land, 
 also, can be more evenly and deeply plowed before obstruc- 
 tions are placed upon it, and roots, pestiferous weeds, and 
 stones removed with greatest economy. Moreover, the 
 good initial enriching is capital, hoarded m the soil, to 
 start with. On many new places I have seen trees and 
 plants beginning a feeble and uncertain life, barely exist- 
 ing rather than growing, because their roots found the soil 
 like a table with dishes but without food. If the fertilizer 
 is plowed under in the autumn, again mixed with the soil 
 by a second plowing in the spring, it will be decomposed 
 and ready for immediate use by every rootlet in contact 
 with it. Now, as farmers say, the "land is in good heart," 
 and it will cheer its owner's heart to see the growth promptly 
 made by whatever is properly planted. Instead of losing 
 time, he has gained years. Suppose the acre to have been 
 bought in September, and treated as I have indicated, it is 
 ready for a generous reception of plants and trees the fol- 
 lowing spring. 
 
 Possibly at the time of purchase the acre may be covered 
 with coarse grass, weeds, or undergrowth of some kind. In 
 this case, after the initial plowing, the cultivation for a sea- 
 son of some such crop as corn or potatoes may be of great 
 advantage in clearing the land, and the proceeds of the 
 crop would partially meet expenses. If the aim is merely 
 to subdue and clean the land as quickly as possible, nothing 
 is better than buckwheat, sown thickly and plowed under 
 just as it comes into blossom. It is the nature of this ram- 
 
TREE-PLANTING .9 
 
 pant-growing grain to kill out everything else and leave the 
 soil light and mellow. If the ground is encumbered with 
 many stones and rocks, the question of clearing it is more 
 complicated. They can be used, and often sold to advan- 
 tage, for building purposes. In some instances I have seen 
 laboring- men clear the most unpromising plots of ground by 
 burying all rocks and stones deeply beneath the surface — 
 men, too, who had no other time for the task except the 
 brief hours before and after their daily toil. 
 
 I shall give no distinct plan for laying out the ground. 
 The taste of the owner, or more probably that of his wife, 
 will now come into play. Their ideas also will be modified 
 by many local circumstances — as, for instance, the undula- 
 tions of the land, if there are any; proximity to neighbors, 
 etc. If little besides shade and lawn is desired, this fact 
 will have a controlling influence; if, on the other hand, the 
 proprietor wishes to make his acre as productive as possible, 
 the house will be built nearer the street, wider open space 
 will be left for the garden, and fruit-trees will predominate 
 over those grown merely for shade and beauty. There are 
 few who would care to follow a plan which many others had 
 adopted. Indeed, it would be the natural wish of persons 
 of taste to impart something of their own individuality to 
 their rural home ; and the effort to do this would afford 
 much agreeable occupation. Plates giving the elevation 
 and arrangement of country homes can be studied by the 
 evening lamp; visits to places noted for their beauty, sim- 
 plicity, and good taste will afford motives for many a breezy 
 drive; while useful suggestions from what had been accom- 
 plished by others may repay for an extended journey. Such 
 observations and study will cost little more than an agree- 
 able expenditure of time; and surely a home is worth care- 
 ful thought. It then truly becomes your home — something 
 that you have evolved with loving effort. Dear thoughts of 
 wife and children enter into its very materiality; walks are 
 planned with a loving consciousness of the feet which are 
 to tread them, and trees planted with prophetic vision of 
 
10 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 the groups that will gather beneath the shade. This could 
 scarcely be true if the acre were turned over to architect, 
 builders, and landscape-gardeners, with an agreement that 
 you should have possession at a specified time. 
 
 We will suppose that it is early spring, that the ground 
 has received its second plowing, and that the carriage- drive 
 and the main walks have been marked out* on paper, or, 
 better still, on a carefully considered map. There is now 
 so much to do that one is almost bewildered; and the old 
 saying, "Rome was not built in a day," is a good thing to 
 remember. An orderly succession of labor will bring beauty 
 and comfort in good time, especially if essential or founda- 
 tion labors are first well performed. Few things will prove 
 more satisfactory than dry, hard, smooth carriage- roads and 
 walks. These, with their curves, can be carefully staked 
 out, the surface-earth between the stakes to the depth of 
 four or five inches carted to the rear of the place near the 
 stable, or the place where the stable is to be. Of the value 
 of this surface-soil we shall speak presently, and will merely 
 remark in passing that it is amply worth the trouble of sav- 
 ing. Its removal leaves the beds of the driveway and walks 
 depressed several inches below the surrounding surface. 
 Fill these shallow excavations with little stones, the larger 
 in the bottom, the smaller on top, and cover all with gravel. 
 You now have roads and walks that will be dry and hard 
 even in oozy March, and you can stroll about your place 
 the moment the heaviest shower is over. The greater first 
 cost will be more than made good by the fact that scarcely 
 a weed can start or grow on pathways thus treated. All 
 they will need is an occasional rounding up and smoothing 
 with a rake. 
 
 While this labor is going on you can begin the planting 
 of trees. To this task I would earnestly ask careful atten- 
 tion. Your house can be built in a summer; but it requires 
 a good part of a century to build the best trees into any- 
 thing like perfection. 
 
 The usual tendency is to plant much too closely. Ob- 
 
TREE-PLANTING 11 
 
 serve well- developed trees, and see how wide a space they 
 require. There is naturally an eager wish for shade as soon 
 as possible, and a desire to banish from surroundings an 
 aspect of bareness. These purposes can, it is true, often 
 be accomplished by setting out more trees at first than 
 could mature, and by taking out one and another from 
 time to time when they begin to interfere with each other's 
 growth. One symmetrical, noble tree, however, is certainly 
 worth more than a dozen distorted, misshapen specimens. 
 If given space, every kind of tree and shrub will develop 
 its own individuality; aiMl herein lies one of their greatest 
 charms. If the oak typifies manhood, the drooping elm is 
 equally suggestive of feminine grace, while the sugar- 
 maple, prodigal of its rich juices, tasselled bloom, and 
 winged seeds, reminds us of wholesome, cheerful natures. 
 Even when dying, its foliage takes on the earliest and rich- 
 est hues of autumn. 
 
 The trees about our door become in a sense our com- 
 panions. They appeal to the eye, fancy, and feelings of 
 different people differently. Therefore I shall leave the 
 choice of arboreal associates to those who are to plant 
 them — a choice best guided by observation of trees. Why 
 should you not plant those you like the best, those which 
 are the most congenial ? 
 
 A few suggestions, however, may be useful. I would 
 advise the reader not to be in too great haste to fill up his 
 grounds. While there are trees to which his choice reverts 
 almost instantly, there are probably many other beautiful 
 varieties with which he is not acquainted. If he has kept 
 space for the planting of something new every spring and 
 fall, he has done much to preserve his zest in his rural sur- 
 roundings, and to give a pleasing direction to his summer 
 observation. He is ever on the alert to discover trees and 
 shrubs that satisfy his taste. 
 
 During the preparation of this book I visited the grounds 
 of Mr. A. S. Fuller, at Bidgewood, N. J., and for an hour 
 or two I broke the tenth commandment in spite of myself. 
 
12 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 I was surrounded by trees from almost every portion of the 
 northern temperate zone, from Oregon to Japan; and in 
 Mr. Fuller I had a guide whose sympathy with his arboreal 
 pets was only equalled by his knowledge of their character- 
 istics. All who love trees should possess his book entitled 
 "Practical Forestry." If it could only be put into the 
 hands of law-makers, and they compelled to learn much 
 of its contents by heart, they would cease to be more or 
 less conscious traitors to their country in allowing the de- 
 struction of forests. They might avert the verdict of the 
 future, and prevent posterity from denouncing the irrep- 
 arable wrong which is now permitted with impunity. 
 The Arnolds of to-day are those who have the power to 
 save the trees, yet fail to do so. 
 
 Japan appears to be doing as much to adorn our lawns 
 and gardens as our drawing-rooms; and from this and other 
 foreign lands much that is beautiful or curious is coming 
 annually to our shores. At the same time I was convinced 
 of the wisdom of Mr. Fuller's appreciation of our native 
 trees. In few instances should we have to go far from 
 home to find nearly all that we wanted in beautiful variety 
 — maples, dogwoods, scarlet and chestnut oaks, the liquid- 
 amber, the whitewood or tulip-tree, white birch, and horn- 
 beam, or the hop-tree; not to speak of the evergreens and 
 shrubs indigenous to our forests. Perhaps it is not gen- 
 erally known that the persimmon, so well remembered by 
 old campaigners in Virginia, will grow readily in this lati- 
 tude. There are forests of this tree around Paterson, N. J., 
 and it has been known to endure twenty-seven degrees be- 
 low zero. It is a handsome tree at any season, and its fruit 
 in November caused much straggling from our line of march 
 in the South. Then there is our clean- boled, graceful beech, 
 whose smooth white bark has received so many tender con- 
 fidences. In the neighborhood of a village you will rarely 
 find one of these trees whereon is not linked the names of 
 lovers that have sat beneath the shade. Indeed I have 
 found mementoes of trysts or rambles deep in the forest 
 
TEEE-PLANTING 13 
 
 of which the faithful beech has kept the record until the 
 lovers were old or dead. On an immense old beech in 
 Tennessee there is an inscription which, while it suggests 
 a hug, presents to the fancy an experience remote from 
 a lover's embrace. It reads, "D. Boone cilled bar on 
 tree." 
 
 There is one objection to the beech which also lies against 
 the white oak — it does not drop its leaves within the space 
 of a few autumn days. The bleached foliage is falling all 
 winter long, thus giving the ground near an untidy aspect. 
 With some, the question of absolute neatness is paramount; 
 with others, leaves are clean dirt, and their rustle in the 
 wind does not cease to be music even after they have fallen. 
 
 Speaking of native trees and shrubs, we shall do well to 
 use our eyes carefully during our summer walks and drives; 
 for if we do, we can scarcely fail to fall in love with types 
 and varieties growing wild. They will thrive just as well 
 on the acre if properly removed. In a sense they bring the * 
 forest with them, and open vistas at our door deep into 
 the heart of Nature. The tree is not only a thing of beauty 
 in itself, but it represents to the fancy all its wild haunts 
 the world over. 
 
 In gratifying our taste for native trees we need not con- 
 fine ourselves to those indigenous to our own locality. 
 From the nurseries we can obtain specimens that beautify 
 other regions of our broad land ; as, for instance, the Ken- 
 tucky yellow-wood, the papaw, the Judas-tree, and, in the 
 latitude of New Jersey and southward, the holly. 
 
 In many instances the purchaser of the acre may find a 
 lasting pleasure in developing a specialty. He may desire 
 to gather about him all the drooping or weeping trees that 
 will grow in his latitude, or he may choose to turn his acre 
 largely into a nut-orchard, and delight his children with 
 a harvest which they will gather with all the zest of the 
 frisky red squirrel. If one could succeed in obtaining a 
 bearing tree of Hale's paper-shell hickory-nut, he would 
 have a prize indeed. Increasing attention is given to the 
 
14 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 growing of nut-trees in our large nurseries, and there would 
 be no difficulty in obtaining a supply. 
 
 In passing from this subject of choice in deciduous trees 
 and shrubs, 1 would suggest, in addition to visits to woods 
 and copse, to the well-ornamented places of men who have 
 long gratified a fine taste in this respect, that the reader 
 also make time to see occasionally a nursery like that of 
 S. B. Parsons & Co., at Flushing, N. Y. There is no teach- 
 ing like that of the eyes; and the amateur who would do 
 a bit of landscape-gardening about his own home learns 
 what he would like and what he can do by seeing shrubs 
 and trees in their various stages of growth and beauty. 
 
 1 shall treat the subject of evergreens at the close of this 
 chapter. 
 
 As a rule, I have not much sympathy with the effort to 
 set out large trees in the hope of obtaining shade more 
 quickly. The trees have to be trimmed up and cut back so 
 * greatly that their symmetry is often destroyed. They are 
 also apt to be checked in their growth so seriously by such 
 removal that a slender sapling, planted at the same time, 
 overtakes and passes them. I prefer a young tree, straight- 
 stemmed, healthy, and typical of its species or variety. 
 Then we may watch its rapid natural development as we 
 would that of a child. Still, when large trees can be re- 
 moved in winter with a great ball of frozen earth that 
 insures the preservation of the fibrous roots, much time 
 can be saved. It should ever be remembered that prompt, 
 rapid growth of the transplanted tree depends on two 
 things — plenty of small fibrous roots, and a fertile soil to 
 receive them. It usually happens that the purchaser em- 
 ploys a local citizen to aid in putting his ground in order. 
 In every rural neighborhood there are smart men — "smart" 
 is the proper adjective; for they are neither sagacious nor 
 trustworthy, and there is ever a dismal hiatus between their 
 promises and performance. Such men lie in wait for new- 
 comers, to take advantage of their inexperience and neces- 
 sary absence. They will assure their confiding employers 
 
TREE-PLANTINQ 16 
 
 that they are beyond learning anything new in the planting 
 of trees — which is true, in a sinister sense. They will leave 
 roots exposed to sun and wind — in brief, pay no more atten- 
 tion to them than a baby-farmer would bestow on an in- 
 fant's appetite; and then, when convenient, thrust them 
 into a hole scarcely large enough for a post. They expect 
 to receive their money long before the dishonest character 
 of their work can be discovered. The number of trees 
 which this class of men have dwarfed or killed outright 
 would make a forest. The result of a well-meaning yet 
 ignorant man's work might be equally unsatisfactory. 
 Therefore, the purchaser of the acre should know how a 
 tree should be planted, and see to it himself; or he should 
 by careful inquiry select a man for the task who could 
 bring testimonials from those to whom he had rendered 
 like services in the past. 
 
 The hole destined to receive a shade or fruit tree should 
 be at least three feet in diameter and two feet deep. It then 
 should be partially filled with good surface soil, upon which 
 the tree should stand, so that its roots could extend natu- 
 rally according to their original growth. Good fine loam 
 should be sifted through and over them, and they should 
 not be permitted to come in contact with decaying matter 
 or coarse, unfermented manure. The tree should be set as 
 deeply in the soil as it stood when first taken up. As the 
 earth is thrown gently through and over the roots it should 
 be packed lightly against them with the foot, and water, 
 should the season be rather dry and warm, poured in from 
 time to time to settle the fine soil about them. The surface 
 should be levelled at last with a slight dip toward the tree, 
 so that spring and summer rains may be retained directly 
 about the roots. Then a mulch of coarse manure is helpful, 
 for it keeps the surface moist, and its richness will reach 
 the roots gradually in a diluted form. A mulch of straw, 
 leaves, or coarse hay is better than none at all. After 
 being planted, three stout stakes should be inserted firmly 
 in the earth at the three points of a triangle, the tree being 
 
16 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 its centre. Then by a rope of straw or some soft material 
 the tree should be braced firmly between the protecting 
 stakes, and thus it is kept from being whipped around by 
 the wind. Should periods of drought ensue during the 
 growing season, it would be well to rake the mulch one 
 side, and saturate the ground around the young tree with 
 an abundance of water, and the mulch afterward spread as 
 before. Such watering is often essential, and it should be 
 thorough. Unskilled persons usually do more harm than 
 good by their half-way measures in this respect. 
 
 Speaking of trees, it may so happen that the acre is 
 already in forest. Then, indeed, there should be careful 
 discrimination in the use of the axe. It may be said that 
 a fine tree is in the way of the dwelling. Perhaps the pro- 
 posed dwelling is in the way of the tree. In England the 
 work of "groviag," or thinning out trees, is carried to 
 the perfection of a fine art. One shudders at the havoc 
 which might be' made by a stolid laborer. Indeed, to nearly 
 all who could be employed in preparing a wooded acre for 
 habitation, a tree would be looked upon as little more than 
 so much cord- wood or lumber. 
 
 If I had a wooded acre I should study the trees most 
 carefully before coming to any decision as to the situation 
 of the dwelling and out-buildings.. Having removed those 
 obviously unworthy to remain, I should put in the axe very 
 thoughtfully among the finer specimens, remembering that 
 1 should be under the soil before Nature could build others 
 like them. 
 
 In the fitting up of this planet as the home of mankind 
 it would appear that the Creator regarded the conifei'SB, or 
 evergreen family, as well worthy of attention; for almost 
 from the first, according to geologists, this family records 
 on the rocky tablets of the earth its appearance, large and 
 varied development, and its adaptation to each change in 
 climate and condition of the globe's surface during the 
 countless ages of preparation. Surely, therefore, he who 
 is evolving a home on one acre of the earth's area cannot 
 
TRBE-PLANTINO 17 
 
 neglect a genus of trees that has been so signally honored. 
 Evergreens will speedily banish the sense of newness from 
 his grounds; for by putting them about his door he has 
 added the Imk which connects his acre with the earliest 
 geological record of tree- planting. Then, like Diedrich 
 Knickerbocker, who felt that he must trace the province 
 of New York back to the origin of the universe, he can 
 look upon his coniferae and feel that his latest work is in 
 accord with one of the earliest laws of creation. I imagine, 
 however, that my readers' choice of evergreens will be de- 
 termined chiefly by the fact that they are always beautiful, 
 are easily managed, and that by means of them beautiful 
 effects can be created within comparatively small space. 
 On Mr. Fuller's grounds I saw what might be fittingly 
 termed a small parterre of dwarf evergreens, some of which 
 were twenty-five years old. 
 
 Numbers of this family might be described as evergreen 
 and gold; for part of the perennial foliage shades off from 
 the deepest green to bright golden hues. Among the group 
 of this variety, Japanese in origin, Mr. Fuller showed me 
 a "sporting" specimen, which, from some obscure and re- 
 markable impulse, appeared bent on producing a new and 
 distinct type. One of the branches was quite different from 
 all the others on the tree. It was pressed down and layered 
 in the soil beneath; when lo! a new tree was produced, set 
 out beside its parent, whom it soon surpassed in size, 
 beauty, and general vigor. Although siill maintaining its 
 green and golden hues, it was so distinct that no one would 
 dream that it was but a "sport" from the adjacent dwarf 
 and modest tree. Indeed, it reminded one of Beatrix Es- 
 mond beside her gentle and retiring mother. If it should 
 not in the future emulate in caprice the fair subject of com- 
 parison, it may eventually become one of the best- known 
 ornaments of our lawns. At present it appears nowise in- 
 clined to hide its golden light under a bushel. 
 
 What I have said about forming the acquaintance of 
 deciduous trees and shrubs before planting to any great 
 
18 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 extent, applies with even greater force to the evergreen 
 family. There is a large and beautiful variety from which 
 to choose, and I would suggest that the choice be made 
 chiefly from the dwarf-growing kinds, since the space of 
 one acre is too limited for much indulgence in ^Norway 
 spruces, the firs, or pines. An hour with a note- book spent 
 in grounds like those of Mr. Fuller would do more in aiding 
 a satisfactory selection than years of reading. Moreover, it 
 should, be remembered that many beautiful evergreens, 
 especially those of foreign origin, are but half hardy. The 
 amateur may find that after an exceptionally severe winter 
 some lovely specimen, which has grown to fill a large space 
 in his heart, as well as on his acre, has been killed. There 
 is an ample choice from entirely hardy varieties for every 
 locality, and these, by careful inquiry of trustworthy 
 nurserymen, should be obtained. 
 
 Moreover, it should be remembered that few evergreens 
 will thrive in a wet, heavy soil. If Nature has not pro- 
 vided thorough drainage by means of a porous subsoil, the 
 work must be done artificially. As a rule, light but not 
 poor soils, and warm exposures, are best adapted to this 
 genus of trees. 
 
 I think that all authorities agree substantially that spring 
 in our climate is the best time for the transplanting of ever- 
 greens; but they differ between early and advanced spring. 
 The late Mr. A. J. Downing preferred early spring; that is, 
 as soon as the frost is out, and the ground dry enough to 
 crumble freely. Mr. A. S. Fuller indorses this opinion. 
 Mr. Josiah Hoopes, author of a valuable work entitled 
 "The Book of Evergreens," advises that transplanting be 
 deferred to later spring, when the young trees are just 
 beginning their season's growth; and this view has the 
 approval of the Hon. Marshall P. Wilder and Mr. S. B. 
 Parsons, Jr., Superintendent of City Parks. Abundant 
 success is undoubtedly achieved at both seasons; but 
 should a hot, dry period ensue after the later planting — 
 
TREE-PLANTING 19 
 
 early May, for instance — only abundant watering and dili- 
 gent mulching will save the trees. 
 
 It should be carefully remembered that the evergreen 
 families do not possess the vitality of deciduous trees, and 
 are more easily injured or killed by removal. The roots of 
 the former are more sensitive to exposure to dry air and 
 to sunlight; and much more certainty of life and growth 
 is secured if the transfer can be accomplished in cloudy 
 or rainy weather. The roots should never be permitted to 
 become dry, and it is well also to sprinkle the foliage at the 
 time of planting. Moreover, do not permit careless work- 
 men to save a few minutes in the digging of the trees. 
 Every fibrous root that can be preserved intact is a promise 
 of life and vigor. If a nurseryman should send me an as- 
 sortment of evergreens with only the large woody roots left, 
 I should refuse to receive the trees. 
 
 What I have said in opposition to the transplanting of 
 large trees applies with greater force to evergreens. Mr. 
 Hoopes writes; "An error into which many unpracticed 
 planters frequently fall is that of planting large trees; and 
 it is one which we consider opposed to sound common- 
 sense. We are aware that the owner of every new place is 
 anxious to produce what is usually known as an immediate 
 effect^ and therefore he proceeds to plant large evergreens, 
 covering his grounds with great unsightly trees. In almost 
 every case of this kind the lower limbs are apt to die, and 
 thus greatly disfigure the symmetry of the trees. Young, 
 healthy plants, when carefully taken up and as properly 
 replanted, are never subject to this disfigurement, and are 
 almost certain to form handsome specimens. ' ' 
 
 Any one who has seen the beautiful pyramids, cones, 
 and mounds of green into which so many varieties develop, 
 if permitted to grow according to the laws of their being, 
 should not be induced to purchase old and large trees which 
 nurserymen are often anxious to part with before they be- 
 come utterly unsalable. 
 
 When the evergreens reach the acre, plant them with 
 16-RoE-Xl 
 
20 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 the same care and on the same general principles indicated 
 for other trees. Let the soil be mellow and good. Mulch 
 at once, and water abundantly the first summer during dry- 
 periods. Be sure that the trees are not set any deeper in 
 the ground than they stood before removal. If the soil of 
 the acre is heavy or poor, go to the roadside or some old 
 pasture and find rich light soil with which to fill in around 
 the roots. If no soil can be found without a large propor- 
 tion of clay, the addition of a little sand, thoroughly mixed 
 through it, is beneficial. The hole should be ample in size, 
 so that the roots can be spread out according to their natural 
 bent. If the ground after planting needs enriching, spread 
 the fertilizer around the trees, not against them, and on the 
 surface only. Never put manure on or very near the roots. 
 
 Fine young seedling evergreens can often be found in 
 the woods or fields, and may be had for the asking, or for 
 j^ trifling sum. Dig them so as to save all the roots possi- 
 ble. Never permit these to become dry till they are safe 
 in your own grounds. Aim to start the little trees under 
 the same conditions in which you found them in Nature. 
 If taken from a shady spot, they should be shaded for a 
 season or two, until they become accustomed to sunlight. 
 This can easily be accomplished by four crotched stakes 
 supporting a light scaffolding, on which is placed during 
 the hot months a few evergreen boughs. 
 
 Very pretty and useful purposes can often be served by 
 the employment of certain kinds of evergreens as hedges. 
 I do not like the arbitrary and stiff divisions of a small 
 place which I have often seen. They take away the sense 
 of roominess, and destroy the possibility of pretty little 
 vistas; but when used judiciously as screens they combine 
 much beauty with utility. As part of line fences they are 
 often eminently satisfactory, shutting out prying eyes and 
 inclosing the home within walls of living green. The strong- 
 growing pines and Norway spruce are better adapted to large 
 estates than to the area of an acre. Therefore we would ad- 
 vise the employment of the American arbor vitae and of 
 
TREE-PLANTING 21 
 
 hemlock. The hedge of the latter evergreen on Mr. Ful- 
 ler's place formed one of the most beautiful and symmetric 
 cal walls I have ever seen. It was so smooth, even, and 
 impervious that in the distance it appeared like solid 
 emerald. 
 
 The ground should be thoroughly prepared for a hedge 
 by deep plowing or by digging; the trees should be small, 
 young, of even height and size, and they should be planted 
 carefully in line, according to the directions already given 
 for a single specimen; the ground on each side mulched and 
 kept moist during the first summer. In the autumn, rake 
 the mulch away and top-dress the soil on both sides for the 
 space of two or three feet outward from the stems with well- 
 decayed manure. This protects the roots and ensures a vig- 
 orous growth the coming season. Allow no weeds or even 
 grass to encroach on the young hedge until it is strong and 
 established. For the first year no trimming will be neces- 
 sary beyond cutting back an occasional branch or top that 
 is growing stronger than the others; and this should be 
 done in early October. During the second season the plants 
 should grow much more strongly; and now the shears are 
 needed in summer. Some branches and top shoots will 
 push far beyond the others. They should be cut back 
 evenly, and in accordance with the shape the hedge is to 
 take. The pyramidal form appears to me to be the one 
 most in harmony with Nature. In October, the hedge 
 should receive its final shearing for the year; and if there 
 is an apparent deficiency of vigor, the ground on both sides 
 should receive another top-dressing, after removing the sum- 
 mer rnulch. As the hedge grows older and stronger, the 
 principal shearing will be done in early summer, as this 
 checks growth and causes the close, dense interlacing of 
 branches and formation of foliage wherein the beauty and 
 usefulness of the hedge consist. 
 
2^ THE HOME ACRE 
 
 CHAPTER ir 
 
 FRUIT-TREES AND GRASS 
 
 IT is a happy proof of our civilization that a dvfelling- 
 place, a shelter from sun and storm, does not consti- 
 tute a home. Even the modest rooms of our mechan*. 
 ics are not furnished with useful articles merely ; ornaments 
 and pictures appear quite as indispensable. Out-of-doors 
 the impulse to beautify is even stronger; and usually the 
 purchaser's first effort is to make his place attractive by 
 means of trees and shrubs that are more than useful — they 
 are essential; because the refined tastes of men and women 
 to-day demand them. 
 
 In the first chapter I endeavored to satisfy this demand 
 in some degree, and now will ask the reader's attention to a 
 few practical suggestions in regard to several of the fruits 
 which best supply the family need. We shall find, how- 
 ever, that while Nature is prodigal in supplying what ap- 
 peals to the palate and satisfies hunger, she is also like a 
 graceful hostess who decks her banquet with all the beauty 
 that she can possibly bestow upon it. We can imagine that 
 the luscious fruits of the year might have been produced in 
 a much more prosaic way. Indeed, we are at a loss to decide 
 which we value the more, the apple- blossoms or the apples 
 which follow. Nature is not content with bulk, flavor, and 
 nutriment, but in the fruit itself so deftly pleases the eye 
 with every trick of color and form that the hues and beauty 
 of the flower are oiten surpassed. We look at a red-cheeked 
 apple or purple cluster of grapes hesitatingly, and are loth 
 to mar the exquisite shadings and perfect outlines of the 
 vessel in which the rich juices are served. Therefore, in 
 
FRUIT-TREES AND ORASS 23 
 
 Stocking the acre with fruit, the proprietor has not ceased 
 to embellish it; and should he decide that fruit- trees must 
 predominate over those grown for shade and ornament only, 
 he can combine almost as much beauty as utility with his 
 plan. 
 
 All the fruits may be set out both in the spring and the 
 fall seasons; but in our latitude and northward, I should 
 prefer early spring for strawberries and peaches. 
 
 By this time we may suppose that the owner of the acre 
 has matured his plans, and marked out the spaces designed 
 for the lawn, garden, fruit-trees, vines, etc. Fruit-trees, 
 like shade- trees, are not the growth of a summer. There- 
 fore there is natural eagerness to have them in the ground 
 as soon as possible, and they can usually be ordered from 
 the same nursery, and at the same time with the ornamental 
 stock. I shall speak first of apples, pears, and cherries, and 
 I have been at some pains to secure the opinions of eminent 
 horticulturists as to the best selections of these fruits for 
 the home table, not for market. When there is a surplus, 
 however, there will be no difficulty in disposing of the fine 
 varieties named. 
 
 The Hon. Marshall P. Wilder, the veteran President of 
 the American Pomological Society, writes as follows: "Here- 
 with is the selection I have made for family use; but I could 
 put in as many more in some of the classes which are just as 
 desirable. Or nearly so. These have been made with refer- 
 ence to covering the seasons. Apples — Eed Astrakhan, 
 Porter, Gravenstein, Ehode Island Greening, Baldwin, 
 Eoxbury Eusset, and Sweet Bough for baking. Pears— 
 Clapp's Favorite (to be gathered August 20), Bartlett, 
 Seckel, Sheldon, Beurr^ Bosc, Buerr^ d'Anjou, and Yicar 
 of Winkfield for baking, etc. Cherries — Black Eagle, 
 Black Tartarian, Downer, Windsor, Cumberland, and Eed 
 Jacket." 
 
 Mr. Wilder' s honored name, like that of the late Charles 
 Downing, is inseparably linked with American fruits, and 
 the country owes these two men a debt of gratitude which 
 
24 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 never can be paid for their lifelong and intelligent efforts 
 to guide the people wisely in the choice and culture of the 
 very best varieties. A moment's thought will convince the 
 reader that I am not giving too much space to this matter of 
 selection. We are now dealing with questions which wide 
 and varied experience can best answer. Men who give 
 their lives to the cultivation and observation of fruits in 
 aU their myriad varieties acquire a knowledge which is al- 
 most invaluable. We cannot afford to put out trees, to give 
 them good culture, and wait for years, only to learn that all 
 our care has been bestowed on inferior or second-rate varie- 
 ties. Life is too brief. We all feel that the best is good 
 enough for us; and the best usually costs no more in money 
 or time than do less desirable varieties. Therefore I seek 
 to give on this important question of choice the opinions of 
 some of the highest authorities in the land. 
 
 Mr. A. S. Fuller is not only a well-known horticultural 
 author, but has also had the widest experience in the cul- 
 ture and observation of fruit. He prefaces his opinion with 
 the following words: *'How much and how often we horti- 
 culturists have been puzzled with questions like yours ! If 
 we made no progress, were always of the same mind, and if 
 seasons never changed, then perhaps there would be little 
 difficulty in deciding which of the varieties of the different 
 kinds of fruit were really the best. But seasons, our tastes, 
 and even the varieties sometimes change; and our prefer- 
 ences and opinions must vary accordingly. Apples — Early 
 Harvest, Fall Pippins, Spitzenburgh, Rhode Island Green- 
 ing, Autumn Sweet Bough, and Talman's Sweet. Cherries 
 ^Early Purple Guigne, Bigarreau of Mezel, Black Eagle, 
 Coe's Transparent, Governor Wood, and Belle Magnifique." 
 
 The choice of Mr. E. S. Carmen, editor of the '* Rural 
 New Yorker:" "Apples — Early Harvest, Gravenstein, Jef- 
 feris, Baldwin, Mother, Spitzenburgh. Pears— Seckel, Ty- 
 son, Clapp's Favorite, Bartlett, Beurr^ d'Anjou, and Dana's 
 Hovey. Cherries — Black Tartarian, Coe's Transparent, Gov- 
 ernor Wood, Mezel, Napoleon Bigarreau. ' ' 
 
FRUIT-TREES AND GRASS 25 
 
 The authorities appear to differ. And so they would in 
 regard to any locality; but it should be remembered that 
 Presid^t Wilder advises for the latitude of Massachusetts, 
 Messrs. Fuller and Carmen for that of New Jersey. I will 
 give now the selection of the eminent horticulturist Mr. P. 
 C. Berckmans for the latitude of Georgia: "Cherries (this 
 is not a good cherry-producing region, but I name the fol- 
 lowing as the best in order of merit) — Buttners, Governor 
 Wood, Belle de Choisy, Early Eichmond, and May Duke. 
 Pears (in order of maturity) — Olapp's Favorite, Seckel, 
 Duchesse, Beurr^ Superfine, Leconte, Winter Nellis, or 
 Glout. Morceau. Apples — Early Harvest, Eed June, 
 Carter's Blue, Stevenson's Winter, Shockley, Buncombe, 
 Carolina Greening." 
 
 He who makes his choice from these selections will not 
 meet with much disappointment. 1 am aware, however, 
 that the enjoyment of fruit depends much upon the taste of 
 the individual; and who has a better right to gratify his 
 taste than the man who buys, sets out, and cares for, the 
 trees? Some familiar kind not in favor with the fruit 
 critics, an old variety that has become a dear memory of 
 boyhood, may be the best one of all for him — perhaps for 
 the reason that it recalls the loved faces that gathered about 
 the wide, quaint fireplace of his childhood's home. 
 
 It is also a well- recognized fact that certain varieties of 
 fruit appear to be peculiarly adapted to certain localities. 
 Because a man has made a good selection on general prin- 
 ciples, he need not be restricted to this choice. He will 
 soon find his trees growing lustily and making large branch- 
 ing heads. Each branch can be made to produce a different 
 kind of apple or pear, and the kindred varieties of cherries 
 will succeed on the same tree. For instance, one may be 
 visiting a neighbor who gives him some fruit that is unusu- 
 ally delicious, or that manifest great adaptation to the local- 
 ity. As a rule the neighbor will gladly give scions which, 
 grafted upon the trees of the Home Acre, will soon begin 
 to yield the coveted variety. This opportunity to grow 
 
Zb THE HOME ACRE 
 
 different kinds of fruit on one tree imparts a new and de- 
 lightful interest to the orchard. The proprietor can always 
 be on the lookout for something new and fine, and the few 
 moments required in grafting or budding make it his. The 
 operation is so simple and easy that he can learn to perform 
 it himself, and there are always plenty of adepts in the rural 
 vicinage to give him his initial lesson. While he will keep 
 the standard kinds for his main supply, he can gratify his 
 taste and eye with gome pretty innovations. 1 know of an 
 apple-tree which bears over a hundred varieties. A branch, 
 for instance, is producing Yellow Bell-flowers. At a cer- 
 tain point in its growth where it has the diameter of a man's 
 thumb it may be grafted with the Eed Baldwin. When the 
 scion has grown for two or three years, its leading shoots 
 can be grafted with the Eoxbury Kusset, and eventually 
 the terminal bough of this growth with the Early Harvest. 
 Thus may be presented the interesting spectacle of one limb 
 of a tree yielding four very distinct kinds of apples. 
 
 In the limited area of an acre there is usually not very 
 much range in soil and locality. The owner must make the 
 best of what he has bought, and remedy unfavorable condi- 
 tions, if they exist, by skill. It should be remembered that 
 peaty, cold, damp, spongy soils are unfit for fruit-trees of 
 any kind. We can scarcely imagine, however, that one 
 would buy land for a home containing much soil of this 
 nature. A sandy loam, with a subsoil that dries out so 
 quickly that it can be worked after a heavy rain, is the 
 best for nearly all the fruit-trees, especially for cherries and 
 peaches. Therefore in selecting the ground, be sure it is 
 well drained. 
 
 If the acre has been enriched and plowed twice deeply, 
 as I have already suggested, little more is necessary in 
 planting than to excavate a hole large enough to receive 
 the roots spread out in their natural positions. Should no 
 Buch thorough and general preparation have been made, or 
 if the ground is hard, poor, and stony, the owner will find 
 it to his advantage to dig a good- sized hole three or four 
 
FRUIT-TEEES AND GRASS 27 
 
 feet across and two deep, filling in and around the tree 
 with fine rich surface soil. If he can obtain some thor- 
 oughly decomposed compost or manure, for instance, as 
 the scrapings of a barnyard, or rich black soil from an old 
 pasture, to mix with the earth beneath and around the roots, 
 the good effects will be seen speedily; but in no instance 
 should raw manure from the stable, or anything that must 
 decay before becoming plant- food, be brought in contact 
 with the roots. Again I repeat my caution against planting 
 too deeply — one of the commonest and most fatal errors. 
 Let the tree be set about as deeply as it stood before re- 
 moval. If the tree be planted early in spring, as it should 
 be, there will be moisture enough in the soil; but when 
 planting is delayed until the ground has become rather dry 
 and warm, a pail of water poured about its roots when the 
 hole has been nearly filled will be beneficial. Now that the 
 tree is planted, any kind of coarse manure spread to the 
 depth of two or three inches on the surface as a mulch is 
 very useful. Stake at once to protect against the winds. 
 Do not make the common mistake of planting too closely. 
 Observe the area shaded by fully grown trees, and you will 
 learn the folly of crowding. Moreover, dense shade about 
 the house is not desirable. There should be space for plenty 
 of air and sunshine. The fruit from one well- developed tree 
 will often more than supply a family; for ten or fifteen bar- 
 rels of apples is not an unusual yield. The standard apples 
 should be thirty feet apart. Pears, the dwarfer-growing 
 cherries, plums, etc., can be grown in the intervening 
 spaces. In ordering from the nurseries insist on straight, 
 shapely, and young trees, say three years from the bud. 
 Many trees that are sent out are small enough, but they are 
 old and stunted. Also require that there should be an 
 abundance of fibrous and unmutilated roots. 
 
 Because the young trees come from the nursery un- 
 pruned, do not leave them in that condition. Before plant- 
 ing, or immediately after, cut back all the branches at least 
 one- half ; and where they are too thick, cut out some alto- 
 
28 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 gether. In removal the tree has lost much of its root power, 
 and it is absurd to expect it to provide for just as much top 
 as before. , 
 
 In many books on fruit-culture much space has been 
 given to dwarf pears, apples, and cherries, and trees of this 
 character were planted much more largely some years ago 
 than they are at present The pear is dwarfed by grafting 
 it on the quince; the apple can be limited to a mere garden 
 fruit-tree in size by being grown on a Douoin stock, or even 
 reduced to the size of a bush if compelled to draw its life 
 through the roots of the Paradise. These two named stocks, 
 much employed by European nurserymen, are distinct spe- 
 cies of apples, and reproduce themselves without variation * 
 from the seed. The clxerry is dwarfed by being worked on 
 the Mahaleb — a small, handsome tree, with glossy, deep- ; 
 green foliage, much cultivated abroad as an ornament of ' 
 lawns. Except in the hands of practiced gardeners, trees 
 thus dwarfed are seldom satisfactory, for much skill and 
 care are required in their cultivation. Their chief advan- 
 tages consist in the fact that they bear early and take but 
 little space. Therefore they may be considered worthy of 
 attention by the purchasers of small places. Those who 
 are disposed to make pets of their trees and to indulge in 
 horticultural experiments may derive much pleasure from 
 these dwarfs, for they can be developed into symmetrical 
 pyramids or graceful, fruitful shrubs within the limits of a 
 garden border. 
 
 When the seeds of ordinary apples and pears are sown 
 they produce seedlings, or free stocks, and upon these are 
 budded or grafted the fine varieties which compose our or- 
 chards. They are known as standard trees; they come into 
 bearing more slowly, and eventually attain the normal size 
 familiar to us all. Standard cherries are worked on seed- 
 lings of the Mazzard, which Barry describes as a "lofty, 
 rapid- growing, pyramidal- headed tree." I should advise 
 the reader to indulge in the dwarfs very charily, and chiefly 
 as a source of fairly profitable amusement. It is to the 
 
FRUIT-TREES AND GRASS 2d 
 
 Standards that he will look for shade, beauty, and abun- 
 dance of fruit. ^ 
 
 Since we have been dwelling on the apple, pear, and 
 cherry, there are certain advantages of continuing the sub- 
 ject in the same connection, giving the principles of cultiva- 
 tion and care until the trees reach maturity. Daring the 
 first summer an occasional watering may be required in 
 long periods of drought. In many instances buds will 
 form and start along the stem of the tree, or near the roots. 
 These should be rubbed off the moment they are detected. 
 
 One of our chief aims is to form an evenly balanced, 
 open, symmetrical head; and this can often be accom- 
 plished better by a little watchfulness during the season 
 of growth than at any other time. If, for instance, two 
 branches start so closely together that one or the other 
 must be removed in the spring pruning, why let the super- 
 fluous one grow at all ? It is just so much wasted effort. 
 By rubbing off the pushing bud or tender shoot the strength 
 of the tree is thrown into the branches that we wish to re- 
 main. Thus the eye and hand of the master become to the 
 young tree what instruction, counsel, and admonition are 
 to a growing boy, with the difference that the tree is easily 
 and certainly managed when taken in time. 
 
 The study of the principles of growth in the young trees 
 can be made as pleasing as it is profitable, for the readiness 
 with which they respond to a guiding hand will soon invest 
 them with almost a human interest. A child will not show 
 neglect more certainly than they; and if humored and 
 allowed to grow after their own fashion, they will soon 
 prove how essential are restraint and training. A fruit tree 
 is not like one in a forest — a simple, unperverted product 
 of Nature. It is a result of human interference and develop- 
 ment; and we might just as reasonably expect our domestic 
 animals to take care of themselves as our grafted and 
 budded trees. Moreover, they do not comply with their 
 raison d'etre by merely existing, growing, and propagating 
 their kind. A Bartlett pear- tree, like a Jersey cow, is given 
 
so THE HOME ACRE 
 
 place for the sake of its delicious product. It is also like 
 the cow in requiring judicious feeding and care. 
 
 Trees left to themselves tend to form too much wood, 
 like the grape-vine. Of course fine fruit is impossible 
 when the head of a tree is like a thicket. The growth 
 of unch€5^ked branches follows the terminal bud, thus 
 producing long naked reaches of wood devoid of fruit 
 spurs. Therefore the need of shortening in, so that side 
 branches may be developed. When the reader remem- 
 bers that every dormant bud in early spring is a possible 
 branch, and that even the immature buds at the axil of the 
 leaves in early summer can be forced into immediate growth 
 by pinching back the leading shoot, he will see how entirely 
 the young tree is under his control. These simple facts and 
 principles are worth far more to the intelligent man than 
 any number of arbitrary rules as to pruning. Eeason and 
 observation soon guide his hand in summer or his knife in 
 March — the season when trees are usually trimmed. 
 
 Beyond shortening in leading branches and cutting out 
 crossing and interfering boughs, so as to keep the head 
 symmetrical and open to light and air, the cherry does not 
 need very much pruning. If with the lapse of years it be- 
 comes necessary to take oflE large limbs from any fruit-tree, 
 the authorities recommend early June as the best season 
 for the operation. 
 
 It will soon be discovered — quite likely during the first 
 summer — that fruit-trees have enemies, that they need not 
 only cultivation and feeding, but also protection. The pear, 
 apple, and quince are liable to one mysterious disease which 
 it is almost impossible to guard against or cure — the fire- 
 blight. Of course there have been innumerable preventives 
 and cures recommended, just as we see a dozen certain rem- 
 edies for consumption advertised in any popular journal; 
 but the disease still remains a disheartening mystery, and 
 is more fatal to the pear than to its kindred fruits. I have 
 Had thrifty young trees, just coming into bearing, suddenly 
 turn black in bpth wood and foliage, appearing in the dis- 
 
FRUIT-TREES AND GRASS 81 
 
 tanQe as if scorched by a blast from a furnace. In another 
 instance a large mature tree was attacked, losing in a sum- 
 mer half its boughs. These were cut out, and the remainder 
 of the tree appeared healthy during the following summer, 
 and bore a good crop of fruit. The disease often attacks 
 but a single branch or a small portion of a tree. The au- 
 thorities advise that everything should be cut away at once 
 below all evidence of infection and burned. Some of my 
 trees have been attacked and have recovered; others were 
 apparently recovering, but died a year or two later. One 
 could theorize to the end of a volume about the trouble. 
 I frankly confess that I know neither the cause nor the 
 remedy. It seems to me that our best resource is to comply 
 with the general conditions of good and healthy growth. 
 The usual experience is that trees which are fertilized with 
 wood-ashes and a moderate amount of lime and salt, rather 
 than with stimulating manures, escape the disease. If the 
 ground is poor, however, and the growth feeble, barnyard 
 manure or its equivalent is needed as a mulch. The apple- 
 blight is another kindred and equally obscure disease. No 
 better remedy is known than to cut out the infected part 
 at once. 
 
 In coping with insects we can act more intelligently, and 
 therefore successfully. We can study the characters of our 
 enemies, and learn their vulnerable points. The black 
 and green aphides, or plant- lice, are often very trouble- 
 some. They appear in immense numbers on the young 
 and tender shoots of trees, and by sucking their juices 
 check or enfeeble the growth. They are the milch-cows 
 of ants, which are usually found very busy among them. 
 Nature apparently has made ample provision for this pest, 
 for it has been estimated that "one individual in five gen- 
 erations might be the progenitor of six thousand millions." 
 They are easily destroyed, however. Mr. Barry, of the firm 
 of BUwanger & Barry, in his excellent work '*The Fruit 
 Garden," writes as follows: "Our plan is to prepare a 
 barrel of tobacco juice by steeping stems for several days, 
 
82 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 until the juice is of a dark brown color; we then mix this 
 with soap-suds. A pail is filled, and the ends of the shoots, 
 where the insects are assembled, are bent down and dipped 
 in the liquid. One dip is enough. Such parts as cannot be 
 dipped are sprinkled liberally with a garden-syringe, and 
 the application repeated from time to time, as long as any 
 of the aphides remain. The liquid may be so strong as to 
 injure the foliage; therefore it is well to test it on one or 
 two subjects before using it extensively. Apply it in the 
 evening. ' ' 
 
 The scaly aphis or bark-louse attacks weak, feeble-grow- 
 ing trees, and can usually be removed by scrubbing the 
 bark with the preparation given above. 
 
 In our region and in many localities the apple-tree borer 
 is a very formidable pest, often destroying a young tree 
 before its presence is known. I once found a young tree in 
 a distant part of my place that I could push over with my 
 finger. In June a brown and white striped beetle deposits 
 its eggs in the bark of the apple-tree near the ground. The 
 larvae when hatched bore their way into the wood, and will 
 soon destroy a small tree. They cannot do their mischief, 
 however, without giving evidence of their presence. Saw- 
 dust exudes from the holes by which they entered, and 
 there should be sufficient watchfulness to discover them 
 before they have done much harm. I prefer to cut them 
 out with a sharp, pointed knife, and make sure that they 
 are dead; but a wire thrust into the hole will usually pierce 
 and kill them. Wood-ashes mounded up against the base 
 of the tree are said to be a preventive. In the fall they 
 can be spread, and they at least make one of the best of 
 fertilizers. 
 
 The codling-moth, or apple-worm, is another enemy that 
 should be fought resolutely, for it destroys millions of 
 bushels of fruit. In the latitude of New 7ork State this 
 moth begins its depredations about the middle of June. 
 Whatever may be thought of the relation of the apple to 
 the fall of man, this creature certainly leads to the speedy 
 
FRU1T-TREB8 AND GRASS S# 
 
 fall of the apple. Who has not seen the ground covered 
 with premature and decaying fruit in July, August, and 
 September? Each specimen will be found perforated by 
 a worm- hole. The egg has been laid in the calyx of the 
 young apple, where it soon hatches into a small white grub, 
 which burrows into the core, throwing out behind it a 
 brownish powder. After about three weeks of apple diet 
 It eats its way out, shelters itself under the scaly bark of 
 the tree — if allowed to be scaly — or in some other hiding- 
 place, spins a cocoon, and in about three weeks comes out 
 a moth, and is ready to help destroy other apples. This 
 insect probably constitutes one of Nature's methods of pre- 
 venting trees from overbearing; but like some people we 
 know, it so exaggerates its mission as to become an insuffer- 
 able nuisance. The remedies recommended are that trees 
 should be scraped free of all scales in the spring, and 
 washed with a solution of soft soap. About the 1st of July, 
 wrap bandages of old cloth, carpet, or rags of any kind 
 around the trunk and larger limbs. The worms will appre- 
 ciate such excellent cover, and will swarm into these hiding- 
 places to undergo transformation into moths. Therefore 
 the wraps of rags should often be taken down, thrown 
 into scalding water, dried, and replaced. The fruit as it 
 falls should be picked up at once and carried to the pigs, 
 and, when practicable, worm-infested specimens should be 
 taken from the trees before the worm escapes. 
 
 The canker-worm in those localities where it is destruc- 
 tive can be guarded against by bands of tar-covered canvas 
 around the trees. The moth cannot fly, but crawls up the 
 tree in the late autumn and during mild spells in winter, 
 but especially throughout the spring until May. When 
 the evil- disposed moth meets the tarry band he finds no 
 thoroughfare, and is either caught or compelled to seek 
 some other arena of mischief. 
 
 We have all seen the flaunting, unsightly abodes of the 
 tent caterpillar and the foliage- denuded branches about 
 them. Fortunately these are not stealthy enemies, and the 
 
84 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 owner can scarcely see his acre at all without being aware 
 of their presence. He has only to look very early in the 
 morning or late in the evening to find them all bunched up 
 in their nests. These should be taken down and destroyed. 
 
 Cherry and pear slugs, *' small, slimy, dark brown 
 worms," can be destroyed by dusting the trees with dry 
 wood ashes or air-slacked lime. 
 
 Field-mice often girdle young trees, especially during 
 the winter, working beneath the snow. Unless heaps of 
 rubbish are left here and there as shelter for these little 
 pests, one or two good cats will keep the acre free of them. 
 Treading the snow compactly around the tree is also 
 practiced. 
 
 Do not let the reader be discouraged by this list of the 
 most common enemies, or by hearing of others. After 
 reading some medical works we are led to wonder that 
 the human race does not speedily die out. As a rule, how- 
 ever, with moderate care, most of us are able to say, "I'm 
 pretty well, I thank you," and when ailing we do not 
 straightway despair. In spite of all enemies and draw- 
 backs, fruit is becoming more plentiful every year. If one 
 man can raise it, so can another. 
 
 Be hospitable to birds, the best of all insect destroyers. 
 Put up plenty of houses for bluebirds and wrens, and treat 
 the little brown song- sparrow as one of your stanchest 
 friends. 
 
 A brief word in regard to the quince, and our present 
 list of fruits is complete. 
 
 If the quince is cultivated after the common neglectful 
 method, it would better be relegated to an obscure part of 
 the garden, for, left to itself, it makes a great sprawling 
 bush; properly trained, it becomes a beautiful ornament to 
 the lawn, like the other fruits that I have described. Only 
 a little care, with the judicious use of the pruning-shears, 
 ia required to develop it into a miniature and fruitful tree, 
 which can be grown with a natural rounded head or in the 
 form of a pyramid, as the cultivator chooses. It will thrive 
 
FRUIT-TREES AND GRASS 86 
 
 well on the same soil and under similar treatment accorded 
 to the pear or the apple. Procure from a nursery straight- 
 stemmed plants; set them out about eight feet apart; begin 
 to form the head three feet from the ground, and keep the 
 stem and roots free from all sprouts and suckers. Develop 
 the head just as you would that of an apple-tree, shortening 
 in the branches, and cutting out those that interfere with 
 each other. Half a dozen trees will soon give an ample 
 supply. The orange and the pear shaped are the varieties 
 usually recommended. Eea's Mammoth is also highly 
 spoken of. Kemember that the quince equally with the 
 apple is subject to injury from the borer, and the evil 
 should be met as I have already described. 
 
 There is a natural wish to have as much grass about the 
 dwelling as possible, for nothing is more beautiful. If there 
 are children, they will assuredly petition for lawn-tennis 
 and croquet grounds. I trust that their wishes may be 
 gratified, for children are worth infinitely more than any- 
 thing else that can be grown upon the acre. With a little 
 extra care, all the trees of which I have spoken can be 
 grown in the spaces allotted to grass. It is only necessary 
 to keep a circle of space six feet in diameter — ^the trunk 
 forming the centre — around the tree mellow and free from 
 any vegetable growth whatever. This gives a chance to 
 fertilize and work the ground immediately over the roots. 
 Of course vigorous fruit-trees cannot be grown in a thick 
 sod, while peaches and grapes require the free culture of 
 the garden, as will be shown hereafter. In view, however, 
 of the general wish for grass, I have advised on the suppo- 
 sition that all the ornamental trees, most of the shrubs, and 
 the four fruits named would be grown on the portions of the 
 acre to be kept in lawn. It may be added here that plums 
 also will do well under the same conditions, if given good 
 care. 
 
 Grass is a product that can be cultivated as truly as the 
 most delicate and fastidious of fruits, and I had the lawn in 
 mind when I urged the generous initial deep plowing and 
 
36 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 enriching. Nothing that grows responds more promptly to 
 good treatment than grass; but a fine lawn cannot be created 
 in a season, any more than a fine tree. 
 
 We will suppose that the spring plantings of trees have 
 been made with open spaces reserved for the favorite games. 
 Now the ground can be prepared for grass-seed, for it need 
 not be trampled over any more. If certain parts have be- 
 come packed and hard, they should be dug or plowed 
 deeply again, then harrowed and raked perfectly smooth, 
 and all stones, big or little, taken from the surface. The 
 seed may now be sown^ and it should be of thick, fine- 
 growing varieties, such as are employed in Central Park 
 and other pleasure-grounds. Mr. Samuel Parsons, Jr., 
 Superintendent of Central Park, writes me: "The best 
 grass-seeds for ordinary lawns are a mixture of red- top 
 and Kentucky blue- grass in equal parts, with perhaps a 
 small amount of white clover. On very sandy ground 
 I prefer the Kentucky blue- grass, as it is very hardy and 
 vigorous under adverse circumstances. ' ' Having sown and 
 raked in the seed very lightly a great advantage will be 
 gained in passing a lawn-roller over the ground. I have 
 succeeded well in getting a good "catch" of grass by sow- 
 ing the seed with oats, which were cut and cured as hay 
 as soon as the grain was what is termed "in the milk." 
 The strong and quickly growing oats make the ground 
 green in a few days, and shelter the slower maturing grass- 
 roots. Mr. Parsons says, "I prefer to sow the grass-seed 
 alone." As soon as the grass begins to grow with some 
 vigor, cut it often, for this tends to thicken it and produce 
 the velvety eJBEect that is so beautiful. From the very first 
 the lawn will need weeding. The ground contains seeds of 
 strong growing plants, such as dock, plantain, etc., which 
 should be taken out as fast as they appear. To some the 
 dandelion is a weed; but not to me, unless it takes more 
 than its share of space, for I always miss these little earth 
 stars when they are absent. They intensify the sunshine 
 shimmering on the lavrn, making one smile involuntarily 
 
FRUIT-TREES AND ORASS 37 
 
 when seeing them. Moreover, they awaken pleasant mem- 
 ories, for a childhood in which dandelions had no part is 
 a defective experience. 
 
 In late autumn the fallen leaves should be raked care- 
 fully away, as they tend to smother the grass if permitted 
 to lie until spring. Now comes the chief opportunity of the 
 year, in the form of a liberal top-dressing of manure from 
 the stable. If this is spread evenly and not too thickly in 
 November, and the coarser remains of it are raked off early 
 in April, the results will be astonishing. A deep emerald 
 hue will be imparted to the grass, and the frequent cuttings 
 required will soon produce a turf that yields to the foot like 
 a Persian rug. Any one who has walked over the plain 
 at West Point can understand the value of these regular 
 autumnal top-dressings. If the stable-manure can be com- 
 posted and left till thoroughly decayed, fine and friable, all 
 the better. If stable-manure can not be obtained, Mr. Par- 
 sons recommends Mapes's fertilizer for lawns. 
 
38 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE GARDEN 
 
 WE now approach that part of the acre to which its 
 possessor will probably give his warmest and 
 most frequent thoughts — the gardeno If properly 
 made and conducted, it will yield a revenue which the 
 wealth of the Indies could not purchase; for whoever bought 
 in market the flavor of fruit and vegetables raised by one's 
 own hands or under our own eyes ? Sentiment does count. 
 A boy is a boy; but it makes a vast difierence whether ho 
 is our boy or not A garden may soon become a part of 
 the man himself, and he be a better man for its care. 
 Wholesome are the thoughts and schemes it suggests; 
 healthful are the blood and muscle resulting from its 
 products and labor therein. Even with the purse of a 
 millionaire, the best of the city's markets is no substitute 
 for a garden; for Kature and life are here, and these are 
 not bought and soldo From stalls and pedlers' wagons we 
 can buy but dead and dying things. The indolent epicure's 
 enjoyment of game is not the relish of the sportsman who 
 has taken his dinner direct from the woods and waters. 
 
 I am often told, **It is cheaper to buy fruit and vege- 
 tables than to raise them. ' ' I have nothing to say in reply. 
 There are many cheap things that we can have; experience 
 has proved that one of the best things to have is a garden, 
 either to work in or to visit daily when the season permits. 
 We have but one life to live here, and to get the cheapest 
 things out of it is a rather poor ambition. 
 
 There are multitudes who can never possess an acre, more 
 or less, and who must obtain Nature's products at second 
 hand. This is not so great a misfortune as to have no de- 
 
THE GARDEN 39 
 
 sire for her companionship, or wish to work under her 
 direction in dewy mornings and shadowy evenings. We 
 may therefore reasonably suppose that the man who has 
 exchanged his city shelter for a rural home looks forward 
 to the garden with the natural, primal instinct, and is eager 
 to make the most of it in all its aspects. Then let us plunge 
 in medias res at once. 
 
 The ideal soil for a garden is a mellow, sandy loam, 
 underlaid with a subsoil that is not too open or porous. 
 Such ground is termed ** grateful,*' and it is not the kind 
 of gratitude which has been defined as **a lively apprecia- 
 tion of favors to come," which is true of some other soils. 
 This ideal land remembers past favors; it retains the fertil- 
 izers with which it has been enriched, and returns them in 
 the form of good crops until the gift is exhausted; therefore 
 it is a thrifty as well as a grateful soil. The owner can bring 
 it up to the highest degree of fertility, and keep it there by 
 judicious management. This sandy loam — Nature's blending 
 of sand and clay — is a safe bank. The manure incorporated 
 with it is a deposit which can be drawn against in fruit and 
 vegetables, for it does not leach away and disappear with 
 one season's rains. 
 
 Light, thin, sandy soil, with a porous or gravelly sub- 
 soil, is of a very different type, and requires different treat- 
 ment. It is a spendthrift. No matter how much you give 
 it one year, it very soon requires just so much more. You 
 can enrich it, but you can't keep it rich. Therefore you 
 must manage it as one would take care of a spendthrift, 
 giving what is essential at the time, and in a way that per- 
 mits as little waste as possible. I shall explain this treat- 
 ment more fully further on. 
 
 In the choice of a garden plot you may be restricted to 
 a stiff, tenacious, heavy clay. Now you have a miser to deal 
 with — a soil that retains, but in many cases makes no proper 
 use of, what it receives. Skill and good management, how- 
 ever, can improve any soil, and coax luxuriant crops from 
 the most unpropitious. 
 
40 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 We will speak first of the ideal soil already mentioned, 
 and hope that the acre contains an area of it of suitable 
 dimensions for a garden. What should be the first step in 
 this case ? Why, to get more of it. A quarter of an acre 
 can be made equal to half an acre. You can about double 
 the garden, without adding to it an inch of surface, by in- 
 creasing the depth of good soil. For instance, ground has 
 been cultivated to the depth of six or seven inches. Try 
 the experiment of stirring the soil and enriching it one foot 
 downward, or eighteen inches, or even two feet, and see 
 what vast differences will result. With every inch you go 
 down, making all friable and fertile, you add just so much 
 more to root pasturage. When you wish to raise a great 
 deal, increase your leverage. Eoots are your levers; and 
 when they rest against a deep fertile soil they lift into the 
 air and sunshine products that may well delight the eyes and 
 palate of the most fastidious. We suggest that this thor- 
 ough deepening, pulverization, and enriching of the soil be 
 done at the start, when the plow can be used without any 
 obstructions. If there are stones, r,ocks, roots, anything 
 which prevents the treatment which a garden plot should 
 receive, there is a decided advantage in clearing them all 
 out at the beginning. Last fall I saw a half-acre that was 
 swampy, and so encumbered with stones that one could 
 walk all over it without stepping off the rocks. The land 
 was sloping, and therefore capable of drainage. The pro- 
 prietor put three men to work on the lower side with picks, 
 shovels, and blasting- tools. They turned the soil over to 
 the depth of eighteen inches, taking out every stone larger 
 than a walnut. Eight or ten feet apart deep ditches were 
 cut, and the stones, as far as possible, placed in these. The 
 rest were carted away for a heavy walL You may say it 
 was expensive work. So it was; yet so complete a garden 
 spot was made that I believe it would yield a fair interest 
 in potatoes alone. I relate this instance to show what can 
 be done. A more forbidding area for a garden in its origi- 
 nal state could scarcely be found. Enough vegetables and 
 
THE GARDEN 41 
 
 fruit can be raised from it hereafter, with mnual fertilizing, 
 to supply a large family; and it will improve every year 
 under the refining effects of frost, sun, and cultivation. 
 
 It should be remembered that culture does for soil what 
 it does for men and women. It mellows, brings it up, and 
 renders it capable of finer products. Much, indeed, can be 
 done with a crude piece of land in a single year when treated 
 with the thoroughness that has been suggested, and some 
 strong-growing vegetables may be seen at their best during 
 the first season; but the more delicate vegetables thrive 
 better with successive years of cultivation. No matter how 
 abundantly the ground may be enriched at first, time and 
 chemical action are required to transmute the fertilizers 
 into the best forms of plant-food, and make them a part 
 of the very soil itself. Plowing or spading, especially if 
 done in late autumn, exposes the mould to the beneficial 
 action of the air and frost, and the garden gradually takes 
 on the refined, mellow, fertile character which distinguishes 
 it from the ordinary field. 
 
 In dealing with a thin, sandy soil, one has almost to re- 
 verse the principles just given. Yet there is no cause for 
 discouragement. Fine results, if not the best, can be se- 
 cured. In this case there is scarcely any possibility for 
 a thorough preparation of the soil from the start. It can 
 gradually be improved, however, by making good its defi- 
 ciencies, the chief of which is the lack of vegetable mould. 
 If I had such soil I would rake up all the leaves I could 
 find, employ them as bedding for my cow and pigs (if I kept 
 any), and spread the compost- heap resulting on the sandy 
 garden. The soil is already too light and warm, and it 
 should be our aim to apply fertilizers tending to counteract 
 this defect. A nervous, excitable person should let stimu- 
 lants alone, and take good, solid, blood-making food. This 
 illustration suggests the proper course to be taken. Many 
 a time I have seen action the reverse of this resulting dis- 
 astrously. For instance, a man carts on his light thin soil 
 hot fermenting manure from the horse-stable, and plows it 
 
42 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 under. Seeds are planted. In the moist, cool, early spring 
 they make a great start, feeling the impulse of the powerful 
 stimulant. There is a hasty and unhealthful growth; but 
 long before maturity the days grow long and hot, drought 
 comes, and the garden dries up. Therefore every efiort 
 should be made to supply cool manures with staying qual- 
 ities, such as are furnished by decayed vegetable matter 
 composted with the cleanings of the cow-stable. We thus 
 learn the value of fallen leaves, muck from the swamp, etc. ; 
 and they also bring with them but few seeds of noxious 
 vegetation. 
 
 On the other hand, stolid, phlegmatic clay requires the 
 stimulus of manure from the horse-stable. It can be plowed 
 under at once, and left to ferment and decay in the soil. 
 The process of decomposition will tend to banish its cold, 
 inert qualities, and make the ground loose, open, and amen- 
 able to the influences of frost, sun, and rain. 
 
 Does the owner of light, warm soils ask, "What, then, 
 shall I do with my stable- manure, since you have said that 
 it will be an injury to my garden ?' ' I have not said this — 
 only that it will do harm if applied in its raw, hot, ferment- 
 ing statCo Compost it with leaves, sod, earth, muck, any- 
 thing that will keep it from burning up with its own heat. 
 If you can obtain no such ingredients, have it turned over 
 and exposed to the air so often that it will decay without 
 passing through a process approaching combustion. When 
 it has become so thoroughly decomposed as to resemble 
 a fine black powder, you have a fertilizer superior to any 
 high-priced patent compound that can be bought. Further 
 on I will show how it can be used both in this state and also 
 in its crude condition on light soils with the best results. 
 
 It is scarcely possible to lay too much stress on this sub- 
 ject of fertilizers. The soil of the garden-plot looks inert: 
 80 does heavy machinery; but apply to it the proper motive 
 power, and you have activity at once. Manure is the mo- 
 tive power to soil, and it should be applied in a way and 
 degree to secure the best results. To produce some vege- 
 
THE GARDEN 45 
 
 tables and fruits much is required ; in other growths, very 
 little. 
 
 In laying out a garden there are several points to be con- 
 sidered. The proprietor may be more desirous of securing 
 some degree of beauty in the arrangement than of obtaining 
 the highest condition of productiveness. If this be true, he 
 may plan to make down its centre a wide, gravelled walk, 
 with a grape-arbor here and there, and fruit-trees and flow- 
 ers in borders on each side of the path. So far from hav- 
 ing any objection to this arrangement, I should be inclined 
 to adopt it myself. It would be conducive to frequent visits 
 to the garden and to lounging in it, especially if there be 
 rustic seats under the arbors. I am inclined to favor any- 
 thing which accords with my theory that the best products 
 of a garden are neither eaten nor sold. From such a walk 
 down the middle of the garden the proprietor can glance at 
 the rows of vegetables and small fruits on either side, and 
 daily note their progress. What he loses in space and 
 crops he gains in pleasure. 
 
 Kor does he lose much ; for if the borders on each side 
 of the path are planted with grape-vines, peach and plum 
 trees, flowers and shrubs, the very ground he walks on be- 
 comes part of their root pasturage. At the same time it 
 must be admitted that the roots will also extend with de- 
 pleting appetites into the land devoted to vegetables. The 
 trees and vines above will, to some extent, cast an. unwhole- 
 some shade. He who has set his heart on the biggest cab- 
 bages and best potatoes in town must cultivate them in 
 ground open to the sky, and unpervaded by any roots ex- 
 cept their own. If the general fruitfulness of the garden 
 rather than perfection in a few vegetables is desired, the 
 borders, with their trees, vines, and flowers, will prove no 
 objection. Moreover, when it comes to competing in cab- 
 bages, potatoes, etc., the proprietor of the Home Acre will 
 find that some Irishman, by the aid of his redolent pig- pen, 
 will surpass him. The roots and shade extending from hie 
 
 17__R0B— XI 
 
44 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 borders will not prevent him from growing good vegetables, 
 if not the largest. 
 
 We will therefore suppose that, as the simplest and most 
 economical arrangement, he has adopted the plan of a walk 
 six feet wide extending through the centre of his garden. 
 As was the case with the other paths, it will be greatly to 
 his advantage to stake it out and remove about four inches 
 of the surface-soil, piling it near the stable to be used for 
 composting purposes or in the earth- closet The excava- 
 tion thus made should be filled with small stones or cinders, 
 and then covered with fine gravel. A walk that shall be 
 dry at all times is thus secured, and it will be almost wholly 
 free from weeds. In these advantages alone one is repaid 
 for the extra first cost, and in addition the rich surface soil 
 obtained will double the bulk and value of the fertilizers 
 with which it is mixed. 
 
 Having made the walk, borders ^vq feet wide can be laid 
 out on each side of it, and the soil in these should be as rich 
 and deep as any other parts of the garden. What shall be 
 planted in these borders will depend largely on the tastes of 
 the gardener; but, as has been suggested, there will as- 
 suredly be one or more shadowy grape-arbors under which 
 the proprietor can retire to provide horticultural strategy. 
 This brings us to that chef-d' o&uvre of Nature— 
 
 The vme. It climbs by its tendrils, and they appear to 
 have clasped the heart of humanity. Among the best of 
 Heaven's gifts, it has sustained the worst perversions. But 
 we will refrain from a temperance lecture; also from sacred 
 and classical reminiscences. The world is not composed of 
 monks who thought to escape temptation— and vainly too — 
 in stony cells. To some the purple cluster suggests Baccha- 
 nal revelry; to others, sitting under one's own vine and fig- 
 tree — in brief, a home. The vine is like woman, the inspi- 
 ration of the best and the worst. 
 
 It may well become one of the dreams of our life to own 
 land, if for no other reason than that of obtaining the priv- 
 ilege of planting vines. As they take root, so will we, and 
 
THE GARDEN 46 
 
 after we have eaten their delicious fruit, the very thought 
 of leaving our acre will be repugnant. The literature of 
 the vine wo aid fill a library; the literature of love would 
 crowd many libraries. It is not essential to read every- 
 thing before we start a little vineyard or go a-courting. 
 
 It is said that about two thousand known and named 
 varieties of grapes have been and are being grown in Eu- 
 rope; and all these are supposed to have been developed 
 from one species {^Vitis vinifera\ which originally was the 
 wild product of Nature, like those growing in our thickets 
 and forests. One can scarcely suppose this possible when 
 contemplating a cluster of Tokay or some other highly de- 
 veloped variety of the hot- house. Yet the native vine, 
 which began to "yield fruit after his kind, the third day" 
 (whatever may have been the length of that day), may have 
 been, after all, a good starting-point in the process of devel- 
 opmcDt. One can hardly believe that the *'one cluster of 
 grapes" which the burdened spies, returning from Pales- 
 tine, bore *' between two of them upon a staff," was the re- 
 sult of high scientific culture. In that clime, and when the 
 world was young, Nature must have been more beneficent 
 than now. It is certain that no such cluster ever hung from 
 the native vines of this land; yet it is from our wild species, 
 whose fruit the Indians shared with the birds and foxes 
 (when not hanging so high as to be sour), that we have de- 
 veloped the delicious varieties of our out-door vineyards. 
 For about two centuries our forefathers kept on planting 
 vines imported from Europe, only to meet with failure. 
 Nature, that had so abundantly rewarded their efforts 
 abroad, quietly checkmated them here. At last American 
 fruit-growers took the hint, and began developing our na- 
 tive species. Then Nature smiled; and as a lure along this 
 correct path of progress, gave such incentives as the Isa- 
 bella, the Catawba, and Concord. We are now bewildered 
 by almost as great a choice of varieties from native species 
 as they have abroad; and as an aid to selection I will again 
 give the verdict of some of the authorities. 
 
46 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 The choice of the Hon. Norman J. Colman, Commis- 
 sioner of Agriculture: ''Early Victor, Worden, Martha, 
 Elvira, Cynthiana." This is for the region of Missouri. 
 Eor the latitude of New Jersey, A. S. Fuller's selection; 
 "Delaware, Concord, Moore's Early, Antoinette (white), 
 Augusta (white), Goethe (amber). " E. S. Carmen : "Moore's 
 Early [you cannot praise this too much. The quality is 
 merely that of the Concord; but the vines are marvels of 
 perfect health, the bunches large, the berries of the largest 
 size. They ripen all at once, and are fully ripe when the 
 Concord begins to color], Worden, Brighton, Victoria 
 (white), Niagara (white), El Dorado. [This does not thrive 
 everywhere, but the grapes ripen early — September 1, or be- 
 fore — and the quality is perfection — white.]" Choice of P. 
 J. Berckman, for the latitude of Georgia: "White grapes — 
 Peter Wylie, Triumph, Maxatawny, Scuppernong. Eed 
 graspes — Delaware, Berckman 's, Brighton. Black — Con- 
 cord, Ives." 
 
 As I have over a hundred varieties in bearing, I may 
 venture to express an opinion also. I - confess that I am 
 very fond of those old favorites of our fathers, the Isabella 
 and Catawba. They will not ripen everywhere in our lati- 
 tude, yet I seldom fail to secure a good crop. In the fall of 
 1885 we voted the Isabella almost unsurpassed. If one has 
 warm, well- drained soil, or can train a vine near the south 
 side of a building, I should advise the trial of this fine old 
 grape. The lona, Brighton, and Agawam also are great 
 favorites with me. We regard the Diana, Wyoming Red, 
 Perkins, and Rogers' hybrids, Lindley, Wilder, and Ame- 
 nia, as among the best. The Rebecca, Duchess, Lady Wash- 
 ington, and Purity are fine white grapes. I have not yet 
 tested the Niagara. Years ago I obtained of Mr. James 
 Ricketts, the prize-taker for seedling grapes, two vines of 
 a small wine grape called the Bacchus. To my taste it is 
 very pleasant after two or three slight frosts. 
 
 Our list of varieties is long enough, and one must be 
 fastidious indeed who does not find some to suit his taste. 
 
THE GARDEN 47 
 
 In many localities the chief question is, What kind can 
 I grow ? In our favored region on the Hudson almost all 
 the out- door grapes will thrive; but as we go north the 
 seasons become too cool and short for some kinds, and 
 proceeding south the summers are too long and hot for 
 others. The salt air of the sea-coast is not conducive to 
 vine-culture, and only the most vigorous, like the Concord 
 and Moore's Early, will resist the mildew blight. We must 
 therefore do the best we can, and that will be very well 
 indeed in most localities. 
 
 Because our list of good grapes is already so long, it does 
 not follow that we have reached the limit of development by 
 any means. When we remember that almost within a life- 
 time our fine varieties have been developed from the wild 
 northern Fox grape {Vitis lahrusca)^ the Summer grapo 
 {cestivalis), Frost {cordifolia)^ we are led to think that per- 
 haps we have scarcely more than crossed the stile which 
 leads into the path of progress. If I should live to keep up 
 my little specimen vineyard ten years longer, perhaps the 
 greater part of the varieties now cultivated will have given 
 place to others. The delicious Brighton requires no more 
 space than a sour, defective variety; while the proprietor 
 starts with the best kinds he can obtain, he will find no 
 restraint beyond his own ignorance or carelessness that will 
 prevent his replacing the Brighton with a variety twice aa 
 good when it is developed. Thus vine-planting and grape- 
 tasting stretch away into an alluring and endless vista. 
 
 When such exchanges are made, we do not recommend 
 the grafting of a new favorite on an old vine. This is & 
 pretty operation when one has the taste and leisure for it, 
 and a new, high-priced variety can sometimes be obtained 
 speedily and cheaply in this way. Usually, however, new 
 kinds soon drop down within the means of almost any pur- 
 chaser, and there are advantages in having each variety 
 growing upon its own root. Nature yields to the skill of 
 the careful gardener, and permits the insertion of one dis- 
 tinct variety of fruit upon another; but with the vine she 
 
48 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 does not favor this method of propagation and change, as 
 in the case of pears and apples, where the graft forms a 
 close, tenacious union with the stock in which it is placed. 
 Mr. Fuller writes: "On account of the peculiar structure of 
 the wood of the vine, a lasting union is seldom obtained 
 when grafted above-ground, and is far from being certain 
 even when grafted below the surface, by the ordinary 
 method." The vine is increased so readily by easy and 
 natural methods, to be explained hereafter, that he who 
 desires nothing more than to secure a good supply of grapes 
 for the table can dismiss the subject. On the other hand, 
 those who wish to amuse themselves by experimenting with 
 Nature can find abundant enjoyment in not only grafting 
 old vines, but also in raising new seedlings, among which 
 he may obtain a prize which will "astonish the natives." 
 Those, however, whose tastes carry them to such lengths in 
 vine-culture will be sure to purchase exhaustive treatises 
 on the subject, and will therefore give no heed to these 
 simple practical chapters. It is my aim to enable the busi- 
 ness man returning from his city office, or the farmer en- 
 grossed with the care of many acres, to learn in a few 
 moments, from time to time, just what he must do to sup- 
 ply his family abundantly with fruits and vegetables. 
 
 If one is about to adopt a grape-culture as a calling, 
 common-sense requires that he should locate in some region 
 peculiarly adapted to the vine. If the possessor of a large 
 farm purposes to put several acres in vineyard, he should 
 also aim to select a soil and exposure best suited to his pur- 
 pose. Two thousand years ago Virgil wrote, "Nor let thy 
 vineyard bend toward the sun when setting." The infer- 
 ence is that the vines should face the east, if possible ; and 
 from that day to this, eastern and southern exposures have 
 been found the best. Yet climate modifies even this prin- 
 ciple. In the South, I should plant my vineyard on a north- 
 western slope, or on the north side of a belt of woods, for 
 the reason that the long, hot days there would cause too 
 rapid an evaporation from the foliage of the vines, and en- 
 
THE GARDEN 49 
 
 leeble, if not kill them. In the limited space of the Home 
 Acre one can use only such land as he has, and plant where 
 he must; but if the favorable exposures indicated exist, it 
 would be well to make the most of them. I can mention, 
 however, as encouragement to many, that I saw, last fall, 
 splendid grapes growing on perfectly level and sandy soil 
 in New Jersey. 
 
 A low- lying, heavy, tenacious clay is undoubtedly the 
 worst ground in which to plant a vine; and yet by thorough 
 drainage, a liberal admixture of sand, and light fertilizers, 
 it can be made to produce good grapes of some varieties. 
 A light sandy soil, if enriched abundantly with well- decayed 
 vegetable and barnyard manures, gives wider scope in choice 
 of kinds; while on the ideal well-drained sandy loam that 
 we have described, any outdoor grape can be planted hope- 
 fully if the garden is sufficiently removed from the seaboard. 
 
 As a general truth it may be stated that any land in 
 a condition to produce a fine crop of corn and potatoes is 
 ready for the vine. This would be true of the entire garden 
 if the suggestions heretofore made have been carried out. 
 Therefore the borders which have been named are ready to 
 receive the vines, which may be planted in either spring 
 or fall. 1 prefer the fall season for several reasons. The 
 ground is usually drier then, and crumbles more finely; 
 the young vine becomes well established and settled in its 
 place by spring, and even forms new roots before the grow- 
 ing season begins, and in eight cases out of ten makes a 
 stronger growth than follows spring planting; it is work 
 accomplished when there is usually the greatest leisure. 
 If the ground is ready in early spring, I should advise no 
 delay. A year's growth is gained by setting out the vines 
 at once. As a rule I do not advise late spring planting — 
 that isj* after the buds have started on the young vines. 
 They may live, but usually they scarcely do more, the first 
 year. 
 
 In ordering from a nursery I should ask for vigorous, 
 well-rooted two-year-old vines, and I should be almost as 
 
50 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 well contented with first-class one-year-olds. If any one 
 should advertise ''extra large, strong vines, ready to bear 
 at once," I should have nothing to do with him. That's 
 a nursery trick to get rid of old stock. The first year after 
 the shock of removal a vine should not be permitted to 
 bear at all; and a young vigorous vine is worth a dozen old 
 stunted ones. 
 
 Having procured the vines, keep them in a cool, moist 
 place until ready to plant. Never permit the roots to be- 
 come dry; and if some of them are long and naked, shorten 
 them to two feet, so as to cause them to throw out side 
 fibrous roots, which are the true feeders. Excavate holes of 
 ample size, so that all the roots may be spread out naturally. 
 If you have reason to think the ground is not very good, 
 two or three quarts of fine bone-dust thoroughly mixed 
 with the soil that is placed on and about the roots will give 
 a fine send-ofi. Usually a good mulch of any kind of barn- 
 yard manure placed on the surface after planting will answer 
 all purposes. Before filling in the hole over the roots, place 
 beside the vine a stout stake six or seven feet high. This 
 will be all the support required the first year. Cut back the 
 young vine to three buds, and after they get well started, 
 let but one grow. If the planting is done in the fall, mound 
 the earth up over the little vine at the approach of winter, 
 so as to cover it at least six inches below the surface. In 
 spring uncover again as soon as hard frosts are over — say 
 early April in our latitude. Slow-growing varieties, like 
 the Delaware, may be set out six feet apart; strong growers, 
 like the Concord, eight feet. Vines can not be expected to 
 thrive under the shade of trees, or to fight an unequal battle 
 in ground filled with the roots of other plants. 
 
 Vines may be set out not only in the garden borders, but 
 also in almost any place where their roots will not ^e inter- 
 fered with, and where their foliage will receive plenty of 
 light and air. How well I remember the old Isabella vines 
 that clambered on a trellis over the kitchen door at my 
 childhood's home! In this sunny exposure, and in the re- 
 
THE GARDEN 51 
 
 fleeted heat of the building, the clusters were always the 
 sweetest and earliest ripe. A ton of grapes may be secured 
 annually by erecting trellises against the sides of buildings, 
 walls, and poultry yard, while at the same time the screen- 
 ing vines furnish grateful shade and no small degree of 
 beauty. With a little petting, such scattered vines are often 
 enormously productive. An occasional pail of soapsuds 
 gives them a drink which eventually flushes the thickly 
 hanging clusters with exquisite color. People should dis- 
 miss from their minds the usual method of European culti- 
 vation, wherein the vines are tied to short stakes, and made 
 to produce their fruit near the ground. This method can 
 be employed if we find pleasure in the experiment. At 
 Mr. B'uller's place I saw fine examples of it. Stubby vines 
 with stems thick as one's wrist rose about three feet from 
 the ground, then branched ofE on every side, like an um- 
 brella, with loads of fruit. Only one supporting stake was 
 required. This method evidently is not adapted to our 
 climate and species of grape, since in that case plenty of 
 keen, practical fruit-growers would have adopted it. 1 am 
 glad this is true, for the vine-clad hills of France do not 
 present half so pleasing a spectacle as an American corn- 
 field. The vine is beautiful when grown as a vine, and not 
 as a stub; and well- trained, well-fed vines on the Home 
 Acre can be developed to almost any length required, 
 shading and hiding with greenery every unsightly object, 
 and hanging their finest clusters far beyond the reach of 
 the predatory small boy. 
 
 We may now consider the vines planted and growing 
 vigorously, as they will in most instances if they have been 
 prepared for and planted according to the suggestions al- 
 ready given. Now begins the process of guiding and assist- 
 ing Nature. Left to herself, she will give a superabundance 
 of vine, with sufficient fruit for purposes of propagation and 
 feeding the birds. Our object is to obtain the maximum 
 of fruit from a minimum of vine. The little plant, even 
 though grown from a single bud, will sprawl all over every- 
 
52 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 thing near it in three or four years, if unchecked. Pruning 
 may begin even before midsummer of the first year. The 
 single green shoot will by this time begin to produce what 
 are termed "laterals." The careful cultivator who wishes 
 to throw all the strength and growth into the main shoot 
 will pinch these laterals back as soon as they form one leaf. 
 Each lateral will start again from the axil of the leaf that 
 has been left, and having formed another leaf, should again 
 be cut off. By repeating this process during the growing 
 season you have a strong single cane by fall, reaching 
 probably beyond the top of the supporting stake. In our 
 latitude I advise that this single cane — that is, the vine — 
 be cut back to within fifteen inches of the surface when 
 the leaves have fallen and the wood has well- ripened — say 
 about the middle of November — and that the part left be 
 bent over and covered with earth. When I say ' ' bent over, ' ' 
 I do not mean at right angles, so as to admit of the possi- 
 bility of its being broken, but gently and judiciously. I 
 cover with earth all my vines, except the Concords and 
 Isabellas, just before hard freezing weather; and even these 
 two hardy kinds I weight down close to the ground. I have 
 never failed to secure a crop from vines so treated. Two 
 men will protect over a hundred vines in a day. 
 
 In early -April the young vine is uncovered again; and 
 now the two uppermost buds are allowed to grow and form 
 two strong canes, instead of one, and on this new growth 
 four or five clusters of grapes may be permitted to mature 
 if the vine is vigorous. If it is feeble, take off all the fruit, 
 and stimulate the vine into greater vigor. Our aim is not 
 to obtain half a dozen inferior clusters as soon as possible, 
 but to produce a vine that will eventually almost supply 
 a family by itself. If several varieties have been planted, 
 some will be found going ahead rampantly; others will ex- 
 hibit a feebler growth, which can be hastened and greatly 
 increased by enriching the surface of the soil around them^ 
 and by a pail of soap-suds now and then in May or June — 
 but not later, unless there should be a severe drought. 
 
THE GARDEN 53 
 
 There should be no efiort to produce much growth during 
 the latter part of the summer and early autumn, for then 
 both the wood and roots will be immature and unripened 
 when frost begins, and thus the vine receive injury. For 
 this reason it is usually best to apply fertilizers to vines 
 in the fall; for if given in the spring, a late, unhealthful 
 growth is often produced. Throughout all subsequent years 
 manure must be applied judiciously. You may tell the 
 hired man to top-dress the ground about the vines, and 
 he will probably treat all alike; a vine that is already 
 growing so strongly that it can scarcely be Jiept within 
 bounds will receive as much as one that is slow and feeble 
 in its development. This is worse than waste. Each vine 
 should be treated in accordance with its condition and habit 
 of growth. What would be thought of a physician who 
 ordered a tonic for an entire family, giving as much to one 
 who might need depleting, as to another who, as country 
 people say, was ''puny and ailin' ?" With even an assort- 
 ment of half a dozen varieties we shall jBnd after the first 
 good start that some need a curb, and others a spur. 
 
 Stakes will answer as supports to the vines during the 
 first and second seasons; but thereafter trellises or arbors 
 are needed. The latter will probably be employed over the 
 central walk of the garden, and may be constructed after 
 several simple and pretty designs, which I leave to the taste 
 of the reader. If vines are planted about buildings, fences, 
 etc., trellises may be made of anything preferred — of gal- 
 vanized wire, slats, or rustic poles fastened to strong, dur- 
 able supports. If vines are to be trained scientifically in 
 the open garden, I should recommend the trellises figured 
 on pages 120 and 142 of Mr. Fuller's work, '*The Grape 
 Culturist." These, beyond anything 1 have seen, appear 
 the best adapted for the following out of a careful system 
 of pruning and training. Such a system Mr. Fuller nas 
 thoroughly and lucidly explained in the above-named book. 
 
 Unless the reader has had experience, or is willing to 
 give time for the mastery of this subject, I should advise 
 
54 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 that he )mploy an experienced gardener to prune his vines 
 after the second year. It is a brief task, but a great deal 
 depends upon it. In selecting a man for the work I should 
 require something more than exaggerated and personal 
 assurances. In every village there are terrible butchers 
 of vines and fruit-trees, who have some crude system of 
 their own. They are as ignorant of the true science of the 
 subject as a quack doctor of medicine, and, like the dis- 
 penser of nostrums, they claim to be infallible. Skilful 
 pruning and training is really a fine art, which cannot be 
 learned in a day or a year. It is like a surgical operation, 
 requiring but little time, yet representing much acquired 
 skill and experience. In almost every locality there are 
 trustworthy, intelligent gardeners, who will do this work 
 for a small sum until the proprietor has learned the art 
 himself, if so inclined. I should also employ the same man 
 in spring to tie up the vines and train them. 
 
 If one is not ambitious to secure the best results attain- 
 able, he can soon learn to perform both the tasks well 
 enough to obtain fairly good fruit in abundance. It should 
 be our constant aim not to permit long, naked reaches of 
 wood, in one part of the vine, and great smothering bunches 
 of fruit and foliage in another part. Of course the roots, 
 stem, and leading arms should be kept free from useless 
 shoots and sprouts; but having reached the trellis, the vine 
 should be made to distribute bearing fruit- spurs evenly 
 over it. Much can be learned about pruning from books 
 and by watching an expert gardener while giving the annual 
 pruning; but the true science of trimming a vine is best ac- 
 quired by watching buds develop, by noting what they will 
 do, where they go, and how much space they will take up 
 in a single summer. In this way one will eventually realize 
 how much is wrapped np in the insignificant little buds, 
 and how great the folly of leaving too many on the vine. 
 
 In my next chapter I shall treat briefly of the propaga- 
 tion of the grape, its insect enemies, diseases, etc. ; and also 
 of some other fruits. 
 
THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD S5 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD 
 
 HE who proposes to plant grape-vines will scarcely fail 
 to take the sensible course of inspecting the varie- 
 ties already producing fruit in his locality. From 
 causes often too obscure to be learned with certainty, ex- 
 cellent kinds will prove to be well adapted to one locality, 
 and fail in others. If, therefore, when calling on a neigh- 
 bor during August, September, or October, we are shown 
 a vine producing fruit abundantly that is suited to our 
 taste, a vine also which manifests unmistakable vigor, we 
 may be reasonably sure that it belongs to a variety which 
 we should have, especially if it be growing in a soil and ex- 
 posure somewhat similar to our garden plot. A neighbor 
 worthy of the name will be glad to give us a few cuttings 
 from his vine at the time of its annual pruning; and with 
 very little trouble we also may soon possess the desired 
 variety. When the vine is trimmed, either make yourself 
 or have your friend make a few cuttings of sound wood 
 from that season's growth. About eight inches is a good 
 length for these vine-slips, and they should contain at least 
 two buds. Let each slip be cut off smoothly just under \Ld 
 lowest bud, and extend an inch or two above the upper- 
 most bud. If these cuttings are obtained in November or 
 December, they may be put into a little box with some 
 of the moist soil of the garden, and buried in the ground 
 below the usual frost- line — say a foot or eighteen inches in 
 our latitude. The simple object is to keep them in a cool, 
 even temperature, but not a frosty one. Early in April dig 
 
56 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 up the box, open a trench in a moist but not wet part of 
 the garden, and insert the cuttings perpendicularly in the 
 soil, so that the upper bud is covered barely one inch. In 
 filling up the trench, press the soil carefully yet firmly 
 about the cuttings, and spread over the surface just about 
 them a little fine manure. The cuttings should be a foot 
 apart from each other in the row. Do not let the ground 
 become dry about them at any time during the summer. 
 By fall these cuttings will probably have thrown out an 
 abundance of roots, and have made from two to three feet 
 of vine. In this case they can be taken up and set out 
 where they are to fruit. Possibly but one or two of them 
 have started vigorously. The backward ones had better be 
 left to grow another year in the cutting bed. Probably 
 we shall not wish to cultivate more than one or two vines 
 of the variety; but it is just as easy to start several cuttings 
 as one, and by this course we guard against failure, and are 
 able to select the most vigorous plant for our garden. By 
 taking good care of the others we soon derive one of the 
 best pleasures which our acre can afford — that of giving 
 to a friend something which will enhance the productive- 
 ness of his acre, and add to his enjoyment for years 
 to come. 
 
 Not only on our neighbor's grounds, but also on our 
 own we shall discover that some varieties are unusually 
 vigorous, productive, and well-adapted to our locality; 
 and we may very naturally wish to have more vines of 
 the same sort, especially if the fruit is to our taste. We 
 can either increase this kind by cuttings, as has been 
 described, or we can layer part of the vine that has won 
 our approval by well-doing. I shall take the latter course 
 with several delicious varieties in my vineyard. Some 
 kinds of grapes do not root readily as cuttings, but there 
 is little chance of failure in layering. This process is sim- 
 ply the laying down of a branch of a vine in early spring, 
 and covering it lightly with soil, so that some buds will be 
 beneath the surface, and others just at or a little above 
 
THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD f?7 
 
 it. TThose beneath will form roots, the others shoots which 
 by fall should be good vines for planting. Every bud that 
 can reach the air and light will start upward, and thus there 
 may be a thick growth of incipient vines that will crowd 
 and enfeeble each other. The probabilities are that only 
 two or three new vines are wanted ; therefore all the others 
 should be rubbed off at the start, so that the strength of 
 the parent plant and of the new roots that are forming may 
 go into those few shoots designed to become eventually 
 a part of our vineyard. If we wish only one vine, then 
 but one bud should grow from the layer; if two vines, then 
 two buds. The fewer buds that are permitted to grow, the 
 stronger vines they make. 
 
 It must be remembered that this layer, for the greater 
 part of the growing season, is drawing its sustenance from 
 the parent plant, to which it is still attached. Therefore 
 the other branches of this vine thus called upon for unusual 
 effort should be permitted to fruit but sparingly. We should 
 not injure and enfeeble the original vine in order to get 
 others like it. For this reason we advise that no more buds 
 be permitted to grow from the layer than we actually need 
 ourselves. To injure a good vine and deprive ourselves 
 of fruit that we may have plants to give away, is to love 
 one's neighbor better than one's self — ^a thing permitted, 
 but not required. When our vines are pruned, we can 
 make as many cuttings as we choose, either to sell or give 
 away. 
 
 The ground in which a layer is placed should be very 
 rich, and its surface round the young growing vines always 
 kept moist and free from weeds. In the autumn, after the 
 leaves have fallen and the wood is ripe and hard, cut off 
 the layered branch close to the vine, and with a garden- 
 fork gently and carefully lift it, with all its roots and young 
 vines attached, out of the soil. First cut the young vines 
 back to three or four buds, then separate them from the 
 branch from which they grew, being sure to give each 
 plant plenty of roots, and the roots hack of the point from 
 
58 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 which it grew; that is, those roots nearest the parent plant 
 from which the branch was layered. All the old wood of 
 the branch that is naked, free of roots, should be cut off. 
 The young shoots thus separated are now independent 
 vines, and may be set out at once where they are to fruit 
 If you have a variety that does not do well, or that you do 
 not like, dig it out, enrich the soil, and put one of your 
 favorites in its place. 
 
 We will now consider briefly the diseases and insect 
 enemies of the grape. A vine way be doomed to ill- health 
 from its very situation. Mr. Hussman, a grape-culturist of 
 great experience and wide observation, writes: *' Those 
 localities may generally be considered safe for the grape 
 in which there are no miasmatic influences. Where malaria 
 and fevers prevail, there is no safety for the crop, as the 
 vine seems to be as susceptible to such influences as human 
 beings. ' ' 
 
 Taking this statement literally, we may well ask. Where, 
 then, can grapes be grown ? According to physicians, ma- 
 laria has become one of the most generally diffused prod- 
 ucts of the country. When a man asserts that it is not in 
 his locality, we feel sure that if pressed he will admit that 
 it. is "round the corner." Country populations still sur- 
 vive, however, and so does grape-culture. Yet there are 
 low- lying regions which from defective drainage are dis- 
 tinctively and, it would almost seem, hopelessly malarial. 
 In such localities but few varieties of the vine will thrive. 
 The people who are compelled to live there, or who choose 
 to do so, should experiment until they obtain varieties so 
 hardy and vigorous that they will triumph over everything. 
 The best course with grape- diseases is not to have them; in 
 other words, to recognize the fact at once that certain varie- 
 ties of the grape will not thrive and be productive of good 
 fruit unless the soil and climate suit them. The proprietor 
 of the Home Acre can usually learn by a little inquiry or 
 observation whether grapes thrive in his locality. If there 
 is much complaint of mildew, grape- rot, and general feeble- 
 
THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD W 
 
 ness of growth, he should seek to plant only the most hardy 
 and vigorous kinds. 
 
 As I have said before, our cultivated grapes are derived 
 from several native species found growing wild, and some 
 now valued highly for wine-making are nothing but wild 
 grapes domesticated; as, for instance, Norton's Virginia, 
 belonging to the cestivalis class. The original plant of this 
 variety was found growing upon an island in the Potomac 
 by Dr. Norton, of Virginia. 
 
 The species from which the greatest number of well- 
 known grapes is obtained is the Vitis labrusca^ the common 
 wild or fox grape, found growing in woods and thickets, 
 usually where the ground is moist, from Canada to the Gulf. 
 The dark purple berries, averaging about three-quarters of 
 an inch in diameter, ripen in September, and thfy contain 
 a tough, musky pulp. Yet this "slip of wilderness" is the 
 parent of the refined Catawba, the delicious Brighton, and 
 the magnificent white grape Lady Washington — indeed, of 
 all the black, red, and white grapes with which most people 
 are familiar. Our earliest gn pes, which ripen in August, as 
 well as some of the latest, like the Isabella, come from the 
 labrusca species. It is said that the labrusca class will not 
 thrive in the extreme South; and with the exception of the 
 high mountain slopes, this appears reasonable to the student 
 of the vine. It is said that but few of this class will endure 
 the long hot summers of France. But there are great dif- 
 ferences among the varieties derived from this native species. 
 For example, the Concord thrives almost anywhere, while 
 even here upon the Hudson we can scarcely grow the Ca- 
 tawba with certaintyo It is so good a grape, however, that 
 I persist in making the efEort, with varying success; but I 
 should not recommend it, or many of its class, for those 
 localities not specially suited to the grape. 
 
 I will now name a few varieties which have proved to 
 be, or promise to be, the most thrifty and productive where- 
 ever grapes can be grown at all. The labrusca class: Black 
 — Concord, Wilder, Worden, Amenia, Early Canada, Tele- 
 
60 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 graph or Christine, Moore's Early. Eed — Wyoming, Goethe, 
 Lindley, Beauty, Brighton, Perkins (pale red), and Agawam. 
 White — Kebecca, Martha, Allen's Hybrid, Lady Pockling- 
 ton, Prentiss, Lady Washington. These are all fine grapes, 
 and they have succeeded throughout wide areas of country. 
 Any and all are well worth a trial; but if the grower finds 
 that some of them are weak and diseased in his grounds, I 
 should advise that he root them out and replace them with 
 those which thrive. The Niagara is highly praised, and 
 may make good all that is claimed for it. 
 
 Of the cestivalis class I can recommend the Cynthiana and 
 the Herbemont, or Warren, for the extreme South. Both 
 of them are black. There are new varieties of this vigorous 
 species which promise well. 
 
 The cordifolia species promises to furnish some fine, 
 hardy, and productive grapes, of which the Amber is an 
 example. The Elvira, a pale yellow grape, is highly praised 
 by Mr. Hussman. Although the Bacchus is distinctively a 
 wine grape, I have already said that its flavor, when fully 
 ripe, was agreeable to me. The only diflSculty in growing 
 it is to keep the ground poor, and use the pruning- knife 
 freely. 
 
 I have enlarged on this point, for I wish to direct the 
 mind of the reader to the fact that there are many very 
 hardy grapes. I congratulate those who, with the taste of 
 a connoisseur, have merely to sample until they find just 
 the varieties that suit them, and then to plant these kinds 
 in their genial soil and favored locality. 
 
 At the same time I should like to prevent others from 
 worrying along with unsatisfactory varieties, or from reach- 
 ing the conclusion that they can not grow grapes in their 
 region or garden. Let them rather admit that they can not 
 raise some kinds, but may others. If a variety were persist- 
 ently diseased, feeble, and unproductive under good treat- 
 ment, I should root it out rather than continue to nurse and 
 coddle it. 
 
 When mildew and grape- rot first appear, the evil can 
 
THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD 61 
 
 often be remedied in part by dusting the vines with sulphur, 
 and continuing the process until the disease is cured, if it 
 ever is. I have never had occasion to do this, and will not 
 do it. A variety that often requires such nursing in this 
 favored locality should be discarded. 
 
 There is one kind of disease, or feebleness rather, to 
 which we are subject everywhere, and from which few 
 varieties are exempt It is the same kind of weakness 
 which would be developed in a fine sound horse if we drove 
 him until he dropped down every time we took him out. 
 Cultivated vines are so far removed from their natural con- 
 ditions that they will often bear themselves to death, like 
 a peach-tree. To permit this is a true instance of avarice 
 overreaching itself; or the evil may result from ignorance 
 or neglect Close pruning in autumn and thinning out the 
 crowding clusters soon after they have formed is the remedy. 
 If a vine had been so enfeebled, I should cut it back rigor- 
 ously, feed it well, and permit it to bear very little fruit, if 
 any, for a year. 
 
 Of insect enemies we have the phylloxera of bad emi- 
 nence, which has so dismayed Europe. The man who could 
 discover and patent an adequate remedy in France might 
 soon rival a Rothschild in his wealth. The remedy abroad 
 is also ours — to plant varieties which are phylloxera- proof, 
 or nearly so. Fortunately we have many which defy this 
 pestiferous little root- louse, and European vine-growers have 
 been importing them by the million. They are still used 
 chiefly as stocks on which to graft varieties of the vinifera 
 species. In California, grapes of the vinifera or European 
 species are generally cultivated; but the phylloxera is at its 
 destructive work among them. The wine-grapes of the fu- 
 ture throughout the world may be developed from the hardy 
 aestivalis and cordifolia classes. In many localities, even in 
 this new land, varieties like the Delaware succumb to this 
 scourge of foreign vineyards. 
 
 The aphis, or plant-louse, sometimes attacks the young, 
 tender shoots of the vine. The moment they appear, take 
 
d2 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 off the shoot, and crush it on a board with the foot. Leaf- 
 rollers, the grape-vine sphinx, and caterpillars in general 
 must be caught by hand and killed. Usually they are not 
 very numerous. The horrid little rose- chafers or rose- bugs 
 are sometimes very destructive. Our best course is to take 
 a basin of water and jar them off into it — they fall readily — 
 and then scald them to death. We may discover lady-bugs 
 — small red or yellow and black beetles—among our vines, 
 and many persons, I fear, will destroy them with the rest. 
 We should take off our hats to them and wish them god- 
 speed. In their destruction of aphides and thrips they are 
 among our best friends. The camel-cricket is another active 
 destroyer of injurious insects. Why do not our schools 
 teach a little practical natural history ? Once, when walk- 
 ing in the Catskills, I saw the burly driver of a stage-load 
 of ladies bound out of his vehicle to kill a garter-snake, the 
 pallid women looking on, meanwhile, as if the earth were 
 being rid of some terrible and venomous thing. They ought 
 to have known that the poor little reptile was as harmless as 
 one of their own garters, and quite as useful in its way. 
 Every country boy and girl should be taught to recognize 
 all our helpers in our incessant fight with insect enemies — 
 a fight which must be maintained with more organized vigor 
 and intelligence than at present, if horticulture is ever to 
 reach its best development. 
 
 Wasps and hornets often swarm about the sweet and 
 early ripe varieties. A wide-mouthed bottle partially filled 
 with molasses and water will entrap and drown great num- 
 bers of these ugly customers. Some of our favorite birds 
 try our patience not a little. During the early summer I 
 never wearied of watching the musical orioles flashing with 
 their bright hues in and out of the foliage about the house; 
 but when the early grapes were ripe, they took pay for their 
 music with the sang-froid of a favorite prima donna. On one 
 occasion I saw three or four alight on a Diana vine, and in 
 five minutes they had spoiled a dozen clusters. If they 
 would only take a bunch and eat it up clean, one would 
 
THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD 68 
 
 readily share with them, for there would be enough for all; 
 but the dainty little epicures puncture an indefinite number 
 of berries, merely taking a sip from each. Then the wasps 
 and bees come along and finish the clusters. The cardinal, 
 cat-bird, and our unrivalled songster the wood-thrush, all 
 help themselves in the same wasteful fashion. One can't 
 ghoot wood- thrushes. We should almost as soon think of 
 killing off our Nilssons, Nevadas, and Carys. The only 
 thing to do is to protect the clusters; and this can be accom- 
 plished in several ways. The most expeditious and satisfac- 
 tory method is to cover the vines of early grapes with cheap 
 mosquito netting. Another method is to make little bags 
 of this netting and inclose each cluster. Last fall, two of 
 my children tied up many hundreds of clusters in little 
 paper bags, which can be procured at wholesale for a 
 trifling sum. The two lower corners of the paper bags 
 should be clipped off to permit the rain to pass freely 
 through them. Clusters ripen better, last longer on the vine, 
 and acquire a more exquisite bloom and flavor in this retire- 
 ment than if exposed to light as well as to birds and wasps. 
 Not the fruit but the foliage of the grape-vine needs the sun. 
 
 Few of the early grapes will keep long after being taken 
 from the vine; but some of the later ones can be preserved 
 well into the winter by putting them in small boxes and 
 storing them where the temperature is cool, even, and dry. 
 Some of the wine-grapes, like Norton*s Virginia, will keep 
 under these conditions almost like winter apples. One Oc- 
 tober day I took a stone pot of the largest size and put in 
 first a layer of Isabella grapes, then a double thickness of 
 straw paper, then alternate layers of grapes and paper, until 
 the pot was full. A cloth was next pasted over the stone 
 cover, so as to make the pot water-tight. The pot was then 
 buried on a dry knoll below the reach of frost, and dug up 
 again on New Yearns Day. The grapes looked and tasted 
 as if they had just been picked from the vine. 
 
 For the mysteries of hybridizing and raising new seed- 
 lings, grafting, hot- house and cold grapery culture, the 
 
#1 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 reader must look in more extended works than this, and 
 to writers who have had experience in these matters. 
 
 We shall next consider three fruits which upon the Home 
 Acre may be regarded as forming a natural group — peaches, 
 plums, and raspberries. If any one expresses surprise that 
 the last-named fruit should be given this relationship, I have 
 merely to reply that the raspberry thrives in the partial 
 shade produced by such small trees as the peach and plum. 
 Where there is need of economy of space it is well to take 
 advantage of this fact, for but few products of the garden 
 give any satisfaction when contending with roots below and 
 shade above. 
 
 We have taken it for granted that some grape-vines 
 would be planted in the two borders extending through the 
 centre of the garden, also that there would be spaces left 
 which might be filled with peach and plum trees and small 
 flowering shrubs. If there is to be a good-sized poultry-yard 
 upon the acre, we should advise that plums be planted in 
 that; but we will speak of this fruit later, and now give oar 
 attention to that fruit which to the taste of many is unri- 
 valled — the peach. 
 
 With the exception of the strawberry, it is perhaps the 
 only fruit for which I prefer spring planting. At the same 
 time, I should not hestiate to set out the trees in autumn. 
 The ground should be good, but not too highly fertilized. 
 I prefer young trees but one year old from the bud. If set 
 out in the fall, I should mound up the earth eighteen inches 
 about them, to protect the roots and stem, and to keep the 
 tree firmly in the soil. With this precaution, I am not sure 
 but that fall planting has the greater advantage, except when 
 the climate is very severe and subject to great alternations. 
 Plant with the same care and on the same principles which 
 have been already described. If a careful system of pruning 
 is to be adopted, the trees may be set out twelve feet apart; 
 but if they are to be left to grow at will, which I regret to 
 say is the usual practice, they should be planted fifteen feet 
 from each other. 
 
THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD " 65 
 
 There are many good reasons why the common orchard 
 culture of the peach should not be adopted in the garden. 
 There is no fruit more neglected and ill-treated than the 
 beautiful and delicious peach. The trees are very cheap, 
 usually costing but a few cents each; they are bought by 
 the thousand from careless dealers, planted with scarcely 
 the attention given to a cabbage-plant, and too often allowed 
 to bear themselves to death. The land, trees, and cultiva- 
 tion cost so little that one good crop is expected to remu- 
 nerate for all outlay. If more crops are obtained, there is so 
 much clear gain. Qnder this slovenly treatment there is, of 
 course, rapid deterioration in the stamina of the peach. Pits 
 and buds are taken from enfeebled trees for the purpose of 
 propagation, and so tendencies to disease are perpetuated 
 and enhanced. Little wonder that the fatal malady, the 
 "yellows," has blighted so many hopes! I honestly believe 
 that millions of trees have been sold in which this disease 
 existed from the bud. If fine peaches were bred and propa- 
 gated with something of the same care that is bestowed on 
 blooded stock, the results would soon be proportionate. 
 Gardeners abroad often give more care to one tree than 
 hundreds receive here. Because the peach has grown so 
 easily in our climate, we have imposed on its good-nature 
 beyond the limits of endurance, and consequently it is not 
 easy to get sound, healthful trees that will bear year after 
 year under the best of treatment, as they did with our 
 fathers with no care at all. I should look to men who had 
 made a reputation for sending out sound, healthful stock 
 grown under their own eyes from pits and wood which they 
 know to be free from disease. Do not try to save a few 
 pennies on the first cost of trees, for the probabilities are 
 that such economy will result in little more than the 
 **yellows.*' 
 
 In large orchards, cultivated by horse-power, the stems 
 of the trees are usually from four to six feet high ; but in 
 the garden this length of stem is not necessary, and the 
 trees can be grown as dwarf standards, with stems begin- 
 
$S TEE HOME ACRE 
 
 ning to branch two feet from the ground. A little study of 
 the habit of growth in the peach will show that, to obtain 
 the best results, the pruning-shears are almost as essential as 
 in the case of the grape-vine. More than in any other fruit- 
 tree, the sap tends strongly toward the ends of the shoots. 
 Left to Nature, only the terminal buds of these will grow 
 from year to year; the other buds lower down on the shoots 
 fail and drop ofi. Thus we soon have long naked reaches 
 of unproductive wood, or sucker-like sprouts starting from 
 the bark, which are worse than useless. Our first aim should 
 be to form a round, open, symmetrical head, shortening in 
 the shoots at least one-half each year, and cutting out cross- 
 ing and interlacing branches. For instance, if we decide to 
 grow our trees as dwarf standards, we shall cut back the 
 stems at a point two feet from the ground the first spring 
 after planting, and let but three buds grow, to make the 
 first three or leading branches. The following spring we 
 shall cut back the shoots that have formed, so as to make 
 six leading branches. Thereafter we shall continue to cut 
 out and back so as to maintain an open head for the free 
 circulation of air and light. 
 
 To learn the importance of rigorous and careful pruning, 
 observe the shoots of a vigorous peach-tree, say three or 
 four years old. These shoots or sprays are long and slen- 
 der, lined with fruit- buds. You will often find two fruit- 
 buds together, with a leaf- bud between them. If the 
 fruit-buds have been uninjured by the winter, they will 
 nearly all form peaches, far more than the slender spray 
 can support or mature. The sap will tend to give the most 
 support to all growth at the end of the spray or branch. 
 The probable result will be that you will have a score, more 
 or less, of peaches that are little beyond skin and stones. 
 By midsummer the brittle sprays will break, or the limbs 
 split down at the crotches. You may have myriads of 
 peaches, but none fit for market or table. Thousands 
 of baskets are sent to New York annually that do not 
 pay the expenses of freight, commission, etc. ; while the 
 
T^E VINEYARD AND ORCHARD 67 
 
 orchards from which they come are practically ruined. 
 1 had two small trees from which, one autumn, I sold 
 ten dollars' worth of fruit. They yielded more profit than 
 is often obtained from a hundred trees. 
 
 Now, in the light of these facts, realize the advantages 
 secured by cutting back the shoots or sprays so as to leave 
 but three or four fruit- buds on each. The tree can prob- 
 ably mature these buds into large, beautiful peaches, and 
 Btill maintain its vigor. By this shortening-in process you 
 have less tree, but more fruit. The growth is directed and 
 kept within proper limits, and the tree preserved for future 
 usefulness. Thus the peach-trees of the garden will not 
 only furnish some of the most delicious morsels of the 
 year, but also a very agreeable and light phase of labor. 
 They can be made pets which will amply repay all kind- 
 ness; and the attentions they most appreciate, strange to 
 say, are cutting and pinching. The pruning- shears in March 
 and early April can cut away forming burdens which could 
 not be borne, and pinching back during the summer can 
 maintain beauty and symmetry in growth. When the pro- 
 prietor of the Home Acre has learned from experience to 
 do this work judiciously, his trees, like the grape-vines, 
 will afford many hours of agreeable and healthful recrea- 
 tion, if he regards it as labor, one great, melting, luscious 
 peach will repay him. A small apple, pear, or strawberry 
 usually has the flavor of a large one; but a peach to be had 
 in perfection must be fully matured to its limit of growth 
 on a healthful tree. 
 
 Let no one imagine that the shortening in of shoots 
 
 recommended consists of cutting the young sprays evenly 
 
 all round the trees as one would shear a hedge. It more 
 
 nearly resembles the pruning of the vine; for the peach, 
 
 like the vine, bears its fruit only on the young wood of the 
 
 previous summer*s growth. The aim should be to have this 
 
 young bearing wood distributed evenly over the tree, as 
 
 should be true of a grape-vine. When the trees are kept 
 
 low, as dwarf standards, the fruit is more within reach, and 
 18— Roe— XI 
 
68 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 less liable to be blown ofi by high winds. Gradually, how- 
 ever, if the trees prove healthful, they will get high enough 
 up in the world. 
 
 Notwithstanding the rigorous pruning recommended, the 
 trees will often overload themselves; and thinning out the 
 young peaches when as large as hickory nuts is almost im- 
 perative if we would secure good fruit. Men of experience 
 say that when a tree has set too much fruit, if two- thirds 
 of it are taken off while little, the remaining third will 
 measure and weigh more than would the entire crop, and 
 bring three times as much money. In flavor and beauty 
 the gain will certainly be more than double. 
 
 Throughout its entire growth and fruiting life the peach- 
 tree needs good cultivation, and also a good but not over- 
 stimulated soil. Well-decayed compost from the cow-stable 
 is probably the best barnyard fertilizer. Wood- ashes are 
 peculiarly agreeable to the constitution of this tree, and 
 tend to maintain it in health and bearing long after others 
 not so treated are dead. I should advise that half a peck 
 be worked in lightly every spring around each tree as far 
 as the branches extend. When enriching the ground about 
 a tree, never heap the fertilizer round the trunk, but spread 
 it evenly from the stem outward as far as the branches 
 reach, remembering that the head above is the measure of 
 the root extension below. Air-slacked lime is also useful 
 to the peach in small quantities; and so, no doubt, would 
 be a little salt from time to time. Bone-meal is highly 
 recommended. 
 
 Like other fruit-trees, the peach does not thrive on low, 
 wet ground, and the fruit- buds are much more apt to be 
 winter-killed in such localities. A light, warm soil is re- 
 garded as the most favorable. 
 
 Of course we can grow this fruit on espaliers, as they do 
 abroad; but there are few localities where any advantage 
 is to be derived from this course. In our latitude I much 
 prefer cool northern exposures, for the reason that the fruit- 
 buds are kept dormant during warm spells in winter, and 
 
THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD 69 
 
 SO late in spring that thej escape injury from frost. Alter- 
 nate freezing and thawing is more harmful than steady- 
 cold. The buds are seldom safe, however, at any time 
 when the mercury sinks ten or fifteen degrees below zero. 
 
 As we have intimated, abuse of the peach-tree has devel- 
 oped a fatal disease, known as the "yellows." It manifests 
 Itself in yellow, sickly foliage, numerous and feeble sprouts 
 along the larger limbs and trunk, and small miserable fruit, 
 ripening prematurely. I can almost taste the yellows in 
 much of the fruit bought in market. Some regard the dis- 
 ease as very contagious; others do not. It is best to be on 
 the safe side. If a tree is affected generally, dig it out by 
 the roots and burn it at once; if only a branch shows evi- 
 dence of the malady, cut it off well back, and commit it 
 to the flames. The only remedy is to propagate from trees 
 in sound health and vigor. 
 
 Like the apple, the peach-tree is every w.here .subject to 
 injury from a borer, named ''^exitiosa, or the destructive." 
 The eggs from which these little pests are hatched are laid 
 by the moth during the summer upon the stem of the tree 
 very near the root; the grubs bore through the outer bark, 
 and devour the inner bark and sap-wood. Fortunately they 
 soon reveal their evil work by the castings, and by the gum 
 which exudes from the hole by which they entered. They 
 can not do much harm, unless a tree is neglected; in this 
 case, however, they will soon enfeeble, and probably de- 
 stroy it. When once within a tree, borers must be cut out 
 with a sharp-pointed knife, carefully yet thoroughly. The 
 wounds from the knife may be severe, but the ceaseless 
 gnawing of the grub is fatal. If the tree has been lacerated 
 to some extent, a plaster of moistened clay or cow- manure 
 makes a good salve. Keeping the borers out of the tree is 
 far better than taking them out; and this can be effected 
 by wrapping the stem at the ground — two inches below the 
 surface, and five above — with strong hardware or sheathing 
 paper. If this is tied tightly about the tree, the moth can- 
 not lay its eggs upon the stem. A neighbor of mine has 
 
70 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 used this protection not only on the peach, but also on the 
 apple, with almost complete success. Of course the pests 
 will try to find their way under it, and it would be well to 
 take off the wrapper occasionally and examine the trees. 
 The paper must also be renewed before it is so far decayed 
 as to be valueless. It should be remembered also that the 
 borer will attack the trees from the first year of life to 
 the end. 
 
 In order to insure an unfailing supply of this delicious 
 fruit, I should advise that a few trees be set out every 
 spring. The labor and expense are scarcely greater than 
 that bestowed upon a cabbage patch, and the reward is more 
 satisfactory. 
 
 For this latitude the following choice of varieties will 
 prove, I think, a good one : Early Alexander, Early Bivers, 
 Princess of Wales, Brandywine, Old Mixon Free, Stump the 
 World, Picquet's Late, Crawford's Late, Mary's Choice, 
 White Free Heath, Salway, and Lord Palmerston. 
 
 If the soil of one's garden is stiff, cold, adhesive clay, 
 the peach would succeed much better budded or grafted on 
 plum-stocks. Some of ths finest fruit I have ever seen was 
 from seedlings, the trees having been grown from pits of 
 unusually good peaches. While the autumn planting of pits 
 lightly in the soil and permitting them to develop into bear- 
 ing trees is a pleasing and often profitable amusement, there 
 is no great probability that the result will be desirable. 
 We hear of the occasional prizes won in this way, but not 
 of the many failures. 
 
 ^j easy transition we pass to the kindred fruit the plum, 
 which does not generally receive the attention it deserves. 
 If one has a soil suited to it — a heavy clay or loam — it can 
 usually be grown very easily. The fruit is so grateful to 
 the taste and useful to the housekeeper that it should be 
 given a fair trial, either in the garden borders or wherever 
 a tree can be planted so as to secure plenty of light and air. 
 The young trees may be one or two years old from the bud; 
 I should prefer the former, if vigorous. Never be induced 
 
THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD 71 
 
 to purchase old trees by promises of speedy fruit. It is 
 quite possible you may never get any fruit at all from them 
 worth mentioning. I should allow a space of from ten to 
 fifteen feet between the trees when they are planted together, 
 and 1 should cut them back so that they would begin to 
 branch at two feet from the ground. Long, naked stems 
 are subject to the gum-disease. 
 
 In the place of general advice in regard to this fruit I 
 shall give the experience of Mr. T. S. Force, of Newburgh, 
 who exhibited seventy varieties at the last annual Orange 
 County fair. 
 
 His plum-orchard is a large poultry-yard, containing half 
 an acre, of which the ground is a good loam, resting on a 
 heavy clay subsoil. He bought trees but one year from the 
 bud, set them out in autumn, and cut them back so that 
 they began to form their heads at two feet from the ground. 
 He prefers starting with strong young plants of this age, 
 and he did not permit them to bear for the first three years, 
 his primal aim being to develop a healthy, vigorous tree 
 with a round, symmetrical head. During this period the 
 ground about them was kept mellow by good cultivation, 
 and, being rich enough to start with, received no fertilizers. 
 It is his belief that over-fertilization tends to cause the 
 disease so well known as the "black knot," which has de- 
 stroyed many orchards in this vicinity. If the garden has 
 been enriched as I have directed, the soil will probably 
 need little, if anything, from the stables, and certainly will 
 not if the trees are grown in a poultry-yard. During this 
 growing and forming period Mr. Force gave careful atten- 
 tion to pruning. Budded trees are not even symmetrical 
 growers, but tend to send up a few very strong shoots that 
 rob the rest of the tree of sustenance. Of course these must 
 be cut well back in early spring, or we have long, naked 
 reaches of wood and a deformed tree. It is far better, how- 
 ever, not to let these rampant shoots grow to maturity, but 
 to pinch them back in early summer, thus causing them to 
 throw out side-branches. By summer pinching and rubbing 
 
72 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 off of tender shoots a tree can be made to grow in any shape 
 we desire. When the trees receive no summer pruning, 
 Mr. Force advises that the branches be shortened in at least 
 one half in the spring, while some shoots are cut back even 
 more rigorously. At the age of four or five years, accord- 
 ing to the vigor of the trees, he permits them to bear 
 Now cultivation ceases, and the ground is left to grow 
 hard, but not weedy or grassy, beneath the boughs. Every 
 spring, just as the blossoms are falling, he spreads evenly 
 under the branches four quarts of salt. While the trees 
 thrive and grow fruitful with this fertilizer, the curculio, 
 or plum-weevil, does not appear to find it at all to its taste. 
 As a result of his methods, Mr. Force has grown large and 
 profitable crops, and his trees in the main are kept healthy 
 and vigorous. His remedy for the black knot is to cut off 
 and burn the small boughs and twigs affected. If the dis- 
 ease appears in the side of a limb or in the stem, he cuts 
 out all trace of it, and paints the wound with a wash of gum 
 shellac and alcohol. 
 
 Trees load so heavily that the plums rest against one 
 another. You will often find in moist warm weather decay- 
 ing specimens. These should be removed afr once, that the 
 infection may not spread. 
 
 In cutting out the interfering boughs, do not take off the 
 sharp-pointed spurs which are forming along the branches, 
 for on these are slowly maturing the fruit- buds. In this 
 case, as in others, the careful observer, after he has acquired 
 a few sound principles of action to start with, is taught more 
 by the tree itself than from any other source. 
 
 Mr. Force recommends the following ten varieties, named 
 in the order of ripening: Canada; Orleans, a red-cheeked 
 plum; McLaughlin, greenish, with pink cheek; Bradshaw, 
 large red, with lilac bloom; Smith's Orleans, purple; Green 
 Gage; Bleeker'sGage, golden yellow; Prune d'Agen, purple; 
 Coe's Golden Drop; and Shropshire Damson for preserves. 
 
 If we are restricted to very light soils, we shall probably 
 have to grow some of the native varieties, of the Canada and 
 
THE VINEYARD AND ORCHARD 73 
 
 Wild- Goose type. In regard to both this fruit and peaches 
 we should be guided in our selection by information respect- 
 ing varieties peculiarly suited to the region. 
 
 The next chapter will treat of small fruits, beginning 
 with the raspberry. 
 
74 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 CHAPTEE y 
 
 THE RASPBERRY 
 
 THE wide and favorable consideration given to small 
 fruits clearly marks one of the changes in the world's 
 history. This change may seem trifling indeed to 
 the dignified chroniclers of kings and queens and others of 
 high descent — great descent, it may be added, remembering 
 the moral depths attained; but to those who care for the 
 welfare of the people, it is a mutation of no slight interest. 
 I am glad to think, as has been shown in a recent novel, that 
 Lucrezia Borgia was not so black as she has been painted; 
 yet in the early days of June and July, when strawberries 
 and raspberries are ripening, I fancy that most of us can 
 dismiss her and her kin from mind as we observe Nature's 
 alchemy in our gardens. When we think of the luscious, 
 health-imparting fruits which will grace millions of tables, 
 and remember that until recent years they were conspicuous 
 only by their absence, we may not slightingly estimate a 
 great change for the better. Once these fruits were wildings 
 which the vast majority of our forefathers shared sparmgly 
 with the birds. Often still, unless we are careful, our share 
 will be small indeed; for the unperverted taste of the birds 
 discovered from the first what men have been so slow to 
 learn — that the ruby- like berries are the gems best worth 
 seeking. The world is certainly progressing toward physi- 
 cal redemption when even the Irish laborer abridges his 
 cabbage-patch for the sake of small fruits — food which a 
 dainty Ariel could not despise. 
 
 We have said that raspberries thrive in partial shade; 
 
THE RASPBERRY 76 
 
 and therefore sonre advice in regard to them naturally fol- 
 lows our consideration of trees. Because the raspberry is 
 not so exacting as are many other products of the garden, 
 it does not follow that it should be marked out for neglect. 
 As it is treated on many places, the only wonder is that even 
 the bushes survive. Like many who try to do their best in 
 adversity, it makes the most of what people term "a chance 
 to get ahead." 
 
 Moreover, the raspberry is perhaps as often injured by 
 mistaken kindness as by neglect. If we can imagine it 
 speaking for itself, it would say: "It is not much that I 
 want, but in the name of common-sense and nature give me 
 just what I do want; then you may pick at me to your 
 heart's content." 
 
 The first need of the raspberry is a well-drained but not 
 a very dry, light soil. Yet such is its adaptability that cer- 
 tain varieties can be grown on any land which will produce 
 a burdock or a mullien-stalk. In fact, this question of 
 variety chiefly determines our chances of success and the 
 nature of our treatment of the fruit. The reader, at the 
 start, should be enabled to distinguish the three classes of 
 raspberries grown in this country. 
 
 As was true of grapes, our fathers first endeavored to 
 supply their gardens from foreign nurseries, neglecting the 
 wild species with which our woods and roadsides abounded. 
 The raspberry of Europe {Rubus idceus) has been developed, 
 and in many instances enfeebled, by ages of cultivation. 
 Nevertheless, few other fruits have shown equal power to 
 adapt themselves to our soil and climate, and we have ob- 
 tained from foreign sources many valuable kinds — as, for 
 instance, the Antwerp, which for weeks together annually 
 taxed the carrying power of Hudson River steamers. In 
 quality these foreign kinds have never been surpassed; but 
 almost invariably they have proved tender and fastidious, 
 thriving well in some localities, and failing utterly (except 
 under the most skilful care) in others. The frosts of the 
 North killed them in winter, and Southern suns shrivelled 
 
76 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 their foliage in summer. Therefore they were not rasp- 
 berries for the million, but for those who resided in favored 
 regions, and were willing to bestow upon them much care 
 and high culture. 
 
 Eventually another process began, taking place either 
 by chance or under the skilful manipulation of the gardener 
 — that of hybridizing, or crossing these foreign varieties with 
 our hardier native species. The best results have been at- 
 tained more frequently, I think, by chance ; that is, the bees, 
 which get more honey from the raspberry than from most 
 other plants, carried the pollen from a native flower to the 
 blossom of the garden exotic. The seeds of the fruit event- 
 ually produced were endowed with characteristics of both the 
 foreign and native strains. Occasionally these seeds fell 
 where they had a chance to grow, and so produced a fortu- 
 itous seedling plant which soon matured into a bearing bush, 
 differing from both of its parents, and not infrequently sur- 
 passing both in good qualities. Some one horticulturally 
 inclined having observed the unusually fine fruit on the 
 chance plant, and believing that it is a good plan to help 
 the fittest to survive, marked the bush, and in the autumn 
 transferred it to his garden. It speedily propagated itself 
 by suckers, or young sprouts from the roots, and he had 
 plants to sell or give away. Such, I believe, was the history 
 of the Cuthbert — named after the gentleman who found it, 
 and now probably the favorite raspberry of America. 
 
 Thus fortuitously, or by the skill of the gardener, the 
 foreign and our native species were crossed, and a new and 
 hardier class of varieties obtained. The large size and rich- 
 ness in flavor of the European berry has been bred into and 
 combined with our smaller and more insipid indigenous 
 fruit. By this process the area of successful raspberry 
 culture has been extended almost indefinitely. 
 
 Within recent years a third step forward has been taken. 
 Some localities and soils were so unsuited to the raspberry 
 that no variety containing even a small percentage of the 
 foreign element could thrive. This fact led fruit-growers to 
 
THE RASPBERRY 77 
 
 give still closer attention to our native species. Wild bushes 
 were found here and there which gave fruit of such good 
 quality and in such large quantities that they were deemed 
 well worthy of cultivation. Many of these wild specimens 
 accepted cultivation gratefully, and showed such marked 
 improvement that they were heralded over the land as of 
 wonderful and surpassing value. Some of these pure, un- 
 mixed varieties of our native species {Eubus strigosus) have 
 obtained a wide celebrity ; as, for instance, the Brandy wine. 
 Highland Hardy, and, best of all, the Turner. It should be 
 distinctly understood, however, that, with the exception of 
 the last-named kind, these native varieties are decidedly 
 inferior to most of the foreign berries and their hybrids 
 or crosses, like the Cuthbert and Marlboro. Thousands have 
 been misled by their praise, and have planted them when 
 they might just as easily have grown far better kinds. I 
 suppose that many wealthy persons in the latitudes of New 
 York and Boston have told their gardeners (or more probably 
 were told by them): "We do not wish any of those wild 
 kinds. Brinckle's Orange, Franconia, and the Antwerp are 
 good enough for us. ' ' So they should be, for they are the 
 best; but they are all foreign varieties, and scarcely will 
 live at all, much less be productive, in wide areas of the 
 country. 
 
 I trust that this preliminary discussion in regard to red 
 raspberries will prepare the way for the advice to follow, 
 and enable the proprietor of the Home Acre to act intelli- 
 gently. Sensible men do not like to be told, **You cannot 
 do this, and must not do that" — in other words, to be met 
 the moment thfey step into their gardens by the arbitrary 
 dictum of A, B, or 0. They wish to unite with Nature in 
 producing certain results. Understanding her simple laws, 
 they work hopefully, confidently; and they cannot be im- 
 posed upon by those who either wittingly or unwittingly 
 give bad advice. Having explained the natural principles 
 on which I base my directions, I can expect the reader to 
 
78 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 follow each step with the prospect of success and enjoy- 
 ment much enhanced. 
 
 The question first arising is, W hat shall we plant ? As 
 before, I shall give the selection of eminent authorities, then 
 suggest to the reader the restrictions under which he should 
 make a choice for his own peculiar soil and climate. 
 
 Dr. F. M. Hexamer, the well-known editor of a leading 
 horticultural journal, is recognized throughout the land as 
 having few, if any, superiors in recent and practical ac- 
 quaintance with small fruits. The following is his selection: 
 *'Cuthbert, Turner, and Marlboro." The Hon. Marshall P. 
 Wilder's choice: '*Brinckle's Orange, Franconia, Cuthbert, 
 Herstine, Shaffer." The Hon. Norman J. Colman, Com- 
 missioner of Agriculture: *'Turner, Marlboro, Cuthbert." 
 P. J. Berckmans, of Georgia: "Cuthbert, Hansel, Lost 
 Eubies, Imperial Eed." A. S. Fuller: "Turner, Cuthbert, 
 Hansel." 
 
 In analyzing this list we find three distinctly foreign 
 kinds named: the Orange, Franconia, and Herstine. If the 
 last is not wholly of foreign origin, the element of our native 
 species enters into it so slightly that it will not endure win- 
 ters in our latitude, or the summer sun of the South. For 
 excellence, however, it is unsurpassed. 
 
 In the Cuthbert, Marlboro, and Lost Rubies we have 
 hybrids of the foreign and our native species, forming the 
 second class referred to; in the Turner and Hansel, examples 
 of our native species unmixed. To each of these classes 
 might be added a score of other varieties which have been 
 more or less popular, but they would serve only to distract 
 the reader's attention. . I have tested forty or fifty kinds 
 side by side at one time, only to be shown that four or five 
 varieties would answer all practical purposes. I can assure 
 the reader, however, that it will be scarcely possible to find 
 a soil or climate where some of these approved sorts will not 
 thrive abundantly and at slight outlay. 
 
 Throughout southern New England, along the bank of 
 the Hudson, and westward, almost any raspberry can be 
 
THE RASPBERRY 79 
 
 grown with proper treatment. There are exceptions, which 
 are somewhat curious. -For instance, the famous Hudson 
 Eiver Antwerp, which until within a very few years has 
 been one of the great crops of the State, has never been 
 grown successfully to any extent except on the west bank 
 of the river, and within the limited area of Kingston on the 
 north and Cornwall on the south. The Franconia, another 
 foreign sort, has proved itself adapted to more extended 
 conditions of soil and climate. 
 
 I have grown successfully nearly every well- known rasp- 
 berry, and perhaps I can best give the instruction I desire 
 to convey by describing the methods finally adopted after 
 many years of observation, reading, and experience. 1 will 
 speak of the class first named, belonging to the foreign spe- 
 cies, of which 1 have tested many varieties. I expect to set 
 out this year rows of Brinckle's Orange, Franconia, Hudson 
 Eiver Antwerp, and others. For this class I should make 
 the ground very rich, deep, and mellow. I should prefer 
 to set out the plants in the autumn — from the middle of 
 October to the tenth of November; if not then, in early 
 spring — the earlier the better — while the buds are dormant 
 I should have the rows four feet apart; and if the plants 
 were to be grown among the smaller fruit-trees, I should 
 maintain a distance from them of at least seven feet.. I 
 should use only young plants, those of the previous sum- 
 mer's growth, and set them in the ground about as deeply 
 as they stood when taken up — say three or four inches of 
 earth above the point from which the roots branched. I 
 should put two well-rooted plants in each hill, and this 
 would make the hills four feet apart each way. By ** hills" 
 I do not mean elevartions of ground. This should be kept 
 level throughout all future cultivation. I should cut back 
 the canes or stems of the plants to six inches. Thousands 
 of plants are lost or put back in their growth by leaving 
 two or three feet of the canes to grow the first year. Never 
 do this. The little fruit gained thus prematurely always 
 entails a hundred-fold of loss. Having set out the plants, 
 
80 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 I should next scatter over and about them one or two 
 shovelfuls of old compost or decayed manure of some 
 kind. If the plants had been set out in the fall, I should 
 mound the earth over them before freezing weather, so that 
 there should be at least four inches of soil over the tops of 
 the stems. This little mound of earth over the plants or 
 hill would protect against all injury from frost. In the 
 spring I should remove these mounds of earth so as to 
 leave the ground perfectly level on all sides, and the short- 
 ened canes projecting, as at first, six inches above the sur- 
 face. During the remainder of the spring and summer the 
 soil between the plants chiefly requires to be kept open, 
 mellow, and free from weeds. In using the hoe, be careful 
 not to cut off the young raspberry sprouts, on which the 
 future crop depends. Do not be disappointed if the growth 
 seems feeble the first year, for these foreign kinds are often 
 slow in starting. In November, before there is any danger 
 of the ground freezing, I should cut back the young canes 
 at least one- third of their length, bend them gently down, 
 and cover them with earth to the depth of four or five 
 inches. It must be distinctly remembered that very few of 
 the foreign kinds would endure our winter unprotected. 
 Every autumn they must be covered as I have directed. 
 Is any one aghast at this labor ? Nonsense ! Antwerps are 
 covered by the acre along the Hudson. A man and a boy 
 would cover in an hour all that are needed for a garden. 
 
 After the first year the foreign varieties, like all others, 
 will send up too many sprouts, or suckers. Unless new 
 plants are wanted, these should be treated as weeds, and 
 only from three to five young canes be left to grow in each 
 hill. This is a very important point, for too often the rasp- 
 berry-patch is neglected until it is a mass of tangled bushes. 
 Keep this simple principle in mind: there is a given amount 
 of root-power; if this cannot be expended in making young 
 sprouts all over the ground, it goes to produce a few strong 
 fruit- bearing canes in the hill. In other words, you restrict 
 the whole force of the plant to the precise work required 
 
THE RASPBERRY 81 
 
 —the giving of berries. As the original plants grow older, 
 they will show a constantly decreasing tendency to throw 
 up new shoots; but as long as they continue to grow, let 
 only those survive which are designed to bear the following 
 season. 
 
 The canes of cultivated raspberries are biennial. A young 
 and in most varieties a fruitless cane is produced in one 
 season; it bears in July the second year, and then its use- 
 fulness is over. It will continue to live in a half-dying way 
 until fall, but it is a useless and unsightly life. I know that 
 it is contended by some that the foliage on the old canes 
 aids in nourishing the plants; but I think that, under all 
 ordinary circumstances, the leaves on the young growth are 
 abundantly sufficient. By removing the old canes after 
 they have borne their fruit, an aspect of neatness is im- 
 parted, which would be conspicuously absent were they 
 left. Every autumn, before laying the canes down, I should 
 shorten them in one-third. The remaining two-thirds will 
 give more fruit by actual measurement, and the berries 
 will be finer and larger, than if the canes were left intact. 
 From first to last the soil about the foreign varieties should 
 be maintained in a high degree of fertility and mellowness. 
 Of manures from the barnyard, that from the cow-stable is 
 the best; wood-ashes, bone-dust, and decayed leaves also 
 are excellent fertilizers. During all this period the partial 
 shade of small trees will be beneficial rather than otherwise, 
 for It should be remembered that sheltered localities are the 
 natural habitat of the raspberry. 
 
 By a little inquiry the reader can learn whether varieties 
 of the foreign class are grown successfully in his vicinity. 
 If they are, he can raise them also by following the direc- 
 tions which have been given. Brinckle^s Orange — a buflf- 
 colored berry — is certainly one of the most beautiful, deli* 
 cate, and delicious fruits in existence, and is well worth 
 all the care it requires in the regions where it will grow; 
 while the Franconia and others should never be permitted 
 to die out by fruit connoisseurs. If the soil of your garden 
 
82 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 is light and sandy, or if you live much south of New York, 
 I should not advise their trial. They may be grown far to 
 the north, however. I am told that tender varieties of fruits 
 that can be covered thrive even better in Canada than with 
 us. There deep snow protects the land, and in spring and 
 autumn they do not have long periods when the bare earth 
 is alternately freezing and thawing. 
 
 In the second class of raspberries, the crosses between 
 the foreign and native species, we now have such fine 
 varieties that no one has much cause for regret if he can 
 raise them; and I scarcely see how he can help raising 
 them if he has sufficient energy to set out a few plants and 
 keep them free from weeds and superabundant suckers. 
 Take the Cuthbert, for instance; you may set it out almost 
 anywhere, and in almost any latitude except that of the 
 extreme Southern States. But you must reverse the con- 
 ditions required for the foreign kinds. If the ground is very 
 rich, the canes will threaten to grow out of sight. I advise 
 that this strong-growing sort be planted in rows five feet 
 apart. Any ordinary soil is good enough for the Cuthbert 
 to start in, and the plants wilJ need only a moderate degree 
 of fertilizing as they begin to lose a little of their first vigor. 
 Of course, if the ground is unusually light and poor, it 
 should be enriched and maintained in a fair degree of fer- 
 tility. The point I wish to make is that this variety will 
 thrive where most others would starve; but there is plenty 
 of land on which anything will starve. The Cuthbert is a 
 large, late berry, which continues long in bearing, and is 
 deserving of a place in every garden. I have grown it for 
 many years, and have never given it any protection what- 
 ever. Occasionally there comes a winter which kills the 
 canes to the ground. I should perhaps explain to the 
 reader here that even in the case of the tender foreign 
 kinds it is only the canes that are killed by the frost; the 
 roots below the surface are uninjured, and throw up vigor- 
 ous sprouts the following spring. The Cuthbert is so nearly 
 hardy that we let it take its chances, and probably in eight 
 
THE RASPBERRY 88 
 
 winters out of ten it would stand unharmed. Its hardiness 
 is greatly enhanced when grown on well- drained soils. 
 
 It now has a companion berry in the Marlboro — a. variety 
 but recently introduced, and therefore not thoroughly tested 
 as yet. Its promise, however, is very fine, and it has se- 
 cured the strong yet qualified approval of the best fruit 
 critics. It requires richer soil and better treatment than 
 the Cuthbert, and it remains to be seen whether it is equally 
 hardy. It is well worth winter protection if it is not. It is 
 not a suitable berry for the home garden if no other is grown, 
 for the reason that it matures its entire crop within a brief 
 time, and thus would give a family but a short season of 
 raspberries. Cultivated in connection with the Cuthbert, it 
 would be admirable, for it is very early, and would produce 
 its fruit before the Cuthberts were ripe. Unitedly the two 
 varieties would give a family six weeks of raspberries. 
 There are scores of other kinds in this class, and some are 
 very good indeed, well worth a place in an amateur's col- 
 lection; but the two already named are sufficient to supply 
 a family with excellent fruit. 
 
 Of the third class of red raspberries, representing our 
 pure native species, I should recommend only one variety — 
 the Turner; and that is so good that it deserves a place in 
 every collection. It certainly is a remarkable raspberry, 
 and has an unusual history, which I have given in my 
 work *' Success with Small Fruits." I doubt whether there 
 is a hardier raspberry in America — one that can be grown 
 so far to the north, and, what is still more in its favor, so 
 far to the south. In the latter region it is known as the 
 Southern Thornless. The fact that it is almost wholly 
 without spines is a good quality; but it is only one among 
 many others. The Turner requires no winter protection 
 whatever, will grow on almost any soil in existence, and 
 in almost any climate. It yields abundantly medium-sized 
 berries of good flavor. The fruit begins to ripen early, 
 and lasts throughout a somewhat extended season. It will 
 probably give more berries, with more certainty and 
 
84 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 trouble, than any other variety. Even its fault leans to 
 virtue's side. Set out a single plant, leave it to Nature, 
 and in time it will cover the place with Turner raspberries; 
 and yet it will do this in a quiet, unobtrusive way, for it is 
 not a rampant, ugly grower. While it will persist in living 
 under almost any circumstances, I have found no variety 
 that responded more gratefully to good treatment. This 
 consists simply in three things: (1) rigorous restriction of 
 the suckers to four or five canes in the bill; (2) keeping 
 the soil clean and mellow about the bearing plants; (3) 
 making this soil rich. Its dwarf habit of growth, unlike 
 that of the Cuthbert, enables one to stimulate it with any 
 kind of manure. By this course the size of the bushes is 
 greatly increased, and enormous crops can be obtained. 
 
 I prefer to set out all raspberries in the fall, although 
 as a matter of convenience I often perform the task in the 
 early spring. I do not believe in late spring planting, ex- 
 cept as one takes up a young sprout, two or three inches 
 high, and sets it out as one would a tomato-plant. By this 
 course time is often saved. When it is our wish to increase 
 the quality and quantity of the fruit, I should advise that 
 the canes of all varieties be cut back one-third of their 
 length. A little observation will teach us the reason for 
 this. Permit a long cane to bear throughout its natural 
 length, and you will note that many buds near the ground 
 remain dormant or make a feeble growth. The sap, follow- 
 ing a general law of nature, pushes to the extremities, and 
 is, moreover, too much di£Eused. Cut away one-third^ 
 and all the buds start with redoubled vigor, while more 
 and larger fruit is the result. If, however, earliness in 
 ripening is the chief" consideration, as it often is, especially 
 with the market- gardener, leave the canes unpruned, and 
 the fruit ripens a few days sooner. 
 
 In purveying for the home table, white raspberries offer 
 the attractions of variety and beauty. In the case of 
 Brinckle's Orange, its exquisite flavor is the chief con- 
 sideration; but this fastidious foreign berry is practically 
 
THE RASPBERRY 85 
 
 beyond the reach of the majority. There is, however, an 
 excellent variety, the Caroline, which is almost as hardy 
 as the Turner, and more easily grown. It would seem that 
 Nature designed every one to have it (if we may say it of 
 Caroline), for not only does it sucker freely like the red 
 raspberries, but the tips of the canes also bend over, take 
 root, and form new plants. The one thing that Caroline 
 needs is repression, the curb; she is too intense. 
 
 1 am inclined to think, however, that she has had her 
 day, even as an attendant on royalty, for a new variety, 
 claiming the high-sounding title of Golden Queen, has 
 mysteriously appeared. I say mysteriously, for it is diffi- 
 cult to account for her origin. Mr. Ezra Stokes, a fruit- 
 grower of New Jersey, had a field of twelve acres planted 
 with Cuthbert raspberries. In this field he found a bush 
 producing white berries. In brief, he found an Albino of 
 the Cuthbert. Of the causes of her existence he knows 
 nothing. All we can say, I suppose, is that the variation 
 was produced by some unknown impulse of Nature. 
 Deriving her claims from such a source, she certainly has 
 a better title to royalty than most of her sister queens, who, 
 according to history, have been commonplace women, sug- 
 gesting anything but nature. With the exception of the 
 Philadelphians, perhaps, we as a people will not stand on 
 the question of ancestry, and shall be more inclined to see 
 how she "queens it." 
 
 Of course the enthusiastic discoverer and disseminators 
 of this variety claim that it is not only like the Cuthbert, 
 but far better. Let us try it and see; if it is as good, we 
 may well be content, and can grace our tables with beauti- ' 
 ful fruit. 
 
 There is another American species of raspberry {Eubus 
 occidentalis) that is almost as dear to memory as the wild 
 strawberry — the thimble- berry, or black-cap. 1 confess that 
 the wild flavor of this fruit is more to my taste than that of 
 any other raspberry. Apparently its seeds have been sown 
 broadcast over the continent, for it is found almost every- 
 
86 THE HOME- ACRE 
 
 where, and there have been few children in America whose 
 lips have not been stained by the dark purple juice of its 
 fruit. Seeds dropped in neglected pastures, by fence and 
 roadsides, and along the edges of the forest, produce new 
 varieties which do not propagate themselves by suckers like 
 red raspberries, but in a manner quite distinct. The young 
 purple canes bend over and take root in thie soil during Au- 
 gust, September, and October. At the extreme end of the 
 tip from which the roots descend a bud is formed, which 
 remains dormant until the following spring. Therefore the 
 young plant we set out is a more or less thick mass of roots, 
 a green bud, and usually a bit of the old parent cane, which 
 is of no further service except as a handle and a mark indi- 
 cating the location of the plant. After the ground has been 
 prepared as one would for corn or potatoes, it should be 
 levelled, a line stretched for the row, and the plants set four 
 feet apart in the row. Sink the roots as straight down as 
 possible, and let the bud point upward, covering it lightly 
 with merely one or two inches of soil. Press the ground 
 firmly against the roots, but not on the bud. The soil just 
 over this should be fine and mellow, so that the young shoot 
 can push through easily, which it will soon do if the plants 
 are in good condition. Except in the extreme South, 
 spring is by far the best time for planting, and it should 
 be done early, while the buds are dormant. After these 
 begin to' grow, keep the ground mellow and free from weeds. 
 The first effort of the young plant will be to propagate itself. 
 It will sprawl over the ground if left to its wild impulses, 
 and will not make an upright bearing bush. On this ac- 
 count put a stake down by the young sprout, and as it grows 
 keep it tied up and away from the ground. When the side- 
 branches are eight or ten inches long, pinch them back, thus 
 throwing the chief strength into the central cane. By keep- 
 ing all the branches pinched back you form the plant into 
 an erect, sturdy bush that will load itself with berries the 
 following year. No fruit will be borne the first season. 
 The young canes of the second year will incline to be more 
 
THE RASPBERRY 87 
 
 Sturdy and erect in their growth ; but this tendency can be 
 greatly enhanced by clipping the long slender branches which 
 are thrown out on every side. As soon as the old canes are 
 through bearing, they should be cut out and burned or com- 
 posted with other refuse from the garden. Black-caps may 
 be planted on any soil that is not too dry. When the plant 
 suffers from drought, the fruit consists of little else than 
 seeds. To escape this defect I prefer to put the black- caps 
 in a moist location; and it is one of the few f raits that will 
 thrive in a cold, wet soil. One can set out plants here and 
 there in out-of-the-way corners, and they often do better 
 than those in the garden. Indeed, unless a place is kept 
 up very neatly, many such bushes will be found growing 
 wild, and producing excellent fruit. 
 
 The question may arise in some minds. Why buy plants? 
 Why not get them from the woods and fields, or let Nature 
 provide bushes for us where she will? When Nature pro- 
 duces a bush on my place where it is not in the way, 1 let it 
 grow, and pick the fruit in my rambles; but the supply 
 would be precarious indeed for a family. By all means get 
 plants from the woods if you have marked a bush that 
 produces unusually fine fruit. It is by just this course that 
 the finest varieties have been obtained. If you go a-berry- 
 ing, you may light on something finer than has yet been 
 discovered; but it is not very probable. Meanwhile, for a 
 dollar you can get all the plants you want of the two or 
 three best varieties that have yet been discovered, from 
 Maine to California. After testing a great many kinds, I 
 should recommend the Souhegan for early, and the Mam- 
 moth Cluster and Gregg for late. A clean, mellow soil in 
 good condition, frequent pinchings back of the canes in 
 summer, or a rigorous use of the pruning-shears in spring, 
 are all that is required to secure an abundant crop f jom year 
 to year. This species may also be grown among trees. I 
 advise that every kind and description of raspberries be kept 
 tied to stakes or a wire trellis. The wood ripens better, the 
 fruit is cleaner and richer from exposure to air and sunshine, 
 
SB THE HOME ACRE 
 
 and the garden is far neater than if the canes are sprawling 
 at will. I know that all horticulturists advise that the plants 
 be pinched back so thoroughly as to form self-supporting 
 bushes; but 1 have yet to see the careful fruit-grower who 
 did this, or the bushes that some thunder-gusts would not 
 prostrate into the mud with all their precious burden, were 
 they not well supported. Why take the risk to save a two- 
 penny stake? 
 
 If, just before the fruit begins to ripen, a mulch of leaves, 
 cut grass, or any litter that will cover the ground slightly, 
 is placed under and around the bushes, it may save a great 
 deal of fruit from being spoiled. The raspberry season is 
 also the hour and opportunity for thunder- showers, whose 
 great slanting drops often splash the soil to surprising dis- 
 tances. Sugar- and- cream-coated, not mud- coated, berries, 
 if you please. 
 
 In my remarks on raspberries I have not named many 
 varieties, and have rather laid stress on the principles which 
 may guide the reader in his present and future selections of 
 kinds. Sufficient in number and variety to meet the needs 
 of every family have been mentioned. The amateur may 
 gratify his taste by testing other sorts described in nursery- 
 men's catalogues. Moreover, every year or two some new 
 variety will be heralded throughout the land. The reader 
 has merely to keep in mind the three classes of raspberries 
 described and their characteristics, in order to make an in- 
 telligent choice from old and new candidates for favor. 
 
 It should also be remembered that the raspberry is a 
 Northern fruit. I am often asked in efiect. What raspber- 
 ries do you recommend for the Gulf States ? I suppose my 
 best reply would be. What oranges do you think best adapted 
 to New York? Most of the foreign kinds falter and fail in 
 New Jei;sey and Southern Pennsylvania; the Cuthbert and 
 its class can be grown much further south, while the Turner 
 and the black-caps thrive almost to Florida. 
 
 Easpberries, especially those of our native species, are 
 comparatively free from disease. Foreign varieties and 
 
THE BASPBERET 89 
 
 their hybrids are sometimes afflicted with the curl-leaf. The 
 foliage crimps up, the canes are dwarfed, and the whole plant 
 has a sickly and often yellow appearance. The only remedy 
 is to dig up the plant, root and branch, and burn it. 
 
 A disease termed the '*rust" not infrequently attacks old 
 and poorly nourished black-cap bushes. The leaves take on 
 an ochreous color, and the plant is seen to be failing. Ex- 
 tirpate it as directed above. If many bushes are affected, 1 
 advise that the whole patch be rooted up, and healthy plants 
 set out elsewhere. 
 
 It is a well-known law of Nature that plants of nearly all 
 kinds appear to exhaust from the soil in time the ingredients 
 peculiarly acceptable to them. Skill can do much toward 
 maintaining the needful supply; but the best and easiest 
 plan is not to grow any of the small fruits too long in any 
 one locality. By setting out new plants on different ground, 
 far better results are attained with much less trouble. 
 
^ THE HOME ACRE 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 THE CURRANT 
 
 WHO that has ever lived in the country does not 
 remember the old straggling currant-bushes that 
 disputed their existence with grass, docks, and 
 other coarse-growing weeds along some ancient fence ? 
 Many also can recall the weary task of gathering a quart 
 or two of the diminutive fruit for pies, and the endless 
 picking required to obtain enough for the annual jelly- 
 making. Nor is this condition of affairs a thing of the past. 
 Drive through the land where you will in early July, and 
 you will see farmers mowing round the venerable Eed Dutch 
 currants "to give the women-folks a chance at 'em." The 
 average farmer still bestows upon this fruit about as much 
 attention as the aborigines gave to their patches of maize. 
 This seems very absurd when we remember the important 
 place held iu the domestic economy by the currant, and how 
 greatly it improves under decent treatment. If it demanded 
 the attention which a cabbage-plant requires, it would be 
 given; but the currant belongs to that small class of creatures 
 which permit themselves to be used when wanted, and 
 snubbed, neglected, and imposed upon at other times. It 
 IS known that the bushes will manage to exist, and do the 
 very best they can, no matter how badly treated; and aver- 
 age human nature has ever taken advantage of such traits, 
 to its continuous loss. 
 
 The patience of the currant is due perhaps to its origin, 
 for it grows wild round the northern hemisphere, its chief 
 haunts being the dim, cold, damp woods of the high lati- 
 
TBE CURRANT 91 
 
 tudes. You may tame, modify, and vastly change anything 
 possessing life; but original traits are scarcely ever wholly 
 eradicated. Therefore the natural habitat and primal quali- 
 ties of the currant indicate the true lines of development, ite 
 capabilities and limitations. It is essentially a northern fruit, 
 requiring coolness, moisture, and alluvial soils. It begins 
 to falter and look homesick even in New Jersey; and one 
 has not to go far down the Atlantic coast to pass beyond 
 the range of its suecessful culture. I do not see why it 
 should not thrive much further south on the northern 
 slopes of the mountains. From Philadelphia northward, 
 however, except on light dry soils and in sunny exposures, 
 there is no reason why it should not give ample returns for 
 the attention it requires. 
 
 I shall not lay stress on the old, well-known uses to 
 which this fruit is put, but I do think its value is but half 
 appreciated. People rush round in July in search of health: 
 let me recommend the currant cure. If any one is languid, 
 depressed in spirits, inclined to headaches, and generally 
 "out of sorts," let him finish his breakfast daily for a 
 month with a dish of freshly picked currants. He will soon 
 almost doubt his own identity, and may even begin to think 
 that he is becoming a good man. He will be more gallant 
 to his wife, kinder to his children, friendlier to his neigh- 
 bors, and more open-handed to every good cause. Work 
 will soon seem play, and play fun. In brief, the truth of 
 the ancient pun will be verified, that '*the power to live 
 a good life depends largely upon the liver,^^ Out upon the 
 nonsense of taking medicine and nostrums during the cur- 
 rant-season ! Let it be taught at theological seminaries that 
 the currant is a *' means of grace.*' It is a corrective; and 
 that is what average humanity most needs. 
 
 The currant, like the raspberry, is willing to keep shady; 
 but only because it is modest. It is one of the fruits that 
 thrive better among trees than in too dry and sunny expo- 
 sures. Therefore, in economizing space on the Home Acre 
 
 it may be grown among smaller trees, or, better still, on the 
 ° 19— Rob— XI 
 
92 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 northern or eastern side of a wall or hedge. But shade is 
 not essential, except as we go south; then the requisites 
 of moisture and shelter from the burning rays of the sun 
 should be complied with as far as possible. In giving this 
 and kindred fruits partial shade, they should not be com- 
 pelled to contend to any extent with the roots of trees. 
 This will ever prove an unequal contest. No fruit can 
 thrive in dense shade, or find sustenance among the vora- 
 cious roots of a tree. 
 
 Select, therefore, if possible, heavy, deep, moist, yet 
 well-drained soil, and do not fear to make and keep it very 
 rich. If you are restricted to sandy or gravelly soils, cor- 
 rect their defects with compost, decayed leaves and sods, 
 muck, manure from the cow- stable, and other fertilizers 
 with staying rather than stimulating qualities. Either by 
 plowing or forking, deepen as well as enrich the soil. It 
 is then ready for the plants, which may be set out either 
 in the fall or in early spring. I prefer the autumn — any 
 time after the leaves have fallen; but spring answers almost 
 as well, while buds are dormant, or partially so. It should 
 be remembered that the currant starts very early, and is 
 in full foliage before some persons are fairly wakened to 
 garden interests. It would, in this case, be better to wait 
 until October, unless the plants can be obtained from a 
 neighbor on a cloudy day; then they should be cut back 
 two-thirds of their length before being removed, and the 
 transfer made as quickly as possible. Under any circum- 
 stances, take off half of the wood from the plants bought. 
 This need not be thrown away. Every cutting of young 
 wood six inches long will make a new plant in a single 
 season. All that is needful is to keep the wood moist until 
 ready to put it in the ground, or, better still, a cool, damp 
 place in the garden can be selected at once, and the cuttings 
 sunk two-thirds of their length into the ground, and the soil 
 pressed firm around them. By fall they will have a good 
 supply of roots, and by the following autumn be ready to 
 be set out wherever you wish them to fruit. 
 
THE CURRANT 9B 
 
 Chirrant- bushes may be planted five feet apart each way, 
 and at the same distance, if they are to line a fence. They 
 should be sunk a few inches deeper in the soil than they 
 stood before, and the locality be such as to admit of good 
 culture. The soil should never be permitted to become 
 hard, weedy, or grass-grown. As a rule, I prefer two-year- 
 old plants, while those of one year's growth answer nearly 
 as well, if vigorous. If in haste for fruit, it may be well to 
 get three-year-old plants, unless they have been dwarfed 
 and enfeebled by neglect. Subsequent culture consists 
 chiefly in keeping the soil clean, mellow, rich, and there- 
 fore moist. I have named the best fertilizers for the cur- 
 rant; but if the product of the horse-stable is employed, 
 use it first as a mulch. It will thus gradually reach the 
 roots. Otherwise it is too stimulating, and produces a ram- 
 pant growth of wood rather than fruit. 
 
 Under any circumstances this t-endency to produce an 
 undue amount of wood must be repressed almost as rigor- 
 ously as m the grape-vine. The secret of successful currant- 
 culture is richness beneath, and restriction above. English 
 gardeners are said to have as complete and minute systema 
 of pruning and training currants as the grape; but we do 
 not seem to have patience for such detail. Nor do I regard 
 it as necessary. Our object is an abundant supply of excel- 
 lent fruit; and this result can be obtained at a surprisingly 
 small outlay of time and money, if they are expended 
 judiciously. 
 
 The art of trimming a currant-bush, like that of pruning 
 a grape-vine, is best learned by observation and experience. " 
 One can give principles rather than lay down rules. Like 
 the vine, the currant tends to choke itself with a super- 
 abundance of wood, which soon becomes more or less 
 barren. This is truer of some varieties than of others; 
 but in all instances the judicious use of the pruning- knife 
 doubles the yield. In view of the supposition that the lead- 
 ing shoot and all the branches were shortened in one-half 
 when the plant was set out, I will suggest that early in , 
 
94 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 June it will be observed that much more wood is forming 
 than can be permitted to remain. There are weak, crowd- 
 ing shoots which never can be of any use. If these are cut 
 out at this time, the sap which would go to mature them 
 will be directed into the valuable parts of the forming bush. 
 Summer pruning prevents misspent force, and it may be 
 kept up with great advantage from year to year. This is 
 rarely done, however; therefore early in spring the bushes 
 must receive a good annual pruning, and the long shoots 
 and branches be cut well back, so as to prevent naked 
 reaches of wood. Observe a very productive bush, and 
 you will see that there are many points abounding in little 
 side- branches. It is upon these that the fruit is chiefly 
 borne. A bush left to itself is soon a mass of long, slender, 
 almost naked stalks, with a little fruit at the ends. The 
 ideal bush is stocky, open, well branched, admitting light, 
 air, and sun in every part. There is no crowding and 
 smothering of the fruit by the foliage. But few clusters 
 are borne on very young wood, and when this grows old 
 and black, the clusters are small. Therefore new wood 
 should always be coming on and kept well cut back, so 
 as to form joints and side- branches; and as other parts grow 
 old and feeble they should be cut out. Observation and ex- 
 perience will teach the gardener more than all the rules that 
 could be written, for he will perceive that he must prune 
 each bush according to its own individuality. 
 
 For practical purposes the bush form is the best in which 
 to grow currants; but they can easily be made to form 
 'pretty little trees with tops shaped like an umbrella, or 
 any other form we desire. For instance, I found, one 
 autumn, a shoot about three feet long. I rubbed off all 
 the buds except the terminal one and three or four just 
 beneath it, then sunk the lower end of the shoot six inches 
 into the soil, and tied the part above the ground to a short 
 stake. The following spring the lower end took root, and 
 the few buds at the top developed into a small bushy head. 
 Clumps of miniature currant-trees would make as pretty an 
 
THE CURRANT &6 
 
 ornament for the garden border as one would wish to see. 
 It should be remembered that there is a currant as well as 
 an apple borer; but the pests are not very numerous o? 
 destructive, and such little trees may easily be grown 
 by the hundred. 
 
 Clean culture has one disadvantage which must b© 
 guarded against. If the ground under bushes is loose, 
 heavy rains will sometimes so splash up the soil as to 
 muddy the greater part of the fruit. I once suffered seri- 
 ous loss in this way, and deserved it; for a little grass 
 mown from the lawn, or any other litter spread under and 
 around the bushes just before the fruit ripened, would hav^ 
 prevented it. It will require but a very few minutes to 
 insure a clean crop. 
 
 I imagine that it these pages are ever read, and such 
 advice as I can give is followed, it will be more often by 
 the mistress than the master of the Home Acre. I address 
 him, but quite as often I mean her; and just at this point 
 I am able to give "the power bel^ind the throne" a useful 
 hint. Miss Alcott, in her immortal "Little Women," has 
 given an instance of what dire results may follow if the 
 "jelly won't jell." Let me hasten to insure domestic peace 
 by telling my fair reader (who will also be, if the jelly turns 
 out of the tumblers tremulous yet firm, a gentle reader) that 
 if she will have the currants picked just as soon as they are 
 fully ripe, and before they have been drenched by a heavy 
 rain, she will find that the jelly will "jell." It is over- 
 ripe, water- soaked currants that break up families and de- 
 molish household gods. Let me also add another fact, as 
 true as it is strange, that white currants make red jelly; 
 therefore give the pearly fruit ample space in the garden. 
 
 In passing to the consideration of varieties, it is quite 
 natural in this connection to mention the white sorts first. 
 I know that people are not yet sufficiently educated to de- 
 mand white currants of their grocers; but the home garden 
 is as much beyond the grocer's stall as the home is better 
 than a boarding-house. There is no reaso-Q wJ^y free people 
 
96 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 in the country should be slaves to conventionalities, preju- 
 dices, and traditions. If white currants are sweeter, more 
 delicious and beautiful than the red, why, so they are. 
 Therefore let us plant them abundantly. 
 
 If there is to be a queen among the currants, the White 
 Grape is entitled to the crown. When placed upon the 
 table, the dish appears heaped with translucent pearls. 
 The sharp acid of the red varieties is absent, and you feel 
 that if you could live upon them for a time, your blood 
 would grow pure, if not ' ' blue. ' ' 
 
 The bush producing this exquisite fruit is like an un- 
 couth-looking poet who gives beauty from an inner life, 
 but disappoints in externals. It is low- branching and un- 
 shapely, and must be forced into good form — the bush, not 
 the poet — by the pruning- knife. If this is done judiciously, 
 no other variety will bear more profusely or present a fairer 
 object on a July day. 
 
 The White Dutch has the well-known characteristics in 
 growth of the common Red Dutch ourrant, and is inferior 
 only to the White Grrape in size. The fruit is equally trans- 
 parent, beautiful, mild, and agreeable in flavor, while the 
 bush IS enormously productive, and shapely in form, if 
 properly trained and fertilized. 
 
 While the white currants are such favorites, I do not 
 undervalue the red. Indeed, were I restricted to one va- 
 riety, it should be the old Dutch Red of our fathers, or, 
 more properly, of our grandmothers. For general house 
 uses I do not think it has yet been surpassed. It is not so 
 mild in flavor as the white varieties, but there is a richness 
 and sprightliness in its acid that are grateful indeed on a 
 sultry day. Mingled with the white berries, it makes a 
 beautiful dish, while it has all the culinary qualities which 
 the housekeeper can desire. If the bush is rigorously pruned 
 and generously enriched, it is unsurpassed in productive- 
 ness, and the fruit approaches very nearly to the Cherry 
 currant in size. 
 
 I do not recommend the last-named kind for the home 
 
THE CURRANT 97 
 
 garden, unless large, showy fruit counts for more than 
 flavor. The acid of the Cherry currant, unless very ripe, 
 is harsh and watery. At best it never acquires an agreeable 
 mildness, to my taste. The bushes also are not so certainly 
 productive, and usually require skilful pruning and constant 
 fertilizing to be profitable. For the market, which demands 
 size above all things, the Cherry is the kind to grow; but 
 in the home garden flavor and productiveness are the more 
 important qualities. Fays Prolific is a new sort that has 
 been very highly praised. 
 
 The Victoria is an excellent late variety, which, if planted 
 in a sheltered place, prolongs the currant-season well into 
 the autumn. Spurious kinds are sold under this name. 
 The true Victoria produces a pale-red fruit with tapering 
 clusters or racemes of berries. This variety, with the three 
 others recommended, gives the family two red and two 
 white kinds — all that are needed. Those who are fond of 
 black currants can, at almost any nursery, procure the 
 Black Naples and Lee's Prolific. Either variety will answer 
 all practical purposes. I confess they are not at all to my 
 taste. 
 
 From the currant we pass on naturally to the gooseberry, 
 for in origin and requirements it is very similar. Both 
 belong to the Rihes family of plants, and they are to be 
 cultivated on the same general principles. What I have 
 written in regard to partial shade, cool, sheltered localities, 
 rich, heavy soils, good culture, and especially rigorous 
 pruning, applies with even greater force to this fruit, espe- 
 cially if we endeavor to raise the foreign varieties. In cul- 
 tivating this fruit it is even more important than was true 
 of raspberries that the reader should distinguish between 
 the native and foreign species. The latter are so inclined 
 to mildew in almost every locality that there is rarely any 
 certainty of satisfactory fruit. The same evil pursues the 
 seedling children of the foreign sorts, and I have never 
 seen a hybrid or cross between the English and native 
 species that was with any certainty free from a brown dis- 
 
9» THE HOME ACRE 
 
 figuring rust wholly or partially enveloping the berries. 
 Here and there the fruit in some gardens will escape year 
 after year; again, on places not far away, the blighting 
 mildew is sure to appear before the berries are fully grown. 
 Nevertheless, the foreign varieties are so fine that it is well 
 to give them a fair trial. The three kinds which appear 
 best adapted to our climate are Crown Bob, Roaring Lion, 
 and Whitesmith. A new large variety, named Industry, is 
 now being introduced, and if half of what is claimed for 
 it is true, it is worth a place in all gardens. 
 
 In order to be certain of clean, fair gooseberries every 
 year, we must turn to our native species, which has already 
 given us several good varieties. The Downing is the largest 
 and best, and the Houghton the hardiest, most productive 
 and easily raised. When we remember the superb fruit 
 which English gardeners have developed from wild kinds 
 inferior to ours, we can well understand that the true 
 American gooseberries are yet to be developed. In my 
 work "Success with Small Fruits" those who are interested 
 in this fruit will find much fuller treatment than is war- 
 ranted in the present essay. 
 
 Not only do currants and gooseberries require similar 
 treatment and cultivation, but they also have a common 
 enemy that must be vigilantly guarded against, or the 
 bushes will be defoliated in many localities almost before 
 its existence is known.. After an absence of a few days 
 I have found some of my bushes stripped of every leaf. 
 When this happens, the fruit is comparatively worthless. 
 Foliage is as necessary to a plant as are lungs to a man. 
 It is not essential that I should go into the natural history 
 of the currant worm and moth. Having once seen the 
 yellowish-green caterpillars at their destructive work, the 
 reader's thoughts will not revert to the science of ento- 
 mology, but will at once become bloody and implacable. 
 I hasten to suggest the means of rescue and vengeance. 
 The moment these worms appear, be on your guard, for 
 they usually spread like fire in stubble. Procure of your 
 
THE CURRANT 99 
 
 druggist white hellebore, scald and mix a tablespoonful in 
 a bowl of hot water, and then pour it in a full watering-can. 
 This gives you an infusion of about a tablespoonful to an 
 ordinary pail of water at its ordinarry summer temperature. 
 Sprinkle the infected bushes with this as often as there is 
 a worm to be seen. I have never failed in destroying the 
 pests by this course. It should be remembered, however, 
 that new eggs are often hatched out daily. You may kill 
 every worm to-day, yet find plenty on the morrow. Vigi- 
 lance, however, will soon so check the evil that your cur- 
 rants are safe; and if every one would fight the pests, they 
 would eventually be almost exterminated. The trouble is 
 that, while you do your duty, your next-door neighbor may 
 grow nothing on his bushes but currant- worms. Thus the 
 evil is continued, and even increased, in spite of all that 
 you can do; but by a little vigilance and the use of helle- 
 bore you can always save your currants. I have kept my 
 bushes green, luxuriant, and loaded with fruit when, at a 
 short distance, the patches of careless neighbors were ren- 
 dered utterly worthless. Our laws but half protect the 
 birds, the best insecticides, and there is no law to prevent 
 a man from allowing his acres to be the breeding-place of 
 every pest prevailing. 
 
 There are three species of the currant- borer, and their 
 presence is indicated by yellow foliage and shrivelling fruit. 
 The only remedy is to cut out and burn the affected stems. 
 These pests are not often sufficiently numerous to do much 
 harm. 
 
 I earnestly urge that vj^ulent poisons like Paris green, 
 London purple, etc., never be used on fruit or edible vege- 
 tables. There cannot be safety in this course. I never 
 heard of any one that was injured by white hellebore, used 
 as I have directed; and I have found that if the worms 
 were kept off until the fruit began to ripen, the danger was 
 practically over. If I had to use hellebore after the fruit 
 was fit to use, I should first kill the worms, and then cleanse 
 the bushes thoroughly by spraying them with clean water. 
 
100 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 In treating the two remaining small fruits, blackberries 
 and strawberries, we pass wholly out of the shade and away 
 from trees. Sunshine and open ground are now required. 
 Another important difference can also be mentioned, revers- 
 ing former experience. America is the home of these fruits. 
 The wild species of the blackberry abroad has never, as far 
 as I can learn, been developed into varieties worthy of cul- 
 tivation; and before importations from North and South 
 America began, the only strawberry of Europe was the 
 Alpine, with its slight variations, and the musky Hautbois. 
 
 I do not know whether any of our fine varieties of black- 
 berries are cultivated abroad, but I am perfectly certain that 
 they are worthy of the slight attention required to raise 
 them in perfection here. 
 
 Like the blackcaps, all our best varieties are the spon- 
 taneous products of Nature, first discovered growing wild, 
 and transferred to the garden. The blackberry is a fruit 
 that takes kindly to cultivation, and improves under it. 
 
 The proper treatment is management rather than culti- 
 vation and stimulation. It requires a sunny exposure and 
 a light, warm soil, yet not so dry as to prevent the fruit 
 from maturing into juicy berries. If possible, set the black- 
 berries off by themselves, for it is hard to prevent the 
 strong roots from travelling all over the garden. The 
 blackberry likes a rich, moist, mellow soil, and, finding 
 it, some varieties will give you canes sixteen feet high. 
 You do not want rank, thorny brambles, however, but 
 berries. Therefore the blackberry should be put where 
 it can do no harm, and, by a little judicious repression, 
 a great deal of good. A gravelly or sandy knoll, with a 
 chance to mow all round the patch, is the best place. The 
 blackberry needs a deep, loose soil rather than a rich one. 
 Then the roots will luxuriate to unknown depths, the wood 
 ripen thoroughly, and the fruit be correspondingly abundant. 
 
 Let the rows be six feet apart; set out the plants in the 
 fall, if possible, or early spring; put two plants in the hills, 
 which may be four feet apart. If the ground is very poor, 
 
THE CURRANT 101 
 
 give the young plants a shovelful of old compost, decayed 
 leaves, eic. Any fertilizer will answer, so that it is spread 
 just over the roots to give the plants a good send-off. 
 
 As a rule, complete success in blackberry culture con- 
 sists in a little judicious work performed in May, June, and 
 July. The plants, having been set out as I have advised in 
 the case of raspberries, throw up the first season strong 
 green shoots. When these shoots are three feet high, pinch 
 off the top, so as to stop upward growth. The result of this 
 is that branches start on every side, and the plant forms 
 a low, stocky, self-supporting bush, which will be loaded 
 with fruit the following season. 
 
 The second year the plants in the hill will send up 
 stronger canes, and there will be plenty of sprouts or 
 suckers in the intervening spaces. When very young, 
 these useless sprouts can be pulled out with the least pos- 
 sible trouble. Left to mature, they make a thorny wilder- 
 ness which will cause bleeding hands and faces when at- 
 tacked, and add largely to the family mending. That 
 which a child could do as play when the suckers were 
 just coming through the ground, is now a formidable task 
 for any man. In early summer you can with the utmost 
 ease keep every useless blackberry sprout from growing. 
 More canes, also, will usually start from the hill than are 
 needed. Leave but three strong shoots, and this year pinch 
 them back as soon as they are four feet high, thus pro- 
 ducing three stocky, well- branched bushes, which in shel- 
 tered places will be self-supporting. Should there be the 
 slightest danger of their breaking down with their load 
 of truit, tie them to stakes by all means. I do not believe 
 in that kind of economy which tries to save a penny at the 
 risk of a dollar. 
 
 I believe that better and larger fruit is always secured 
 by shortening in the side branches one-third of their length 
 in spring. Fine varieties like the Kittatinny are not en- 
 tirely hardy in all localities. The snow will protect the 
 lower branches, and the upper ones can usually be kept 
 
102 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 •uninjured by throwing over them some very light litter, 
 like old pea or bean vines, etc. — nothing heavy enough to 
 break them down. As soon as the old canes are through 
 bearing, they should be cut out. If the blackberry patch 
 has been left to its own wild will, there is nothing left for 
 us but to attack it, well-gloved, in April, with the pruning- 
 fihears, and cut out everything except three or four young 
 canes in the hill. These will probably be tall, slender, and 
 branchless, therefore comparatively unproductive. In order 
 to have any fruit at all, we must shorten them one- third, 
 and tie them to stakes. It thus may be clearly seen that 
 with blackberries "a stitch in time" saves almost ninety- 
 nine. Keep out coarse weeds and grass, and give fertilizers 
 only when the plants show signs of feebleness and lack of 
 nutrition. 
 
 A rust similar to that which attacks the black-cap is 
 almost the only disease we have to contend with. The 
 remedy is the same — extirpation of the plant, root and 
 branch. 
 
 After testing a great many kinds, I recommend the three 
 followmg varieties, ripening in succession for the family — 
 the Early Harvest, Snyder, and Kittatinny. These all pro- 
 duce rich, high- flavored berries, and, under the treatment 
 suggested, will prove hardy in nearly all localities. This 
 fruit is not ripe as soon as it is black, and it is rarely left 
 on the bushes until the hard c6re in the centre is mellowed 
 by complete maturity. I have found that berries picked in 
 the evening and stood in a cool place were in excellent 
 condition for breakfast. To have them in perfection, how- 
 ever, they must be so ripe as to drop into the basket at the 
 slightest touch; then, as Donald Mitchell says, they are 
 "bloated bubbles of forest honey." 
 
 I fancy the reader is as impatient to reach the strawberry 
 as I am myself. "Doubtless God could have made a better 
 berry" — but I forbear. This saying has been quoted by the 
 greater part of the human race, and attributed to nearly 
 every prominent naan, from Adam to Mr. Beecher, There 
 
THE CURRANT 103 
 
 are said to be unfortunates whom the strawberry poisons. 
 The majority of us feel as if we could attain Methuselah's 
 age if we had nothing worse to contend with. Praising the 
 strawberry is like "painting the lily," therefore let us giv« 
 our attention at once to the essential details of its successful 
 culture. 
 
 As we have intimated before, this fruit as we find it in 
 our gardens, even though we raise foreign kinds, came 
 originally from America. The two great species, Fragaria 
 chilensisj found on the Pacific slope from Oregon to Chili, 
 and Fragaria virginiana, growing wild in all parts of North 
 America east of the Kocky Mountains, are the sources of 
 all the fine varieties that have been named and cultivated. 
 The Alpine strawberry (Fragaria vesca), which grows wild 
 throughout the northern hemisphere, does not appear capa- 
 ble of much variation and development under cultivation. 
 Its seeds, sown under all possible conditions, reproduce the 
 parent plant. Foreign gardeners eventually learned, how- 
 ever, that seeds of the Chili and Virginia strawberry pro- 
 duced new varieties which were often much better than 
 their parents. As time passed, and more attention was 
 drawn to this subject, superb varieties were originated 
 abroad, many of them acquiring a wide celebrity. In this 
 case, as has been true of nearly all other fruits, our nursery- 
 men and fruit-growers first looked to Europe for improved 
 varieties Horticulturists were slow to learn that in our 
 own native species were the possibilities of the best success. 
 The Chili strawberry, brought directly from the Pacific 
 coast to the East, is not at home in our climate, and is still 
 more unfitted to contend with it after generations of culture 
 in Europe. Even our hardier Virginia strawberry, coming 
 back to us from England after many years of high stimu- 
 lation in a moist, mild climate, is unequal to the harsher 
 conditions of life here. They are like native Americans 
 who have lived and been pampered abroad so long that 
 they find this country "quite too rude, you know — beastly 
 climate,'* Therefore, in the choice varieties, and in devel- 
 
104 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 oping new ones, the nearer we can keep to vigorous strains 
 of our own hardy Virginia species the better. From it have 
 proceeded and will continue to come the finest kinds that 
 can be grown east of the Eockies. Nevertheless, what was 
 said of foreign raspberries is almost equally true of Euro- 
 pean strawberries like the Triomphe de Gand and Jucunda, 
 and hybrids like the Wilder. In localities where they can 
 be grown, their beauty and fine flavor repay for the high 
 culture and careful winter protection required. But they 
 can scarcely be made to thrive on light soils or very far 
 to the south. 
 
 So many varieties are ofiered for sale that the question 
 of choice is a bewildering one. I have therefore sought to 
 meet it, as before, by giving the advice of those whose opin- 
 ions are well entitled to respect. 
 
 Dr. Hexamer, who has had great and varied experience, 
 writes as follows: "A neighbor of mine who has for years 
 bought nearly every new strawberry when first introduced, 
 has settled on the Duchess and Cumberland as the only 
 varieties he will grow in the future, and thinks it not worth 
 while to seek for something better. Confined to two varie- 
 ties, a more satisfactory selection could scarcely be made. 
 But you want six or seven, either being, I think, about 
 the right number for the home garden. I will give them 
 in the order of desirability according to my judgment — 
 Cumberland, Charles Downing, Duchess, Mount Vernon, 
 Warren, Sharpless, Jewell." 
 
 The selection which places the Cumberland Triumph at 
 the head of the list is but another proof how kinds differ 
 under varied conditions. On my place this highly praised 
 sort is but moderately productive and not high-flavored, 
 although the fruit is very large, and handsome. I regard 
 the list, however, as a most excellent one for most localities. 
 
 The Hon. Marshall P. Wilder's choice for the latitude of 
 Massachusetts: "Charles Downing, Wilder, Hervey Davis, 
 Sharpless, Cumberland, Kentucky. Jewell is very promis- 
 ing." A. S. Fuller, for latitude of New York: "Charles 
 
THE CURRANT 105 
 
 Downing, Sharpless, Miner's Prolific, Wilson's Albany, 
 Champion." P. C. Berckmans, for the latitude of Georgia: 
 ''Wilson, Sharpless, Charles Downing, Triomphe de Gand, 
 Glendale." The Hon. Norman J. Colman's choice for Mis- 
 souri and the West; "Crescent, Captain Jack, Cumberland, 
 Champion, Hart's Minnesota, Cornelia." 
 
 If 1 gave a hundred other lists, no two of them probably 
 would agree in all respects. Mr. Downing often said to me, 
 "Soil, climate, and locality make greater differences with 
 the strawberry than with any other fruit." This is far 
 more true of some varieties than others. I believe that 
 the excellent kind named after Mr. Downing, if given 
 proper treatment, will do well almost anywhere on the 
 continent. It will be noted that it is on all the lists except 
 one. I should place it at the head of garden strawberries. 
 It is a kind that will endure much neglect, and it responds 
 splendidly to generous, sensible treatment. Its delicious 
 flavor is its chief recommendation, as it should be that of 
 every berry for the home garden. 
 
 I have tested many hundreds of kinds, and have grown 
 scores and scores that were so praised when first sent out 
 that the novice might be tempted to dig up and throw away 
 everything except the wonderful novelty pressed upon his 
 attention. There is one quiet, effective way of meeting all 
 this heralding and laudation, and that is to make trial beds. 
 For instance, 1 have put out as many as seventy kinds at 
 nearly the same time, and grown them under precisely the 
 same conditions. Some of the much- vaunted new-comers 
 were found to be old varieties re- named; others, although 
 sold at high prices and asserted to be prodigies, were seen 
 to be comparatively worthless when growing by the side 
 of good old standard sorts; the majority never rose above 
 mediocrity under ordinary treatment; but now and then 
 one, like the Sharpless, fulfilled the promises made for it. 
 
 In my next chapter I shall venture to recommend those 
 varieties which my own experience and observation have 
 shown to be best adapted to various soils and localities, and 
 
106 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 shall also seek to prove that proper cultivation has more to 
 do with success than even the selection of favored kinds. 
 
 Nor would I seek to dissuade the proprietor of the Home 
 Acre from testing the many novelties offered. He will be 
 sure to get a fair return in strawberries, and to his interest 
 in his garden will add the pleasure and anticipation which 
 accompany uncertain experiment. In brief, he has found 
 an innocent form of gambling, which will injure neither 
 pocket nor morals. In slow-maturing fruits we cannot 
 afford to make mistakes; in strawberries, one prize out of 
 a, dozen blanks repays for everything. 
 
STRAWBERRIES lOT 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 STRAWBERRIES 
 
 THERE is a very general impression that light, dry, 
 sandy soils are the best for the strawberry. Just 
 the reverse of this is true. In its desire for moisture 
 it is almost an aquatic plant. Experienced horticulturists 
 have learned to recognize this truth, which the Hon. Mar- 
 shall P. Wilder has suggested in the following piquant 
 manner: *'In the first place, the strawberry's chief need is 
 a great deal of water. In the second place, it needs more 
 water. In the third place, I think I should give it a great 
 deal more water." 
 
 While emphasizing this truth the reader should at the 
 same time be warned against land whereon water stands 
 above the surface in winter and spring, or stagnates beneath 
 the surface at any time. Moisture is essential to the best 
 results; good drainage is equally so. The marvellous crops 
 of strawberries raised in California under well-directed sys- 
 tems of irrigation should teach us useful lessons. The 
 plants, instead of producing a partially developed crop 
 within a few brief days, continue in bearing through weeks 
 and months. It may often be possible to supply abundantly 
 on the Home Acre this vital requirement of moisture, and 
 I shall refer to this point further on. 
 
 My first advice in regard to strawberries is to set them 
 out immediately almost anywhere except upon land so re- 
 cently in grass that the sod is still undecayed. This course 
 is better than not to have the fruit at all, or to wait for it. 
 A year without strawberries is a lost year in one serious 
 respect. While there is a wide difference between what 
 
108 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 plants can do under unfavorable conditions and what they 
 can be made to do when their needs are fully met, they will 
 probably in any event yield a fair supply of delicious fruit. 
 Secure this as soon as possible. At the same time remem- 
 ber that a plant of a good variety is a genius capable of 
 wonderful development. In ordinary circumstances it is 
 like the "mute, inglorious" poets whose enforced limita- 
 tions were lamented by the poet Gray ; but when its innate 
 powers and gifts are fully nourished it expands into sur- 
 prising proportions, sends up hundreds of flowers, which 
 are followed by ruby gems of fruit whose exquisite flavor 
 is only surpassed by its beauty. No such concentrated am- 
 brosia ever graced the feasts of the Olympian gods, for they 
 were restricted to the humble Fragaria vesca, or Alpine 
 species. In discovering the New World, Columbus also 
 discovered the true strawberry, and died without the knowl- 
 edge of this result of his achievement. 
 
 I can imagine the expression on the faces of those who 
 buy the "sour, crude, half-ripe Wilsons, " against which the 
 poet Bryant inveighed so justly. The market is flooded with 
 this fruit because it bears transportation about as well as 
 would marbles. Yes, they are strawberries; choke-pears 
 and Seckels belong to the same species. There is truth 
 enough in my exaggeration to warrant the assertion that 
 if we would enjoy the possible strawberry, we must raise 
 it ourselves, and pick it when fully matured — ready for the 
 table, and not for market. Then any man's garden can 
 furnish something better than was found in Eden. 
 
 Having started a strawberry-patch without loss of time 
 wherever it is handiest, we can now give our attention to 
 the formation of an ideal bed. In this instance we must 
 shun the shade of trees above, and their roots beneath. 
 The land should be open to the sky, and the sun free to 
 practice his alchemy on the fruit the greater part of the 
 day. The most favorable soil is a sandy loam, verging 
 toward clay; and it should have been under cultivation 
 aufficiently long to destroy ali roots of grass and perennial 
 
STRAWBERRIES 109 
 
 weeds. Put on the fertilizer with a free hand. If it is barn- 
 yard manure, the rate of sixty tons to the acre is not in 
 excess. A strawberry plant has a large appetite and excel- 
 lent digestion. It prefers decidedly manure from the cow- 
 stable, though that from the horse-stable answers very well; 
 but it IS not advisable to incorporate it with the soil in its 
 raw, unfermented state, and then to plant immediately. 
 The ground can scarcely be too rich for strawberries, but 
 it may easily be overheated and stimulated. In fertilizing, 
 ever keep in mind the two great requisites — moisture and 
 coolness. Manure from the horse- stable, therefore, is almost 
 doubled in value as well as bulk if composted with leaves, 
 muck, or sods, and allowed to decay before being used. 
 
 Next to enriching the soil, the most important step is 
 to deepen it. If a plow is used, sink it to the beam, and 
 run it twice in a furrow If a lifting subsoil-plow can fol- 
 low, all the better. Strawberry roots have been traced two 
 feet below the surface. 
 
 If the situation of the plot does not admit the use of a 
 plow, let the gardener begin at one side and trench the area 
 to at least the depth of eighteen inches, taking pains to mix 
 the surface, subsoil, and fertilizer evenly and thoroughly. 
 A small plot thus treated will yield as much as one three 
 or four times as large. One of the chief advantages of thus 
 deepening the soil is that the plants are insured against 
 their worst enemy — drought. How often I have seen beds 
 in early June languishing for moisture, the fruit trusses 
 lying on the ground, fainting under their burden, and the 
 berries ripening prematurely into little more than diminu- 
 tive collections of seeds I When ground has been deepened 
 as 1 have said, the drought must be almost unparalleled 
 to arrest the development of the fruit. Even in the most 
 favorable seasons, hard, shallow soils give but a brief period 
 of strawberries; the fruit ripens all at once, and although 
 the first berries may be of good size, the later ones dwindle 
 until they are scarcely larger than peas. Be sure to have a 
 deep, mellow soil beneath the plants. 
 
110 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 Such a bed can be made in either spring or fall — indeed, 
 at any time when the soil is free from frost, and neither too 
 wet nor dry. I do not believe in preparing and fertilizing 
 ground during a period of drought. 
 
 We will suppose the work has been done in the spring, 
 as early as the earth was dry enough to crumble freely, and 
 that the surface of the bed is smooth, mellow, and ready 
 for the plants. Stretch a garden line down the length of 
 the plot two feet from the outer edge, and set the plants 
 along the line one foot apart from each other. Let the roots 
 be spread out, not buried in a mat, the earth pressed firmly 
 against them, and the crown of the plant be exactly even 
 with the surface of the soil, which should also be pressed 
 closely around it with the fingers. This may seem minute 
 detail, yet much dismal experience proves it to be essen- 
 tial. I have employed scores of men, and the great majority 
 at first would either bury the crowns out of sight, or else 
 leave part of the roots exposed, and the remainder so loose 
 in the soil that a sharp gale would blow the plants away. 
 There is no one so economical of time as the hired man 
 whose time is paid for. He is ever bent on saving a minute 
 or half-minute in this kind of work. On one occasion I had 
 to reset a good part of an acre on which my men had saved 
 time in planting. If 1 had asked them to save the plants in 
 the year of '86, they might have "struck." 
 
 The first row having been set out, I advise that the line 
 be moved forward three feet. This would make the rows 
 three feet apart — not too far in ground prepared as de- 
 scribed, and in view of the subsequent method of cultiva- 
 tion. The bed may therefore be filled up in this ratio, the 
 plants one foot apart in the row, and the rows three feet 
 apart. The next point in my system, for the kind of soil 
 named (for light, sandy soils another plan will be indi- 
 cated), is to regard each plant as an individual that is to 
 be developed to the utmost. Of course only young plants 
 of the previous season's growth should be used. If a plant 
 has old, woody, black roots, throw it away. Plants set out 
 
STRAWBERRIES 111 
 
 in Ap?il will begin to blossom in May. These buds and 
 blossoms should be picked ofi ruthlessly as soon as they 
 appear. Never does avarice overreach itself more com- 
 pletely than when plants are permitted to bear the same 
 season in which they are set out. The young, half-estab- 
 lished plant is drained of its vitality in producing a little 
 imperfect fruit; yet this is permitted even by farmers who 
 would hold up their hands at the idea of harnessing a colt 
 to a plow. 
 
 The plants do not know anything about our purpose 
 in regard to them. They merely seek to follow the law 
 of Nature to propagate themselves, first by seeds which, 
 strictly speaking, are the fruit, and then by runners. These 
 slender, tendril-like growths begin to appear early in sum- 
 mer, and if left unchecked will mat the ground about the 
 parent with young plants by late autumn. If we wish plants, 
 let them grow by all means; but if fruit is our object, why 
 should we let them grow? "Because nearly every one 
 seems to do it," would be, perhaps, the most rational 
 answer. This is a mistake, for many are beginning to take 
 just the opposite course even when growing strawberries 
 by the acre. 
 
 Let us fix our attention on a single plant. It has a cer- 
 tain amount of root pasturage and space in which to grow. 
 Since it is not permitted to produce an indefinite number of 
 young plants, it begins to develop itself. The soil is rich, 
 the roots are busy, and there must be an outlet. The orig- 
 inal plant cannot form others, and therefore begins to pro- 
 duce fruit-crowns for the coming year. All the sap, all 
 the increasing power of root and foliage, are directed to 
 preparation for fruit. In brief, we have got the plant 
 m traces; it is pulling in the direction we wish; it will 
 eventually deliver a load of berries which would surprise 
 those who trust simply to Nature unguided. 
 
 Some one may object that this is a troublesome and ex- 
 pensive way of growing strawberries. Do not the facts in 
 the case, pxqv^ the reverse ? A plant restricted to a single 
 
112 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 root can be hoed and worked around like a hill of corn 
 or a currant-bush. With comparatively little trouble the 
 ground between the rows can be kept clean and mellow. 
 Under the common system, which allows the runners to 
 interlace and mat the ground, you soon have an almost 
 endless amount of hand-weeding to do, and even this fails 
 if white clover, sorrel, and certain grasses once get a start. 
 The system I advocate forbids neglect; the runners must 
 be clipped ofi as fast as they appear, and they continue to 
 grow from June till frost; but the actual labor of the year 
 is reduced to a minimum. A little boy or girl could keep 
 a large bed clipped by the occasional use of a shears or 
 knife before breakfast; and if the ground between the 
 plants is free of runners, it can be hoed over in an hour. 
 Considering, therefore, merely the trouble and expense, the 
 single-plant system has the facts in its favor. But our ob- 
 ject is not to grow strawberry plants with the least trouble, 
 but to have strawberries of the largest and finest quality. 
 
 In addition to ease and thoroughness of cultivation, there 
 are other important advantages. The single narrow row of 
 plants is more easily protected against winter's frosts. 
 Light, strawy manure from the horse- stable serves well 
 for this purpose; but it should be light and free from heat. 
 1 have seen beds destroyed by too heavy a covering of 
 chunky, rank manure. It is not our purpose to keep the 
 beds and plants from freezing, but from alternately freezing 
 and thawing. If snow fell on the bed in December and 
 lasted till April, no other protection would be needed. 
 Nature in this latitude has no sympathy for the careless 
 man. During the winter of 1885, in January, and again in 
 February and March, the ground was bare, unprotected 
 plants were badly frozen, and in many instances lifted 
 partly out of the ground by midday thawing and night 
 freezing. The only safe course is to cover the rows thor- 
 oughly, but not heavily, early in December. If then light 
 stable-manure is not at hand, leaves, old bean- vines, or any 
 dry refuse from the garden not containing injurious seeds 
 
8TRA WBERRIES 118 
 
 will answer. Do not employ asparagus- tops, which contain 
 seed. Of course we want this vegetable, but not in the 
 strawberry bed. Like some persons out of their proper 
 sphere, asparagus may easily become a nuisance; and it 
 will dispossess other growths of their rights and places as 
 serenely as a Knight of Labor. The proper balance must 
 be kept in the garden as well as in society; and therefore 
 it IS important to cover our plants with something that will 
 not speedily become a usurper. Let it be a settled point, 
 then, that the narrow rows must be covered thoroughly out 
 of sight with some light material which will not rest with 
 smothering weight on the plants or leave among them in- 
 jurious seeds. Light stable- manure is often objected to for 
 the reason that employing it is like sowing the ground with 
 grass-seed. If the plants had been allowed to grow in 
 matted beds, I would not use this material for a winter 
 covering, unless it had been allowed to heat sufficiently to 
 destroy the grass and clover seed contained in it. I have 
 seen matted beds protected with stable-manure that were 
 fit to mow by June, the plants and fruit having been over- 
 run with grass. No such result need follow if the plants 
 are cultivated in a single line, for then the manure can be 
 raked off in early spring — first of April in our latitude — 
 and the ground cultivated. There is a great advantage in 
 employing light manure if the system I advocate is fol- 
 lowed, for the melting snows and rains carry the richness 
 of the fertilizer to the roots, and winter protection serves 
 a double purpose. 
 
 We will now consider the proper management for the 
 second year, when a full crop should be yielded. I know 
 that many authorities frown upon cultivation during the 
 second spring, before plants bear their fruit. I can not agree 
 with this view, except in regard to very light soils, and 
 look upon it as a relic of the old theory that sandy land 
 was the best for strawberries. Take the soil under con- 
 sideration, a sandy loam, for instance. After the frost is 
 out, the earth settled, and the winter covering raked off, 
 
^^14 THE ROME ACRE 
 
 the soil under the spring sun grows hard, and by June is 
 almost as solid as a roadbed. Every one knows that land 
 in such condition suffers tenfold more severely from 
 drought than if it were light and mellow from cultiva- 
 tion. Perennial weeds that sprouted late in the fall or 
 early spring get a start, and by fruiting- time are rampant 
 I do advocate early spring cultivation, and by it I almost 
 double my crop, while at the same time maintaining a mas- 
 tery over the weeds. 
 
 As soon as the severe frosts are over, in April, 1 rake 
 the coarsest of the stable-manure from the plants, leaving 
 the finer and decayed portions as a fertilizer. Then, when 
 the ground is dry enough to work, I have a man weed out 
 the rows, and if there are vacant spaces, fill in the rows 
 with young plants. The man then forks the ground lightly 
 between the rows, and stirs the surface merely among the 
 plants. Thus all the hard, sodden surface is loosened or 
 scarified, and opened to the reception of air and light, dew 
 and rain. The man is charged emphatically that in this 
 cultivation he must not lift the plants or disturb the roots 
 to any extent. If I find a plant with its hold upon the 
 ground loosened, I know there has been careless work. 
 Before digging along the row the fork is sunk beside the 
 plants to prevent the soil from lifting in cakes, and the 
 plants with them. In brief, pains are taken that the plants 
 should be just as firm in the soil after cultivation as before. 
 Let the reader carefully observe that this work is done early 
 in April, while the plants are comparatively dormant. Most 
 emphatically it should not be done in May, after the blos- 
 soms begin to appear. If the bed has been neglected till 
 that time, the surface merely can be cultivated with a hoe. 
 When the plants have approached so near to the fruiting^ 
 the roots must not be disturbed at all. Early cultivation 
 gives time for new roots to grow, and stimulates such 
 growth. Where the rows are suflB.ciently long, and the 
 ground permits it, this early loosening of the soil is accom- 
 plished with a horse-cultivatoi better than with a fork, 
 
STRAWBERRIES 115 
 
 tlie hoe following and levelling the soil and taking oat 
 aU weeds. 
 
 My next step during the second season is to mulch the 
 plants, in order to keep the fruit clean. Without this mulch 
 the fruit is usually unfit for the table. A dashing shower 
 splashes the berries with mud and grit, and the fruit must 
 be washed before it is eaten; and strawberries with their 
 sun- bestowed beauty and flavor washed away are as ridicu- 
 lous as is mere noise from musical instruments. To be con- 
 tent with such fruit is like valuing pictures by the number 
 of square inches of canvas! In perfecting a strawberry, 
 Mature gives some of her finest touches, and it is not well 
 to obliterate them with either mud or water. Any light 
 clean material will keep the fruit clean. I have fouiad 
 spring rakings of the lawn — mingled dead grass and 
 leaves — one of the best. Leaves from a grove would an- 
 swer, were it not for their blowing about in an untidy 
 way. Of course there is nothing better than straw for the 
 strawberry; but this often costs as much as hay. Any 
 clean litter that will lie close to the ground and can be 
 pushed up under the plants will answer. Nor should it b© 
 merely under the plants. A man once mulched my rows in 
 such a way that the fruit hung over the litter on the soil 
 beyond. A little common-sense will meet the requirement 
 of keeping the berries well away from the loose soil, while 
 at the same time preserving a neat aspect to the bed. Pine- 
 needles and salt- hay are used where these materials ape 
 abundant. 
 
 Make it a rule to mulch as soon as possible after the 
 plants begin to blossom, and also after a good soaking 
 rain. In this case the litter keeps the ground moist. If 
 the soil immediately about the plants is covered when dry, 
 the mulch may keep it dry — to the great detriirient of the 
 forming berries. It is usually best to put on the mulch as 
 soon as the early cultivation is over in April, and then 
 the bed may be left till the fruit is picked. Of course it 
 may be necessary to pull out some rank-growing weeds 
 
 ^0— EOB—XI 
 
116 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 from time to time. If tlie hired man is left to do the 
 mulching very late in the season, he will probably cover 
 much of the green fruit and blossoms as well as the ground. 
 
 After the berries have been picked, the remaining treat- 
 ment of the year is very simple. Rake out the mulch, cul- 
 tivate the soil, and keep the plants free of weeds and 
 runners as during the previous year. Before hard freezing 
 weather, protect again as before, and give the plants similar 
 treatment the following spring and summer. Under this 
 system the same plants may be kept in bearing three, four, 
 and five years, according to the variety. Some kinds main- 
 tain their vigor longer than others. After the first year 
 the disposition to run declines, and with the third year, in 
 most instances, deterioration in the plant itself begins. I 
 would therefore advise that under this system a new bed 
 be made, as described, every third year; for, it should be 
 remembered, the new bed is unproductive the first year. 
 This should never be forgotten if one would maintain a 
 continuous supply of berries, otherwise he will be like 
 those born on the 29th of February, and have only occa- 
 sional birthdays. 
 
 If the old bed is just where you wish, and has been pre- 
 pared in the thorough manner described, it can be renewed 
 in the following manner: When the old plants begin to 
 decline in vigor — say the third or fourth spring — a line 
 of well-decayed compost and manure from the cow-stable 
 a foot wide may be spread thickly down between the 
 rows, dug under deeply, and young plants set out just 
 over the fertilizer. The old plants can be treated as has 
 already been described, and as soon as they are through 
 bearing, dug under. This would leave the young plants in 
 full possession of the ground, and the cultivation and 
 management for three or more years would go on as already 
 directed. This course involves no loss of time or change 
 of ground for a long period. If, however, a new bed can 
 be made somewhere else, the plants will thrive better upon 
 it. Unless there are serious objections, a change of ground 
 
8TBAWBEBRIES 117 
 
 is always advantageous; for no matter how lavishly the 
 plot is enriched, the strawberry appears to exhaust certain 
 required constituents in the soil. Continued vigor is better 
 maintained by wood-ashes perhaps than by any other fer- 
 tilizer, after the soil is once deepened and enriched, and it 
 may be regarded as one of the very best tonics for the straw- 
 berry plant Bone-meal is almost equally good. Guano 
 and kindred fertilizers are too stimulating, and have not 
 the staying qualities required. 
 
 As has been intimated before, the strawberry bed may 
 often be so located on the Home Acre as to permit of irri- 
 gation. This does not mean sprinkling and splattering with 
 water, but the continuous maintenance of abundant moist- 
 ure during the critical period from the time the fruit begins 
 to form until it ripens. Partial watering during a drought 
 is very injurious; so also would be too frequent watering. 
 If the ground could be soaked twice a week in the evening, 
 and then left to the hardening and maturing influence of 
 the sun and wind, the finest results would be secured, I 
 am satisfied that in most localities the size of the berries 
 and the number of quarts produced might be doubled by 
 judicious irrigation. 
 
 The system given above applies not only to sandy loam, 
 but also to all varieties of clay, even the most stubborn. 
 In the latter instance it would be well to employ stable- 
 manure in the initial enriching, for this would tend to 
 lighten and warm the soil. Care must also be exercised ia 
 not working clay when it is too wet or too dry. Mulch also 
 plays an important part on heavy clay, for it prevents the 
 soil from baking and cracking. One of the best methods 
 of preventing this is to top-dress the ground with stable- 
 manure, and hoe it in from time to time when fighting the 
 weeds. This keeps the surface open and mellow — a vital 
 necessity for vigorous growth. Few plants will thrive when 
 the surface is hard and baked. Nevertheless, if I had to 
 choose between heavy clay and light sand for strawberries, 
 I should much prefer the clay. On the last-named soil an 
 
118 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 abundant winter protection is absolutely necessary, or else 
 the plants will freeze entirely out of the ground. 
 
 The native strain of cultivated strawberries has so much 
 vigor and power of adaptation that plenty of excellent varie- 
 ties can be grown on the lightest soil. In this instance, how- 
 ever, we would suggest important modifications in prepara- 
 tion and culture. The soil, as has been already shown, 
 must be treated like a spendthrift Deep plowing or spad- 
 ing should be avoided, as the subsoil is too loose and leachy 
 already. The initial enriching of the bed should be gener- 
 ous, but not lavish. You cannot deposit fertilizers for long- 
 continued use. I should prefer to harrow or rake in the 
 manure, leaving it near the surface. The rains will carry 
 it down fast enough. One of the very best methods is to 
 open furrows, three feet apart, with a light corn-plow, half 
 fill them with decayed compost, again run the plow through 
 to mix the fertilizer with the soil, then level the ground, 
 and set out the plants immediately over the manure. They 
 thus get the benefit of it before it can leach away. The 
 accomplished horticulturist Mr. P. T. Quinn, of Newark, 
 N. J., has achieved remarkable success by this plan. 
 
 It is a well-known fact that on light land strawberry 
 plants are not so long-lived and do not develop, or "stool 
 out, " as it is termed, as on heavier land. In order to secure 
 the largest and best possible crop, therefore, I should not 
 advise a single line of plants, but rather a narrow bed of 
 plants, say eighteen inches wide, leaving eighteen inches 
 for a walk. I would not allow this bed to be matted with 
 an indefinite number of little plants crowding each other 
 into feeble life, but would leave only those runners which 
 had taken root early, and destroy the rest. A plant which 
 forms in June and the first weeks in July has time to mature 
 good-sized fruit-buds before winter, especially if given space 
 in which to develop. This, however, would be impossible 
 if the runners were allowed to sod the ground thickly. In 
 principle I would carry out the first system, and give each 
 plant space in which to grow upon its own root as large 
 
STRAWBERRIES 119 
 
 as it naturally would in a light soil, and I would have a 
 sufficient number of plants to supply the deficiency in 
 growth. On good, loamy soil, the foliage of single lines 
 of plants, three feet apart, will grow so large as to touch 
 across the spaces; but this could scarcely be expected on 
 light soil unless irrigation were combined with great fer- 
 tility. Nevertheless, a bed with plants standing not too 
 thickly upon it will give an abundance of superb fruit. 
 
 Strawberries grown in beds may not require so much 
 spring mulching to keep the fruit clean, but should care- 
 fully receive all that is needed. Winter protection also is 
 not so indispensable as on heavier soils, but it always well 
 repays. A thick bed of plants should never be protected 
 by any kind of litter which would leave seeds of various 
 kinds, for under this system of culture weeds must be taken 
 out by hand; and this is always slow, back-aching work. 
 
 When plants are grown in beds it does not pay to con- 
 tinue them after fruiting the third year. For instance, they 
 are set out in spring, and during the first season they are 
 permitted to make a limited number of runners, and pre- 
 pare to fruit the following year. After the berries are 
 picked the third year, dig the plants under, and occupy 
 the ground with something else. On light soils, and where 
 the plants are grown in beds instead of narrow rows, new 
 beds should be set out every alternate year. 
 
 In order to have an abundant supply of young plants it 
 is only necessary to let one end of a row or a small portion 
 of a bed run at will. Then new plants can be set out as 
 desired. 
 
 While more strawberries are planted in spring than at 
 any other time, certain advantages are secured by sum- 
 mer and fall setting. This is especially true of gardens 
 wherein early crops are maturing, leaving the ground va- 
 cant. For instance, there are areas from which early 
 peas, beans, or potatoes have been gathered. Suppose 
 such a plot is ready for something else in July or Au- 
 gust, the earlier the better. Unless the ground is very 
 
120 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 dry, a bed can be prepared as has been described. If the 
 soil is in good condition, rich, and deep, it can be dug 
 thoroughly, and the plants set out at once in the cool of 
 the evening, or just before a shower. During the hot season 
 a great advantage is secured if the plants are set imme- 
 diately after the ground is prepared, and while the surface 
 is still moist. It is unfortunate if ground is made ready 
 and then permitted to dry out before planting takes place, 
 for watering, no matter how thorough, has not so good an 
 influence in starting new growth as the natural moisture of 
 the soil. It would be better, therefore, to dig the ground 
 late in the afternoon, and set out the 'plants the same even- 
 ing. Watering, however, should never be dispensed with 
 during warm weather, unless there is a certainty of rain; 
 and even then it does no harm. 
 
 Suppose one wishes to set a new bed in July. If he has 
 strawberries growing on his place, his course would be to 
 let some of his favorite varieties make new runners as early 
 as possible. These should be well-rooted young plants by 
 the middle of the month. After the new ground is pre- 
 pared, these can be taken up, with a ball of earth attached 
 to their roots, and carried carefully to their new starting- 
 place. If they are removed so gently as not to shake off 
 the earth from the roots, they will not know that they have 
 been moved, but continue to thrive without wilting a leaf. 
 If such transplanting is done immediately after a soaking 
 rain, the soil will cling to the roots so tenaciously as to 
 ensure a transfer that will not cause any check of growth. 
 But it is not necessary to wait for rain. At five in the after- 
 noon soak with water the ground in which the young 
 plants are standing, and by six o'clock you can take up 
 the plants with their roots incased in clinging earth, just 
 as successfully as after a rain. Plants thus transferred, and 
 watered after being set out, will not wilt, although the 
 thermometer is in the nineties the following day. If young 
 plants are scarce, take up the strongest and best-rooted 
 ones, and leave the runner attached; set out such plants 
 
STRAWBERRIES 121 
 
 With their balls of earth four feet apart in the row, and 
 with a lump of earth fasten down the runners along the 
 line. Within a month these runners will fill up the new 
 rows as closely as desirable. Then all propagation in the 
 new bed should be checked, and the plants compelled to 
 develop for fruiting in the coming season. In this latitude 
 a plant thus transferred in July or August will bear a very 
 good crop the following June, and the berries will probably 
 be larger than in the following years. This tendency to pro- 
 duce very large fruit is characteristic of young plants set 
 out in summer. It thus may be seen that plants set in 
 spring can not produce a good crop of fruit under about 
 fourteen months, while others, set in summer, will yield in 
 nine or ten months. I have set out many acres in summer 
 and early autumn with the most satisfactory results. There- 
 after the plants were treated in precisely the same manner 
 as those set in spring. 
 
 If the plants must be bought and transported from a dis- 
 tance during hot weather, I should not advise the purchase 
 of any except those grown in pots. Nurserymen have made 
 us familiar with pot-grown plants, for we fill our flower- 
 beds with them. In like manner strawberry plants are 
 grown and sold. Little pots, three inches across at the 
 top, are sunk in the earth along a strawberry row, and 
 the runners so fastened down that they take root in these 
 pots. In about two weeks the young plant will fill a pot 
 with roots. It may then be severed from the parent, and 
 transported almost any distance, like a verbena. Usually 
 the ball of earth and roots is separated from the pot, and is 
 thcD wrapped in paper before being packed in the shallow 
 box employed for shipping purposes. A nurseryman once 
 distributed in a summer throughout the country a hundred 
 thousand plants of one variety grown in this manner. The 
 earth encasing the roots sustained the plants during trans- 
 portation and after setting sufficiently to prevent any loss 
 worth mentioning. This method of the plant-grower can 
 easily be employed on the Home Acre. Pots filled with 
 
122 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 earth may be sunk along the strawberry rows in the garden, 
 the runners made to root in them, and from them trans- 
 ferred to any part of the garden wherein we propose to 
 make a new bed. It is only a neater and more certain way 
 of removing young plants with a ball of earth from the 
 open bed. 
 
 Some have adopted this system in raising strawberries 
 for market. They prepare very rich beds, fill them with 
 pot-grown plants in June or July, take from these plants 
 one crop the following June, then plow them under. As 
 a rule, however, such plants cannot be bought in quantities 
 before August or September. 
 
 * As we go south, September, October, or November, ac- 
 cording to lowness of latitude, are the favorite months for 
 planting. 1 have had excellent success on the Hudson in 
 late autumn planting. My method has been to cover the 
 young plants, just before the ground froze, with two or 
 three inches of clean earth, and then to rake it off again 
 early in April. The roots of such plants become thoroughly 
 established during the winter, and start with double vigor. 
 Plants set out in late autumn do best on light, dry soils. 
 On heavy soils they will be frozen out unless well covered. 
 They should not be allowed to bear the following season. 
 A late- set plant cannot before winter in our climate become 
 strong and sturdy enough to produce much fruit the follow- 
 ing season. I make it a rule not to permit plants set out 
 after the first of October to bear fruit until a year from the 
 following June. 
 
 In setting out plants, the principle of sex should be 
 remembered. The majority of our favorite varieties are 
 bisexual; that is, the blossoms are furnished with both 
 stamens and pistils. A variety with this organization, as 
 the Sharpless, for instance, will bear alone with no other 
 kind near it. But if one set out a bed of Champions — 
 another fine variety — well apart from any staminate kind, 
 it would blossom profusely, but produce no fruit When 
 1 was a boy, Hovey's Seedling was the great strawberry of 
 
STRAWBERRIES 12S 
 
 the day, and marvellous stories were told of the productive- 
 ness of the plants and the size of the berries. How well I 
 remember the disappointment and wrath of people who 
 bought the plants at a high price, and set them out with 
 no staminate varieties near to fertilize the pistillate blos- 
 soms' Expectations were raised to the highest pitch by 
 profuse blossoming in May, but not a berry could be found 
 the ensuing June. The vigorous plants were only a mock- 
 ery, and the people who sold them were berated as hum- 
 bugs. To-day the most highly praised strawberry is the 
 Jewell. The originator, Mr. P. M. Augur, writes me that 
 '•plants set two feet by eighteen inches apart, August 1, 
 1884, m June, 1885, completely covered the ground, touch- 
 ing both ways, and averaged little over a quart to the plant 
 for the centre patch." All runners were kept off, in ac- 
 cordance with the system advocated in this paper. "At 
 Boston a silver medal was awarded to this variety as the 
 best new strawberry introduced within five years." People 
 reading such laudation — well deserved, I believe — might 
 conclude the best is good enough for us, and send for 
 enough Jewell plants to set out a bed. If they set no others 
 near it, their experience would be similar to that which I 
 witnessed in the case of Hovey's Seedling thirty odd years 
 ago. The blossom of the Jewell contains pistils only, and 
 will produce no fruit unless a staminate variety is planted 
 near. I have never considered this an objection against 
 a variety; for why should any one wish to raise only one 
 variety of strawberry ? All danger of barrenness in pistil- 
 late kinds is removed absolutely by planting staminate 
 sorts m the same bed. In nurserymen's catalogues pistillate 
 varieties are marked *'P.," and the purchaser has merely to 
 set out the plants within a few feet of some perfect flowering 
 kind to secure abundant fruit. 
 
 As a result of much experience, I will now make some 
 suggestions as to varieties. In a former paper I have given 
 the opinions of others upon this important subject, and one 
 can follow the advice of such <\minent authorities without 
 
124 THE ROME ACRE 
 
 misgiving. The earliest strawberry that I have ever raised, 
 and one of the best flavored, is the Crystal City. It is evi- 
 dently a wild variety domesticated, and it has the exquisite 
 flavor and perfume of the field-berry. It rarely fails to give 
 us fruit in May, and my children, with the unerring taste 
 of connoisseurs, follow it up until the last berry is picked. 
 It would run all over the garden unchecked; and this pro- 
 pensity must be severely curbed to render a bed productive. 
 Keeping earliness and high flavor in view, I would next 
 recommend the Black Defiance. It is not remarkably pro- 
 ductive on many soils, but the fruit is so delicious that 
 it well deserves a place. The Duchess and Bidwell follow 
 in the order of ripening. On my grounds they have always 
 made enormous plants, and yielded an abundance of good- 
 flavored berries. The Downing is early to medium in the 
 season of ripening, and should be in every collection. The 
 Indiana is said to resemble this kind, and to be an improve- 
 ment upon it. Miner's Prolific is another kindred berry, 
 and a most excellent one. Among the latest berries I recom- 
 mend the Sharpless Champion, or Windsor Chief, and 
 Parry. If one wishes to raise a very large, late, showy 
 berry, let him try the Longfellow. The Cornelia is said to 
 grow very large and ripen late, but I have not yet fruited 
 it As I said fifteen or twenty years ago, if I were restricted 
 to but one variety, I should choose the Triomphe de Gand, 
 a foreign kind, but well adapted to rich, heavy soils. The 
 berries begin to ripen early, and last very late. The Mem- 
 phis Late has always been the last to mature on my grounds, 
 and, like the Crystal City, is either a wild variety, or else 
 but slightly removed. The Wilson is the great berry of 
 commerce. It is not ripe when it is red, and therefore is 
 rarely eaten in perfection. Let it get almost black in ita 
 ripeness, and it is one of the richest berries in existence. 
 With a liberal allowance of sugar and cream, it makes a 
 dish much too good for an average king. It is also the best 
 variety for preserving. 
 
 It should be remembered that all strawberries, unlike 
 
STRAWBERRIES 125 
 
 pears, should be allowed to mature fully before being 
 picked. Many a variety is condemned because the fruit is 
 eaten prematurely. There is no richer berry in existence, 
 than the Windsor Chief, yet the fruit, when merely red, is 
 decidedly disagreeable. 
 
 The reader can now make a selection of kinds which 
 should give him six weeks of strawberries. At the same 
 time he must be warned that plants growing in a hard, 
 dry, poor soil, and in matted beds, yield their fruit almost 
 together, no matter how many varieties may have been 
 set out. Under such conditions the strawberry season is 
 brief indeed. 
 
 While I was writing this paper the chief enemy of the 
 strawberry came blundering and bumping about my lamp — 
 the May beetle. The larva of this insect, the well-known 
 white grub, has an insatiable appetite for strawberry roots, 
 and in some localities and seasons is very destructive. One 
 year I lost at least one hundred thousand plants by this 
 pest. This beetle does not often lay its egg in well-cultivated 
 ground, and we may reasonably hope to escape its ravages 
 in a garden. If, when preparing for a bed, many white 
 grubs are found in the soil, I should certainly advise that 
 another locality be chosen. The only remedy is to dig out 
 the larvae and kill them. If you find a plant wilting with- 
 out apparent cause, you may be sure that a grub is feeding 
 on the roots. The strawberry plant is comparatively free 
 from insect enemies and disease, and rarely disappoints any 
 one who gives it a tithe of the attention it deserves. 
 
 There are many points in connection with this fruit which, 
 in a small treatise like this, must be merely touched upon 
 or omitted altogether. 1 may refer those who wish to study 
 the subject more thoroughly to my work, "Success with 
 Small Fruits." 
 
126 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE KITCHEN-GABDEN 
 
 THE garden should be open to the sky, and as far a» 
 possible unshaded by adjacent trees from the morn- 
 ing and afternoon sun. It is even more essential that 
 the trees be not so near that their voracious roots can maJsie- 
 their way to the rich loam of the garden. 
 
 Now for the soil. We should naturally suppose that that 
 of Eden was a deep sandy loam, with not too porous a sub- 
 soil. As we have already seen again and again, such a soil 
 appears to be the laboratory in which we can assist Nature 
 to develop her best products. But Nature has a profound 
 respect for skill, and when she recognizes it, "lends a 
 hand" in securing excellent crops from almost drifting 
 sand or stubborn clay. She has even assisted the Hollander 
 in wresting from the ocean one of the gardens of the world. 
 
 We must again dwell on the principles already empha- 
 sized, that soils must be treated accordmg to their nature. 
 li too damp, they must be drained; if of the fortunate qual- 
 ity of a sandy loam resting on a clay subsoil, they can be 
 abundantly deepened and enriched from the start, if of a 
 heavy clay, inclined to be cold and wet in spring, and tOi 
 bake and crack in summer, skill should aim to lighten it 
 and remove its inertia; finally, as we have shown, a light, 
 porous soil should be treated like a spendthrifts All soils, 
 except the last-named, are much the better for being en- 
 riched and deeply plowed or forked in October or Novem- 
 ber. This exposes the mould to the sweetening and mechan- 
 ical action of frost, and the fertilizers incorporated with it 
 
THE KITCHEN-QARDEN 127 
 
 are gradually transformed into just that condition of plant 
 food which the rootlets take up with the greatest ease and 
 rapidity, A light soil, on the contrary, should not be worked 
 in autumn, but be left intact after the crops are taken from it. 
 
 In one respect a light soil and a stifi, heavy one should 
 be treated in the same way, but for different reasons. In 
 the first instance, fertilizers should be applied in modera- 
 tion to the surface, and rains and the cultivation of the 
 growing crops depended upon to carry the richness down- 
 ward to the roots. The porous nature of the earth must 
 ever be borne in mind; fertilizers pass through it and 
 disappear, and therefore are applied to the surface, to 
 delay this process and enable the roots to obtain as 
 much nutriment as possible during the passage. Equal 
 and even greater advantages are secured by a top-dressing 
 of barnyard manures and composts to the heaviest of clay. 
 The surface of such soils, left to Nature, becomes in hot, 
 dry weather like pottery, baking and cracking, shield mg 
 from dew and 'shower, and preventing all circulation of air 
 about the roots. A top-dressing prevents all this, keeps the 
 surface open and mellow, and supplies not only fertility, 
 but the mechanical conditions that are essential. 
 
 If we are now ready to begin, let us begin right. I have 
 not much sympathy with finical, fussy gardening. One of 
 the chief fascinations of gardening is the endless field it 
 affords for skilful sleight of hand, short-cuts, unconven- 
 tional methods, and experiments. The true gardener soon 
 ceases to be a man of rules, and becomes one of strategy, 
 of expedients. He is prompt to act at the right moment. 
 Like the artist, he is ever seeking and acting upon hints 
 from Nature. The man of rules says the first of July is the 
 time to set out winter cabbage; and out the plants go, 
 though the sky be brazen, and the mercury in the ninetiea 
 The gardener has his plants ready, and for a few days 
 watches the sky. At last he perceives that rain is coming; 
 then he sets out his plants, and Nature's watering starts 
 them, unwilted, on their new growth. 
 
128 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 At the same time I protest against careless, slovenly 
 gardening — ground imperfectly prepared, crooked rows, 
 seed half covered, or covered so deeply that the germs are 
 discouraged long before they reach light. One of the best 
 aids to success is a small compost-heap composed equally 
 of manure from the horse-stable, the cow-stable, and of 
 leaves. This should be allowed to stand so long, and be 
 cut down and turned so often, that it becomes like a fine 
 black powder, and is much the better for being kept under 
 shelter from sun and rain. 
 
 All who hope to have a permanent garden will naturally 
 think first of asparagus — one of the vegetables that have 
 been longest in cultivation, and one which is justly among 
 the most valued. It was cultivated hundreds of years be- 
 fore the Christian era, and is to-day growing in popular 
 esteem among civilized peoples. 
 
 In the matter of preparation I shall take issue with many 
 of the authorities. I have read and known of instances 
 wherein extraordinary expense and pains have been be- 
 stowed upon the asparagus- bed. The soil has been dug 
 out to the depth of two or more feet, the bottom paved, 
 and the homely, hardy roots, accustomed to roughing it the 
 world over, set out and tended with a care which, if given 
 to a potato, would make it open its eyes. There are few 
 more hardy or widely distributed species of vegetables than 
 asparagus. It is "a native of the sea-coasts of various coun- 
 tries of Europe and Asia." According to Loudon, it is 
 abundant on the sandy steppes in the interior of Russia. 
 In Southern Russia and Poland the horses and cows feed 
 upon it. It grows freely in the fens of Lincolnshire, and 
 is indigenous to Cornwall. On the borders of the Euphrates 
 the shoots are so extraordinarily large and vigorous that 
 Thompson thinks it would be to the advantage of gardeners 
 to import roots from that region. These facts may indicate 
 that too much stress may have been laid on its character as 
 a marine plant. Yet it is true that it grows naturally on the 
 coast of Holland, in the sandy valleys and on the downs, 
 
THB RITCBEN-QARDEN 129 
 
 while oS Lizard Point it flourishes naturally on an island 
 where, in gales, the sea breaks over the roots. In this 
 country also it has escaped cultivation, and is establishing 
 itself along our coasts, The truth is that it is a plant en- 
 dowed with a remarkable power of adaptation to all soils 
 and climates, and does not need the extravagant petting 
 often given it. On different portions of my place chance 
 seeds have fallen, and annually produce almost as fine heads 
 as are cut from the garden. Nature therefore teaches what 
 experience verifies — that asparagus is one of the most easily 
 grown and inexpensive vegetables of the garden. From two 
 small beds we have raised during the past eight years twice 
 as much as we could use, and at the cost of very little 
 trouble either in planting or cultivation. 
 
 In my effort to show, from the hardy nature of the 
 asparagus plant, that extravagant preparation is unneces- 
 sary, let no one conclude that I am opposed to a good, 
 thorough preparation that accords with common-sense. It 
 is not for one year's crop that you are preparing, but for 
 a vegetable that should be productive on the same ground 
 thirty or forty years. What I said of strawberries applies 
 here. A fair yield of fruit may be expected from plants set 
 out on ordinary corn-ground, but more than double the 
 crop would be secured from ground generously prepared. 
 
 When I first came to Cornwall, about twelve years ago, 
 I determined to have an asparagus bed as soon as possible. 
 I selected a plot eighty feet long by thirty wide, of sandy 
 loam, sloping to the southwest. It had been used as a gar- 
 den before, but was greatly impoverished. I gave it a good 
 top-dressing of barnyard manure in the autumn, and plowed 
 it deeply; another top-dressing of fine yard manure and a 
 deep forking in the early spring. Then, raking the surface 
 smooth, I set a line along its length on one side. A man 
 took a spade, sunk its length in the soil, and pushed it for- 
 ward strongly. This action made an almost perpendicular 
 wedge-shaped aperture just back of the spade. The aspara- 
 gus plant, with its roots spread out fan-shape, was sunk in 
 
130 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 this opening to a depth that left the crown of the plant 
 between three and four inches below the surface. Then the 
 spade was drawn out, and the soil left to fall over the crown 
 of the plant. Eapidly repeating this simple process, the 
 whole plot was soon set out. The entire bed was then raked 
 smooth. The rows were three feet apart, and plants one 
 foot apart in the row. A similar plot could scarcely have 
 been planted with potatoes more quickly or at less expense, 
 and a good crop of potatoes could not have been raised 
 on that poor land with less preparation. A few years later 
 1 made another and smaller bed in the same way. The re- 
 sults have been entirely satisfactory. I secured my object, 
 and had plenty of asparagus at slight cost, and have also 
 sold and given away large quantities. A bit of experience 
 is often worth much more than theory. 
 
 At the same time it is proper that some suggestions 
 should follow this brief record. The asparagus bed should 
 be in well-drained soil; for while the plant will grow on wet 
 land, it will start late, and our aim is to have it early. 
 
 Again, witb asparagus as with nearly everything else, 
 the deeper and richer the soil, the larger and more luxuri- 
 ant the crop. Listen to Thompson, the great English gar- 
 dener: "If the ground has been drained, trenched, or made 
 good to the deptb of three feet, as directed for the kitchen- 
 garden generally [!], that depth will suffice for the growth 
 of asparagus." We should think so; yet I am fast reach- 
 ing the conclusion that under most circumstances it would 
 in the end repay us to secure that depth of rich soil through- 
 out our gardens, not only for asparagus, but for everything 
 else. Few of the hasty, slipshod gardeners of America have 
 any idea of the results secured by extending root pasturage 
 to the depth of three feet instead of six or seven inches; soil 
 thus prepared would defy flood and drought, and everything 
 planted therein would attain almost perfection, asparagus 
 included. But who has not seen little gardens by the road- 
 side in which all the esculents seemed growing together 
 much as they would be blended in the pot thereafter ? Yet 
 
THE KITCHEN-OARDEN lUl 
 
 ^ from such patches, half snatched from barrenness, many a 
 hearty, wholesome dinner results. Let us have a garden 
 at once, then improve it indefinitely. 
 
 I will give in brief just what is essential to secure a good 
 and lasting asparagus bed. We can if we choose grow our 
 own plants, and thus be sure of good ones. The seed can 
 be sown in late October or early spring on light, rich soil in 
 rows eighteen inches apart. An ounce of seed will sow fifty 
 feet of drill. If the soil is light, cover the seed one inch 
 deep ; if heavy, half an inch ; pack the ground lightly, and 
 cover the drill with a good dusting of that fine compost we 
 spoke of, or any fine manure. This gives the young plants 
 a good send-off. By the use of the hoe and hand-weeding 
 keep them scrupulously clean during the growing season, 
 and when the tops are killed by frost mow them off. I 
 should advise sowing two or three seeds to the inch, and 
 then when the plants are three inches high, thinning them 
 out so that they stand four inches apart. You thus insure 
 almost, the certainty of good strong plants by autumn; for 
 plants raised as directed are ready to be set out after one 
 season's growth, and by most gardeners are preferred. 
 
 In most instances good plants can be bought for a small 
 sum from nurserymen, who usually offer for sale those that 
 are two years old. Strong one-year-olds are just as good, 
 but under ordinary culture are rarely large enough until 
 two years of age. I would not set out three-year-old plants, 
 for they are apt to be stunted and enfeebled. You can easily 
 calculate how many plants you require by remembering that 
 the rows are to be three feet apart, and the plants one foot 
 apart in the row. 
 
 Now, whether you have raised the plants yourself, or 
 have bought them, you are ready to put them where they 
 will grow, and yield to the end of your life probably. Agaim 
 I substantiate my position by quoting from the well-known^ 
 gardener and writer, Mr. Joseph Harris : "The old direc- 
 tions for planting an asparagus bed were well calculated to 
 deter any one from making the attempt. I can recollect the 
 
132 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 first I made. The labor and manure must have cost at the 
 rate of a thousand dollars an acre, and, after all was done, 
 no better results were obtained than we now secure at one- 
 tenth of the expense." 
 
 If the ground selected for the bed is a well-drained sandy 
 loam, is clean, free from sod, roots, stones, etc., I would 
 give it a top-dressing of six inches of good barnyard ma- 
 nure, which by trenching or plowing I would thoroughly 
 mix with the soil to the depth of at least two feet. If the 
 ground is not free from stones, roots, and sod, I should put 
 on the manure, as directed, in the autumn, and begin on 
 one side of the prospective bed and trench it all over, 
 mingling the fertilizer through the soil. The trencher can 
 throw out on the surface back of him every stone, root, and 
 weed, so that by the time he is through there is a sufficient 
 space of ground amply prepared. 
 
 On all soils except a wet, heavy clay I prefer autumn 
 planting. During the latter part of October or early No- 
 vember put in the plants as explained above, or else make 
 a straight trench that will give room for the spreading of 
 the roots, and leave the crowns between three and four 
 inches below the surface. Then level the ground, and cover 
 the row with a light mulch of stable- manure as you would 
 strawberries. If more convenient to set out the plants in 
 spring, do so as soon as the ground is dry enough to crum- 
 ble freely when worked. In the spring rake off the mulch, 
 and as early as possible fork the ground over lightly, taking 
 pains not to touch or wound the crowns of the plants. The 
 young, slender shoots will soon appear, and slender enough 
 they will be at first. Keep them free of weeds and let them 
 grow uncut all through the first year; mow ofi the tops in 
 late October, and cover the entire bed with three or four 
 inches of coarse barnyard manure. In spring rake off the 
 coarsest of this mulch, from which the rains and melting 
 snows have been carrying down richness, dig the bed over 
 lightly once (never wounding the roots or crowns of the 
 plants), and then sow salt over the bed till it is barely 
 
THE KITCHEN-QARDEN 183 
 
 wliite. Let the tops grow naturally and uncut the second 
 year, and merely keep clean. Take precisely the same ac- 
 tion again in the autumn and the following spring. During 
 the latter part of April and May a few of the strongest shoots 
 may be cut for the table. This should be done with a sharp 
 knife a little below the surface, so that the soil may heal the 
 wound, and carefully, lest other heads just beneath the sur- 
 face be clipped prematurely. Cut from the bed very spar- 
 ingly, however, the third year, and let vigorous foliage form 
 corresponding root- power. In the autumn of the third and 
 the spring of the fourth year the treatment is precisely the 
 same. In the fourth season, however, the shoots may be 
 used freely to, say, about June 20, after which the plants 
 should be permitted to grow unchecked till fall, in order to 
 maintain and increase the root-power. Every year there- 
 after there should be an abundant top-dressing of manure 
 in the fall, and a careful digging of the ground in the early 
 spring. 
 
 Light, sandy soil, clear of stones, is well adapted to 
 asparagus, but should be treated on the principles already 
 indicated in this work. There should be no attempt, by 
 trenching, to render a porous subsoil more leaky. It is 
 useless to give the bed a thorough initial enriching. Put 
 on a generous top-dressing every autumn and leave the 
 rains to do their work, and good crops will result. 
 
 If, on the contrary, a cold, heavy clay must be dealt 
 with, every effort should be made to ameliorate it. Work 
 in a large quantity of sand at first, if possible; employ ma- 
 nures from the horse-stable, or other light and exciting 
 fertilizers, and there will be no failure. 
 
 In regard to the use of salt, Mr. Harris writes: "It is a 
 popular notion that common salt is exceedingly beneficial 
 to asparagus. I do not know that there is any positive 
 proof of this, but, at any rate, salt will do no harm, even 
 if applied thick enough to kill many of our common weeds. 
 Salt is usually sown broadcast, at the rate of ten bushels to 
 the acre." 
 
134 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 Until recently 1 have grown asparagus without salt. 
 Hereafter I shall employ it in sufficient degree to kill all 
 weeds except the strongest. I shall sow it every spring 
 after the bed is dug until the ground is as white as if 
 a flurry of snow had passed over it. I think salt is a good 
 manure for asparagus, and many other things. At any 
 rate, we secure a great advantage in keeping our beds free 
 of weeds. 
 
 I have written thus fully of asparagus because when a 
 man makes a bed as directed he makes it for a lifetime: He 
 can scarcely find another investment that will yield a larger 
 return. We have asparagus on our table every day, from 
 the middle of April to July 1; and the annual care of the 
 crop is far less than that of a cabbage-patch. I do not ad- 
 vise severe cutting, however, after the middle of June, for 
 this reason : it is well known that the most pestiferous peren- 
 nial weed can be killed utterly if never allowed to make 
 foliage. As foliage depends upon the root, so the root 
 depends on foliage. The roots of asparagus may therefore 
 be greatly enfeebled by too severe and long-continued cut- 
 ting. Avarice always overreaches itself. 
 
 In some localities the asparagus beetle destroys whole 
 plantations. Thompson, the English authority, says: **The 
 larvae, beetles, and eggs are found from June to the end of 
 September. Picking off the larvae and beetles, or shaking 
 them into receptacles, appears to be the only remedy." 
 
 Peter Henderson, in his valuable book, *' Gardening for 
 Profit,'* figures this insect and its larvae accurately, and 
 says: ** Whenever the eggs or larvae appear, cut and burn 
 the plants as long as any traces of the insect are seen. This 
 must be done if it destroys every vestige of vegetation." 
 He and other authorities speak of the advantage of cooping 
 a hen and chickens in the bed. Most emphatically would 
 I recommend this latter course, for I have tried it with vari- 
 ous vegetables. Active broods of little chickens here and 
 there in the garden are the best of insecticides, and pay for 
 themselves twice over in this service alone. 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 135 
 
 We will next speak of the onion^ because it is so hardy 
 that the earlier it is planted in spring the better. Indeed, 
 I have often, with great advantage, sown the seed on light 
 soils the first of September, and wintered over the young 
 plants in the open ground. Nature evidently intended the 
 onion for humanity in general, for she has endowed the 
 plant with the power to flourish from the tropics to the cold- 
 est limit of the temperate zone. 
 
 While onions are grown in all sorts of careless ways, like 
 other vegetables, it is by far the best plan to select a space 
 for an annual and permanent bed, just as we do for aspara- 
 gus. Unlike most other crops, the onion does not require 
 change of ground, but usually does better on the same soil 
 for an indefinite number of years. Therefore I would advise 
 that upon the Home Acre the onion, like the asparagus bed, 
 should be made with a view to permanence. 
 
 Not much success can be hoped for on rough, poor land. 
 The onion, like the asparagus bed, should be made and 
 maintained with some care. If possible, select a light, 
 well-drained, but not dry plot. Make the soil rich, deep, 
 mellow, to the depth of twenty inches, taking out all stones, 
 roots, etc. ; cover the land with at least six inches of good 
 strong barnyard manure. This should be done in the 
 autumn. Sow the ground white with salt, as in the case 
 of asparagus, and then mingle these fertilizers thoroughly 
 with the soil, by forking or plowing it at once, leaving the 
 surface as rough as possible, so that the frost can penetrate 
 deeply. Just as soon as the ground is dry enough to work 
 in the spring, fork or plow again, breaking every lump and 
 raking all smooth, so that the surface is as fine as the soil 
 in a hot-bed. You cannot hope for much in heavy, lumpy 
 ground. Sow at least three seeds to the inch in a shallow 
 drill one inch deep, and spat the earth firmly over the seed 
 with the back of a spade or with your hand. In subsequent 
 culture little more is required than keeping the mere surface 
 stirred with a hoe, and the rows clean of weeds. Onions are 
 not benefited by deep stirring of the soil, but the surface, 
 
136 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 from the start, should be kept clean and scarified an inch 
 or two deep between the rows during the growing season. 
 I prefer to have my onions growing at the rate of one or 
 two to every inch of row, for I do not like large bulbs. I 
 think that moderate-sized onions are better for the table. 
 Those who vahie largeness should thin out the plants to 
 three or four inches apart; but even in the market there is 
 less demand for large, coarse onions. When the tops begin 
 to fall over from their own weight, in August or September, 
 leave them to mature and ripen naturally. When the tops 
 begin to dry up, pull them from the soil, let them dry thor- 
 oughly in the sun, and then spread them thinly in a dry loft 
 till there is danger of their freezing. Even there they will 
 keep better, if covered deeply with straw, hay, etc., than in 
 a damp cellar. Wherever the air is damp and a little too 
 warm, onions will speedily start to grow again, and soon 
 become worthless. After the crop has been taken, the 
 ground should be treated as at first — thoroughly enriched 
 and pulverized late in autumn, and left to lie in a rough 
 state during the winter, then prepared for planting as early 
 as possible. I prefer March sowing of the seed to April, 
 and April, by far, to May. In England they try to plant 
 in February. Indeed, as I have said, I have had excellent 
 success by sowing the seed early in September on light soils, 
 and letting the plants grow during all the mild days of fall, 
 winter, and early spring. By this course we have onions fit 
 for the table and market the following May. In this lati- 
 tude they need the protection of a little coarse litter from 
 December 1 to about the middle of March. Only the very 
 severest frost injures them. Most of us have seen onions, 
 overlo<v\^ed in the fall gathering, growing vigorously as soon 
 as the thaws began in spring. This fact contains all the hint 
 we need in wintering over the vegetable in the open ground. 
 If the seed is sown late in September, the pknts do not 
 usually acquire sufficient strength in this latitude to resist 
 the frost. It is necessary, therefore, to secure our main crop 
 by very early spring sowings, and it may be said here that 
 
THE KITCHEN'QABDEN V67 
 
 after the second thorough pulverization of the soil in spring, 
 the ground will be in such good condition that, if well en- 
 riched and stirred late in autuniD, it will only need levelling 
 down and smoothing off before the spring sowing. Onions 
 appear to do best on a compact soil, if rich, deep, and clean. 
 It is the surface merely that needs to be stirred lightly and 
 frequently. 
 
 If young green onions with thin, succulent tops are de- 
 sired very early in spring, it will be an interesting experi- 
 mcDt to sow the seed the latter part of August or early 
 in September. Another method is to leave a row of onions 
 in the garden where they ripened. When the autumn rains 
 begin, they will start to grow again. The winter will not 
 harm them, and even in April there will be a strong growth 
 of green tops. The seed stalk should be picked off as soon 
 as it appears in spring, or else the whole strength will speed- 
 ily go to the formation of seed. 
 
 It should be remembered that good onions can not be 
 produced very far to the south by sowing the small gun- 
 powder-like seed. In our own and especially in warmer 
 climates a great advantage is secured by employing what 
 are known as "onion sets." These are produced by sowing 
 the ordinary black seed very thickly on light poor land. 
 Being much crowded, and not having much nutriment, the 
 seed develop into little onions from the size of a pea to 
 that of a walnut, the smaller the better, if they are solid 
 and plump. These, pressed or sunk, about three inches 
 apart, into rich garden soil about an inch deep, just as soon 
 as the frost is out, make fine bulbs by the middle of June. 
 For instance, we had in our garden plenty of onions three 
 inches in diameter from these little sets, while the seed, 
 sown at the same time, will not yield good bulbs before 
 August. There is but little need of raising these sets, for 
 it is rather difficult to keep them in good condition over 
 the winter. Any seedsman will furnish them, and they are 
 usually on sale at country stores. Three or four quarts, if 
 in good condition, will supply a family abundantly, and 
 
138 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 leave many to be used dry during the autumn. Insist on 
 plump little bulbs. If you plant them early, as you should, 
 you will be more apt to get good sets. Many neglect the 
 planting till the sets are half dried up, or so badly sprouted 
 as to be wellnigh worthless. They usually come in the form 
 of white and yellow sets, and I plant an equal number 
 of each. 
 
 The chief insect enemies are onion maggots, the larvae 
 of the onion fly. These bore through the outer leaf and 
 down into the bulb, which they soon destroy. I know of 
 no remedy but to pull up the yellow and sickly plants, 
 and burn them and the pests together. The free use of salt 
 in the fall, and a light top-dressing of wood-ashes at the 
 time of planting, tend to subdue these insects; but the best 
 course is prevention by deeply cultivating and thoroughly 
 enriching in the fall, leaving the ground rough and uneven 
 for the deep action of frost, and by sowing the seed very 
 early in spring. I have found that the insect usually attacks 
 late-sown and feeble plants. If the maggot were in my gar- 
 den, I should use the little sets only. 
 
 Some special manures have been employed in attain- 
 ing the greatest success with this vegetable. In England, 
 pigeon- dung and the cleanings of the pigsty are exten- 
 sively employed. In this country the sweepings of the hen- 
 roost are generally recommended. It should be remembered 
 that all these are strong agents, and if brought in contact 
 with the roots of any vegetable while in a crude, undiluted 
 state, burn like fire, especially in our climate. What can 
 be done in safety in England will not answer under our 
 vivid sun and in our frequent droughts. These strong fer- 
 tilizers could be doubled in value as well as bulk by being 
 composted with sods, leaves, etc., and then, after having 
 been mixed, allowed to decay thoroughly. Then the com- 
 post can be used with great advantage as a top-dressing 
 directly over the drills when either sets or seeds are planted. 
 The spring rains will carry the richness from the surface to 
 the roots, and insure a very vigorous growth. When the 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 139 
 
 compost named in the early part of this paper is used, I sow 
 it thickly in the drill, draw a pointed hoe through once 
 more, to mingle the fertilizer with the soil, and then forth- 
 with sow the seeds or put in the sets one inch deep; and 
 the result is immediate and vigorous growth. Wood- ashes 
 and bone-dust are excellent fertilizers, and should be sown 
 on the surface on the row as soon as planted, and gradually 
 worked in by weeding and cultivation during the growing 
 season. Manure from the pigsty, wherein weeds, litter, 
 sods, muck, etc., have been thrown freely during the sum- 
 mer, may be spread broadcast over the onion bed in the 
 autumn, and worked in deeply, like the product of the barn- 
 yard. The onion bed can scarcely be made too rich as long 
 as the manure is not applied in its crude, unfermented state 
 at the time of planting. Then, if the seed is put in very 
 early, it grows too strongly and quickly for insects to do 
 much damage. 
 
 Varieties. — Thompson in his English work names nine- 
 teen varieties with many synonyms; Henderson offers the 
 seed of thirteen varieties; Gregory, of seventeen kinds. 
 There is no need of our being confused by this latitude 
 of choice. We find it in the great majority of fruits and 
 vegetables offered by nurserymen and seedsmen. Each of 
 the old varieties that have survived the test of years has 
 certain good qualities which make it valuable, especially in 
 certain localities. Many of the novelties in vegetables, as 
 among fruits, will soon disappear; a few will take their 
 place among the standard sorts. In the case of the kitchen, 
 as well as in the fruit, garden, I shall give the opinion of 
 men who have a celebrity as wide as the continent for 
 actual experience, and modestly add occasionally some 
 views of my own which are the result of observation. 
 
 As a choice for the home-garden, Mr. Henderson recom- 
 mends the following varieties of onions : Extra Early Ked, 
 Yellow Globe Danvers, White Portugal or Silver Skin, and 
 Southport Yellow Globe. Mr. Joseph Harris, the well-known 
 
 and practical author: Yellow Danvers, Extra Early Large 
 ^ 21— Roe— XI 
 
140 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 Eed, and White Globe. Mr. J. J. H. Gregory : New Queen, 
 Early bellow Acker, Yellow Danvers, Early Eed Globe 
 Danvers, Large Eed Wethersfield. They all recommend 
 onion sets. The Queen onion is quite distinct. For the 
 home table, where earliness, as well as quality, size and 
 quantity is desired, I think the Queen deserves a place. 
 It is admirably fitted for pickling. I have tried all the 
 varieties named, with good success, and grown some of 
 the largest kinds to six inches in diameter. 
 
THE KITOHEN-OARDEN 141 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE KITCHEN-GARDEN {concluded) 
 
 IN the last chapter I dwelt somewhat at length on two 
 vegetables for which thorough and enduring prepara- 
 tion is profitable. There is one other very early garden 
 product which requires our attention during the first warm 
 days of spring — rhubarb ; sold in some instances under the 
 name of "wine-plant. " Wine is made from the juicy stalks, 
 but it is an unwholesome beverage. The people call rhu- 
 barb *• pie- plant;" and this term suggests its best and most 
 common use, although when cooked as if it were a fruit, 
 it is very grateful at a season when we begin to crave the 
 subacid in our food. 
 
 Its cultivation is very simple. Those who propose to 
 produce it largely for market will find it to their advantage 
 to raise this plant from the seed; but for the Home Acre 
 enough plants can be procured, at a moderate cost, from 
 almost any nurseryman. In this instance, also, thorough 
 preparation of the soil is essential, for the rhubarb bed, 
 under good care, will last eight or ten years. A rich, deep, 
 clean, warm soil is the chief essential. It belongs to that 
 class of vegetables known as "gross feeders." During the 
 first year, however, I would apply the fertilizer directly 
 to the hills or plants. These are obtained by dividing the 
 old roots, which may be cut to pieces downward so as to 
 leave a single bud or "eye" surmounting a long tapering 
 portion of root. Each division will make a new, vigorous 
 plant, which should be set out so that the bud or crown is 
 three inches below the surface in light soils, and two inches 
 
142 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 in heavy soils. The plants should be four feet apart each 
 way, and two or three shovelfuls of rich compost worked 
 into the soil where the plant is to stand. You cannot make 
 the ground too rich; only remember that in this, as in all 
 other instances, light, fermenting manures should not be 
 brought into immediate contact with the roots. Plant in 
 eithe:; autumn or spring. In this latitude and southward 
 I should prefer autumn; northward, perhaps spring is the 
 best season. Keep the intervening ground clean and mel- 
 low, and pull no stalks the first year, unless it be in the au- 
 tumn if the plants have become very strong. In the fall, 
 when the foliage has died down, cover the crowns with two 
 or three shovelfuls of rich manure — any kind will do in this 
 instance — and work in a heavy top-dressing all over the 
 ground early in spring. Unless seed is required, always 
 cut down the seed-stalks as soon as they appear. The best 
 early variety is the Linnaeus. The Victoria is a little later, 
 but much larger, and is the kind that I have usually grown. 
 
 Badish-seed may be sown one inch deep as soon as the 
 ground is dry enough in spring, and if the vegetable is a 
 favorite, the sowing may be repeated every two weeks. 
 A common error is to sow the seed too thickly. A warm, 
 rich soil is all that is necessary to secure a crop. 
 
 What has been said about radishes applies equally to 
 early turnips, with the exception that the plants when three 
 inches high should be thinned so as to stand four inches 
 apart. The ground for these vegetables should be very 
 rich, so as to secure a very rapid growth; for otherwise 
 they are attacked by a little white worm which soon renders 
 them unfit for use. Mr. Harris recommends the following 
 varieties of early radishes, and his selection coincides with 
 my own experience: Eound Scarlet Turnip, French Break- 
 fast, Eose (olive-shaped), Long Scarlet Short- top. Winter 
 radishes: California Mammoth White, and Chinese Rose. 
 For spring sowing of turnips, Mr. Henderson recommends 
 Eed-top Strap-leaf, and Early Flat Dutch. The earlier they 
 are sown the better 
 
THE KITCHEN-OARDEN 143 
 
 Beets — a much more valuable vegetable — require similar 
 treatment. The ground should be clean, well pulverized, 
 and very rich. I prefer to sow the seed the first week in 
 April, unless the soil is frozen, or very cold and wet. The 
 seed may be sown, however, at any time to the first of July; 
 but e^-rliness is usually our chief aim. I sow two inches 
 deep and thickly, pressing the soil firmly over the seed. 
 Let the rows be about fifteen inches apart. Referring to 
 the manure which had been left to decay in a sheltered 
 place until it became like fine dry powder, let me say here 
 that I have always found it of greater advantage to sow it 
 with the beet-seed and kindred vegetables. My method is 
 to open the drill along the garden-line with a sharp-pointed 
 hoe, and scatter the fertilizer in the drill until the soil is 
 quite blackened by it; then draw the pointed hoe through 
 once more, to mingle the powdery manure with the soil and 
 to make the drill of an even depth; then sow the seed at 
 once. This thoroughly decayed stable-manure has become 
 the best of plant- food; it warms the ground, and carries the 
 germinating seed and young plants with vigor through 
 the first cold, wet weeks. 
 
 In the home garden there are several reasons for sowing 
 beet-seed thickly. Unfavorable weather and insects will be 
 less apt to cause a thin, broken stand of plants. In order to 
 produce good roots, however, the plants should be thinned 
 out so as to stand eventually three or four inches apart 
 I do not advise very large, coarse roots for the table. For 
 home use I think only three varieties are essential. The 
 Egyptian Turnip Beet is the best very early variety, and 
 can be planted closely, as it has a small top; the Bassano 
 is next in earliness, and requires more room; the Early 
 Blood Turnip is the best for a general crop and winter use. 
 The beet is a root which deteriorates rapidly from age; I 
 therefore advise that the seed of the winter supply be sown 
 the last of June or first of July in our latitude. 
 
 Parsnips should be sown at the same time with early 
 beets and in the same way, with the exception that the seed 
 
144 THE HOMB ACRE 
 
 should be covered only an inch deep. 1 doubt whether 
 there are any marked distinctions in variety, and would 
 advise that only the Long Smooth or Hollow-crowned 
 be sown. 
 
 The carrot is not quite bo hardy as the parsnip, and the 
 seed may be sown a week or two later, or indeed at any 
 time up to the middle of June. Its culture and treatment 
 are precisely like those of the parsnip; but the roots should 
 be gathered and stored before a severe frost occurs. For 
 home use a short row of the Early Horn will answer; for 
 the general crop, sow the Long Orange. 
 
 Vegetable-oyster, or salsify, is another root-crop which 
 may be treated precisely like the parsnip, and the seed sown 
 at the same time. The seed should be sown in a deep, rich, 
 mellow soil, which is all the better for being prepared in 
 autumn. Plant, as early in April as possible, in the same 
 manner as described for beets, thin out to four inches apart, 
 and keep the soil clean and mellow throughout the entire 
 season; for this vegetable grows until the ground freezes. 
 There is only one variety. 
 
 The pea is another crop which may be put into the 
 ground as soon as the frost is out — the earlier the better, if 
 the smooth, hardy varieties are sown. There are so many 
 varieties that the novice to-day may well be excused for 
 perplexity in choice. Thompson, the English authority, 
 gives forty kinds, and one hundred and forty-eight syno- 
 nyms. Mr. Gregory recommends the American Wonder, 
 Bliss's Abundance, Bliss's Ever-bearing, McLean's Ad- 
 vancer, Yorkshire Hero, Stratagem, and Champion of Eng- 
 land. Mr. Henderson's list includes Henderson's First of 
 All, American Wonder, Bliss's Abundance, Champion of 
 England, and Pride of the Market. Mr. Harris in his cata- 
 logue marks first and best, American Wonder, and also 
 says, "For the main crop there is nothing better than the 
 Champion of England." My own experience would lead 
 me to plant the Tom Thumb either just before the ground 
 froze in the fall, or as early in March as possible. It is 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 145 
 
 almost perfectly hardy, and gives me the earliest picking. 
 I should also plant Henderson's First of All as soon as the 
 frost was out, on a warm, well- drained soil. For second 
 crops, American Wonder and Premium Gem; and for the 
 main and most satisfactory crop of all. Champion of Eng- 
 land. The Champion requires brush as a support, for it 
 grows from four to six feet high; but it is well worth the 
 trouble. I plant the other kinds named because they are 
 much earlier, and so dwarf as to neec^ no brush; they 
 are also productive, and excellent in quality if not left to 
 grow too old. For the dwarf kinds the soil cannot be too 
 rich, and the warmer the ground and exposure, the earlier 
 the crop. For the tail late sorts the soil may easily be made 
 too fertile; they should also be planted in cooler, moister, 
 and heavier ground. In the case of the dwarfs I put a fer- 
 tilizer in with the seed as I have already explained. Cover 
 the dwarfs about two and a half inches deep, and the tall 
 late sorts from three to four inches according to the nature 
 of the soil. Plant the Champion of England every ten days 
 until the middle of June, and thus secure a succession 
 of the best of all. 
 
 We all know how numerous have been the varieties of 
 potato introduced into this country of late years — many 
 kinds sent out at first at the rate of one or more dollars per 
 pound. I amuse myself by trying several of these novelties 
 (after they become cheap) every year, and one season raised 
 very early crops of excellent potatoes from the Vanguard 
 and Pearl of Savoy. The Early Eose and Early Vermont 
 have long been favorites. They resemble each other very 
 closely. 1 have had excellent success with the Beauty of 
 Hebron. It is a good plan to learn what varieties succeed 
 well in our own neighborhood, and then to plant chiefly 
 of such kinds; we may then add to our zest by trying a few 
 novelties. 
 
 Not only much reading on the subject, but also my own 
 observation, and the general law that "like produces like," 
 lead me to indorse the practice of planting large tubers cut 
 
146 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 into sets containing one or more eyes, or buds. The eye of 
 a potato is a bud from which the plant grows; and the 
 stronger backing it has, the stronger and more able is 
 the plant to evolve new fine tubers through the action of 
 its roots and foliage. A small potato has many immature 
 buds, which as a rule produce feeble plants. 
 
 The potato will grow on almost any soil; but a dry, 
 rich, sandy loam gives the best, if not the largest, yield. 
 I do not think th^ potato can be planted too early after the 
 ground is fit to work. One spring I was able to get in sev- 
 eral rows the 15th of March, and I never had a finer yield. 
 1 observe that Mr. Harris strongly indorses this plan. 
 
 Nearly every one has his system of planting. There is 
 no necessity for explaining these methods. I will briefly 
 give mine, for what it is worth. I prefer warm, well- 
 drained soils. Plow deeply in autumn, also in spring; 
 harrow and pulverize the ground as completely as possi- 
 ble; then open the furrows with the same heavy plow, 
 sinking it to the beam, and going twice in the furrow. 
 This, of course, would make too deep a trench in which 
 to place the sets, but the soil has been deepened and pul- 
 verized at least fourteen inches. A man next goes along 
 with a cart or barrow of well-decayed compost (not very 
 raw manure), which is scattered freely in the deep furrows; 
 then through these a corn-plow is run, to mingle the fertil- 
 izer with the soil. By this course the furrows are partially 
 filled with loose, friable soil and manure, and they average 
 four or five inches in depth. The sets are planted at once 
 eight inches apart, the eye turned upward, and the cut part 
 down. The sets are then covered with three or four inches 
 of fine soil, not with sods and stones. When the plants are 
 two or three inches high, they receive their first hoeing, 
 which merely levels the ground evenly. The next cultiva- 
 tion is performed by both corn-plow and hoe. In the final 
 working I do not permit a sharp-slanting slope from the 
 plants downward, so that the rain is kept from reaching 
 the roots. There is a broad hilling up, so as to have a 
 
THE KITCHEN-QARDEN 147 
 
 slope inward toward the plants, as well as away from them. 
 This method, with the deep, loosened soil beneath the 
 plants, secures against drought, while the decayed fertil- 
 izers give a strong and immediate growth. 
 
 Of course we have to fight the potato, or Colorado, beetle 
 during the growing season. This we do with Paris green 
 applied in liquid form, a heaping teaspoonful to a pail of 
 water. 
 
 In taking up and storing potatoes a very common error 
 is fallen into. Sometimes even growing tubers are so ex- 
 posed to sun and light that they become green. In this 
 condition they are not only worthless, but poisonous. If 
 long exposed to light after being dug, the solanine principle, 
 which exists chiefly in the stems and leaves, is developed 
 in the tubers. The more they are in the light, the less 
 value they possess, until they become worse than worth- 
 less. They should be dug, if possible, on a dry day, 
 picked up promptly and carried to a dry, cool, dark 
 cellar. If stored on floors of outbuldings, the light should 
 be excluded. Potatoes that are long exposed to light before 
 the shops of dealers are injured. Barrels, etc., containing 
 them should be covered; if spread on the barn-floor, or in 
 places which can not be darkened, throw straw or some other 
 litter over them. 
 
 There is no occasion to say much about lettuce. It is 
 a vegetable which any one can raise who will sow the seed 
 a quarter of an inch deep. I have sowed the seed in Sep- 
 tember, wintered the plants over in cold-frames, and by 
 giving a little heat, I had an abundance of heads to sell 
 in February and March. For ordinary home uses it is nec- 
 essary only to sow the seed oh a warm, rich spot as soon as 
 the frost is out, and you will quickly have plenty of tender 
 foliage. This we may begin to thin out as soon as the 
 plants are three or four inches high, until a foot of space 
 is left between the plants, which, if of a cabbage variety, 
 will speedily make a large, crisp head. To maintain a sup- 
 ply, sowings can be made every two weeks till the middle 
 
148 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 of August Hardy plants, which may be set out like cab- 
 bages, are to be obtained in March and April from nursery- 
 men. Henderson recommends the following varieties: Hen- 
 derson's New York, Black-seeded Simpson, Salamander, 
 and All the Year Bound. I would also add the Black- 
 seeded Butter Lettuce. 
 
 We have now, as far as our space permits, treated of 
 those vegetables which should be planted in the home gar- 
 den as early in spring as possible. It is true the reader will 
 think of other sorts, as cabbage, cauliflower, spinach, etc. 
 To the professional gardener these are all-the-year-round 
 vegetables. If the amateur becomes so interested in his 
 garden as to have cold-frames and hot- beds, he will learn 
 from more extended works how to manage these. He will 
 winter over the cabbage and kindred vegetables for his 
 earliest supply, having first sown the seed in September. 
 I do not take the trouble to do this, and others need not, 
 unless it is a source of enjoyment to them. As soon as the 
 ground is fit to work in spring, I merely write to some trust- 
 worthy dealer in plants and obtain twenty-five very early 
 cabbage, and twenty- five second early, also a hundred early 
 cauliflower. They cost little, and are set out in half an hour 
 as soon as the ground is fit to work in spring. I usually 
 purchase my tomato, late cabbage, and cauliflower, celery 
 and egg- plants, from the same sources. Cabbages and cauli- 
 flowers should be set out in rich warm soils, free from shade, 
 as soon as the frost is out. After that they need only fre- 
 quent and clean culture and vigilant watchfulness, or else 
 many will fall victims to a dirty brown worm which usually 
 cuts the stem, and leaves the plant lying on the ground. 
 The worm can easily be found near the surface the moment 
 it begins its ravages, and the only remedy I know is to 
 catch and kill it at once. In this latitude winter cabbage 
 is set out about the fourth of July. I pinch off half the 
 leaves before setting. Good seed, deep plowing or spading, 
 rich soil, and clean culture are usually the only requisites 
 for success. Experience and consultation of the books and 
 
THE KITCHEN-QABDEN 149 
 
 catalogues enable me to recommend the Jersey Wakefield 
 for first early, and Henderson's Summer Cabbage and Win- 
 ningstadt as second early. As a late root 1 ask for nothing 
 better than Premium Flat Dutch. The Savoy is the best 
 flavored of the- cabbage tribe. Henderson recommends the 
 Netted Savoy, which may be treated like other late cab- 
 bage. 
 
 The cauliflower is ranked among the chief delicacies of 
 the garden, and requires and repays far more attention than 
 cabbage. Even the early sorts should have a richer, moister 
 soil than is required for very early cabbage. I advise two 
 plantings in spring, of first and second early ; I also advise 
 that late varieties be set out on rick ground the last of June. 
 As with cabbage, set out the plants from two and a half to 
 three feet apart, according to the size of the variety. From 
 trial I recommend Early Snowball, Half -early Paris, and 
 Large Late Algiers. 
 
 Spinach thrives in a very rich, well-drained, fine, mellow 
 soil. I prefer a sunny slope; but this is not necessary. 
 Sow the seed from the first to the fifteenth of September, 
 so as to give the plants time to become half grown by win- 
 ter. Cover the seeds — three to an inch — two inches deep, 
 and pack the ground well over them; let the rows be three 
 inches apart. When the plants are three inches high, thin 
 out to three inches apart, and keep the soil clean and mel- 
 low about them. Just before hard freezing weather, scatter 
 about three inches of straw, old pea-vines, or some light 
 litter over the whole bed. As soon as the days begin to 
 grow warm in spring, and hard frost ceases, rake this off. 
 The hardy vegetable begins to grow at once, and should be 
 cut for use so as to leave the plants finally six inches apart, 
 for as fast as space is given, the plants fill it up. By those 
 who are fond of spinach it may be sown in spring as soon 
 as the frost is out. It quickly runs to seed in hot weather, 
 and thinnings of young beets may take its place where space 
 is limited. The Bound or Summer is good for fall or spring 
 planting. 
 
wo THE HOME ACRE 
 
 Those who need much instruction in regard to bush- 
 beans should remain in the city and raise cats in their paved 
 back yards. We shall only warn against planting too early 
 — not before the last of April in our region. It does not 
 take much frost to destroy the plants, and if the soil is cold 
 and wet, the beans decay instead of coming up. If one has 
 a warm, sheltered slope, he may begin planting the middle of 
 April. As a rule, however, bush- beans may be planted from 
 the first of May till the middle of J uly , in order to keep up 
 a succession. Cover the first seed planted one inch deep; 
 later plantings two inches deep. I think that earliest Ked 
 Valentine, Black Wax or Butter, Golden Wax, and the 
 late Kefugee are all the varieties needed for the garden. 
 
 The delicious pale Lima bean requires and deserves 
 more attention. I have always succeeded with it, and this 
 has been my method: I take a warm, rich, but not dry 
 piece of ground, work it deeply early in spring, again 
 the first of May, so that the sun's rays may penetrate 
 and sweeten the ground. About the tenth of May I set 
 the poles firmly in the ground. Eough cedar-poles, with 
 the stubs of the branches extending a little, are the best. 
 If smooth poles are used, I take a hatchet, and beginning 
 at the butt, I make shallow, slanting cuts downward, so as 
 to raise the bark a little. These slight raisings of the bark 
 or wood serve as supports to the clambering vines. After 
 the poles are in the ground I make a broad, flat hill of loose 
 soil and a little of the black powdery fertilizer. I then allow 
 the sun to warm and dry the hill a few days, and if the 
 weather is fine and warm, I plant the seed about the 
 fifteenth, merely pressing the eye of the bean downward 
 one inch. If planted lower than this depth, they usually 
 decay. If it is warm and early, the seed may be planted by. 
 the fifth of May. After planting, examine the seed often. 
 If the beans are decaying instead of coming up, plant over 
 again, and repeat this process until there are three or four 
 strong plants within three or four inches of each pole. Let 
 the hills be five feet apart each way, hoe often, and do 
 
yTHE KITCHEN-QARDEN WL 
 
 not tolerate a weed. The Long White Lima and Dreer's 
 Improved Lima are the only sorts needed. 
 
 The Indians in their succotash taught us long ago to 
 associate corn with beans, and they hit upon a dish not sur- 
 passed by modern invention. This delicious vegetable is 
 as easily raised as its *' hail-fellow well met,*' the bean. 
 We have only to plant it at the same time in hills from 
 three to four feet apart, and cpver the seed two inches deep. 
 I have used the powdery fertilizers and wood-ashes in the 
 hill to great advantage, first mingling these ingredients well 
 with the soil. We make it a point to have sweet-corn for 
 the table from July 1 until the stalks are killed by frost 
 in October. This is easily managed by planting different 
 varieties, and continuing to plant till well into June. Mr. 
 Gregory writes : ' ' For a succession of corn for family use, to 
 be planted at the same time, I would recommend Marble- 
 head Early, Pratt's, Crosley's, Moore's, Stowell's Ever- 
 green, and Egyptian Sweet." Mr. Harris names with praise 
 the Minnesota as the best earliest, and Hickox Improved as 
 an exceedingly large and late variety. Mr. Henderson's 
 list is Henderson Sugar, Hickox Improved, Egyptian, and 
 Stowell's Evergreen. Let me add Burr's Mammoth and 
 Squantum Sugar — a variety in great favor with the Squan- 
 tum Club, and used by them in their famous clam- bakes. 
 
 The cucumber, if grown in the home garden and used 
 fresh, is not in league with the undertaker. The seed may 
 be planted early in May, and there are many ways of forcing 
 and hastening the yield. I have had cucumbers very early 
 in an ordinary hotbed. Outdoors, I make hills in warm soil 
 the first of May, mixing a little of my favorite fertilizer 
 with the soil. After leaving the hill for a day or two to 
 become warm in the sun, I sow the seed in a straight line 
 for fifteen inches, so that the hoe can approach them closely. 
 The seed is covered an inch deep, and the soil patted down 
 firmly. It is possible that a cold storm or that insects may 
 make partial planting over necessary; if so, this is done 
 promptly. I put twenty seeds in the hill, to insure against 
 
152 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 loss. For a succession or long-continued crop, plant a few 
 hills in rich moist land about the last of May. The young 
 plants always run a gauntlet of insects, and a little striped 
 bug is usually their most deadly enemy. These bugs often 
 appear to come suddenly in swarms, and devour everything 
 before you are aware of their presence. With great vigil- 
 ance they may be kept off by hand, for their stay is brief. 
 I would advise one trial of ^ solution of white hellebore, 
 a tablespoonful to a pail of water. Paris green — in solu- 
 tion, of course — kills them; but unless it is very weak, it 
 will kill or stunt the plants also. My musk and water- 
 melons were watered by too strong a solution of Paris 
 green this year, and they never recovered from it. Perhaps 
 the best preventive is to plant so much seed, and to plant 
 over so often, that although the insects do their worst, 
 plenty of good plants survive. This has usually been my 
 method. When the striped bug disappears, and the plants 
 are four or five inches high, I thin out to four plants in the 
 hill. When they come into bearing, pick off all the fruit 
 fit for use, whether you want it or not. If many are allowed 
 to become yellow and go to seed, the growth and productive- 
 ness of the vines are checked. The Early White Spine and 
 Extra Long White Spine are all the varieties needed for 
 the table. For pickling purposes plant the Green Prolific 
 on moist rich land. The other varieties answer quite as 
 well, if picked before they are too large. 
 
 The cultivation of the squash is substantially the same 
 as that of the cucumber, and it has nearly the same enemies 
 to contend with. Let the hills of the bush sorts be four feet 
 apart each way, and eight feet for the running varieties. 
 The seed is cheap, so use plenty, and plant over from the 
 first to the twenty-fifth of May, until you have three good 
 strong plants to the hill. Three are plenty, so thin out the 
 plants, when six or seven inches high, to this number, and 
 keep the ground clean and mellow. I usually raise my 
 running squashes among the corn, giving up one hill to 
 them completely every seven or eight feet each way. Early 
 
THE KITOHEN-GARDEN 153 
 
 bush sorts: White Bush Scalloped, Yellow Bush Scalloped. 
 The Perfect Gem is good for both summer and winter, and 
 should be planted on rich soil, six feet apart each way. 
 The Boston Marrow is one of the best fall sorts; the Hub- 
 bard and Marblehead are the best winter varieties. 
 
 When we come to plant musk-melons we must keep them 
 well away from the two above-named vegetables, or else 
 their pollen will mix, producing very disagreeable hybrids. 
 A squash is very good in its way, and a melon is much 
 better; but if you grow them so near each other that they 
 become '"alf and 'alf," you may perhaps find pigs that will 
 eat them. The more completely the melon-patch is by 
 itself, the better, and the nearer the house the better; for 
 while it is liable to all the insects and diseases which attack 
 the cucumber, it encounters, when the fruit is mature, a 
 more fatal enemy in the predatory small boy. Choose rich, 
 warm, but not dry ground for musk-melons, make the hills 
 six feet apart each way, and treat them like cucumbers, 
 employing an abundance of seed. As soon as the plants are 
 ready to run, thin out so as to leave only four to fruit. 
 Henderson recommends Montreal Market, Hackensack, and 
 Netted Gem. Gregory: Netted Gem, Boston Pet, Bay 
 View, Sill's Hyrbid, Casaba, and Ward's Nectar. He also 
 advocates a remarkable novelty known as the "Banana." 
 Harris: Early Christiana and Montreal Market. 
 
 Water-melons should be planted eight feet apart; but 
 if one has not a warm, sandy soil, I do not advise their 
 culture. The time of planting and management do not vary 
 materially from those of the musk variety. The following 
 kinds will scarcely fail to give satisfaction where they can 
 be grown: Phinney's Early, Black Spanish, Mammoth Iron- 
 clad, Mountain Sprout, Scaly Bark, and Cuban Queen. 
 
 The tomato has a curious history. Native of South 
 America like the potato, it is said to have been introduced 
 into England as early as 1596. Many years elapsed before 
 it was used as food, and the botanical name given to it was 
 significant of the estimation in which it was held by our 
 
154 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 forefathers. It was called Lycopersicum — a compound term 
 meaning wolf and peach; indicating that, notwithstanding 
 its beauty, it was regarded as a sort of "Dead Sea fruit." 
 The Italians first dared to use it freely; the French fol- 
 lowed; and after eying it askance as a novelty for unknown 
 years, John Bull ventured to taste, and having survived, 
 began to eat with increasing gusto. To our grandmothers 
 in this land the ruby fruit was given as "love-apples," 
 which, adorning quaint old bureaus, were devoured by 
 dreamy eyes long before canning factories were within the 
 ken of even a Yankee's vision. Now, tomatoes vie with 
 the potato as a general article of food, and one can scarcely 
 visit a quarter of the globe so remote but he will find that 
 the tomato-can has been there before him. Culture of the 
 tomato is so easy that one year I had bushels of the finest 
 fruit from plants that grew here and there by chance. Skill 
 is required only in producing an early crop ; and to secure 
 this end the earlier the plants are started in spring, the 
 better. Those who have glass will experience no difficulty 
 whatever. The seed may be sown in a greenhouse as early 
 as January, and the plants potted when three inches high, 
 transferred to larger pots from time to time as they grow, 
 and by the middle of May put into the open ground full of 
 blossoms and immature fruit. Indeed, plants started early 
 in the fall will give in a greenhouse a good supply all 
 winter. Tomatoes also grow readily in hot-beds, cold- 
 frames, or sunny windows. We can usually buy well- 
 forwarded plants from those who raise them for sale. 
 If these are set out early in May on a sunny slope, they 
 mature rapidly, and give an early yield. The tomato is 
 very sensitive to frost, and should not be in the open 
 ground before danger from it is over. Throughout May 
 we may find plants for sale everywhere. If we desire to 
 try distinct kinds with the least trouble, we can sow the 
 seed about May 1, and in our climate enjoy an abundant 
 yield in September, or before. In the cool, humid climate 
 of England the tomato is usually grown en espalier^ like the 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 155 
 
 peach, along sunny walls and fences, receiving as careful 
 a summer pruning as the grape-vine. With us it is usually 
 left to sprawl over the ground at will. By training the 
 vines over various kinds of supports, however, they may 
 be made as ornamental as they are useful. The ground on 
 which they grow should be only moderately fertile, or else 
 there is too great a growth of vine at the expense of fruit. 
 This is especially true if we desire an early yield, and in 
 this case the warmest, driest soil is necessary. 
 
 But comparatively a few years ago the tomato consisted 
 of little more than a rind, with seeds in the hollow centre. 
 Now, the only varieties worth raising cut as solid as a mel- 
 low pear. The following is Gregory's list of varieties: 
 Livingston's Beauty, Alpha, Acme, Canada Victor, Arling- 
 ton, General Grant. I will add Trophy and Mikado. If a 
 yellow variety is desired, try Golden Trophy. 
 
 If the tomato needs warm weather in which to thrive, 
 the egg-plant requires that both days and nights should be 
 hot. It is an East Indiaman, and demands curry in the 
 way of temperature before it loses its feeble yellow aspect 
 and takes on the dark green of vigorous health. My method 
 is simply this: I purchase strong potted plants between the 
 twentieth of May and the first of June, and set them out in 
 a rich, warm soil. A dozen well-grown plants will supply 
 a large family with egg- fruit. Of course one can start the 
 young plants themselves, as in the case of tomatoes; but 
 it should be remembered that they are much more tender 
 and difficult to raise than is the tomato. Plants from seed 
 sown in the open ground would not mature in our latitude, 
 as a rule. The best plan is to have the number you need 
 grown for you by those who make it their business. Egg- 
 plants are choice morsels for the potato- beetle, and they 
 must be watched vigilantly if we would save them. There 
 is no better variety than the New York Improved. 
 
 The pepper is another hot-blooded vegetable that shivers 
 at the suggestion of frost. It is fitting that it should be a 
 native of India. Its treatment is usually the same as that 
 
166 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 of the egg-plant. It matures more rapidly, however, and 
 the seed can be sown about the middle of May, half an inch 
 deep, in rows fifteen inches apart. The soil should be rich 
 and warm. When the plants are well up, they should be 
 thinned so that they will stand a foot apart in the row. 
 The usual course, however, is to set out plants which have 
 been started under glass, after all danger from frost is over. 
 Henderson recommends New Sweet Spanish and Golden 
 Dawn. The Large Bell is a popular sort, and Cherry Red 
 very ornamental. 
 
 From the okra is made the famous gumbo soup, which 
 ever calls to vision a colored aunty presiding over the mys- 
 teries of a Southern dinner. If Aunt Dinah, so well known 
 to us from the pages of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," could have 
 left her receipt for this compound, her fame might have 
 lasted as long as that of Mrs. Stowe. The vegetable furnish- 
 ing this glutinous, nutritious, and wholesome ingredient is 
 as easily raised as any product of the garden. We have 
 only to sow the seed, from the first to the tenth of May, 
 two inches deep, and let the plants stand from two to three 
 feet apart each way, in order to have an abundant supply. 
 The new Dwarf Prolific is about the best variety. 
 
 Fall turnips are so easily grown that they require but few 
 words. They are valuable vegetables for utilizing space in 
 the garden after early crops, as peas, beans, potatoes, etc., 
 are removed. The seed of ruta-baga, or Swedish turnips, 
 should be planted earliest — from the twentieth of June to 
 the tenth of July in our latitude. This turnip should be 
 sown in drills two feet apart, and the plants thinned to eight 
 inches from one another. It is very hardy, and the roots 
 are close-grained, solid, and equally good for the table and 
 the family cow. The Yellow Aberdeen is another excellent 
 variety, which may be sown early in July, and treated much 
 the same as the foregoing. The Yellow Stone can be sown 
 on good ground until the fifteenth of July in any good 
 garden soil, and the plants thinned to six inches apart. 
 It is perhaps the most satisfactory of all the turnip tribe 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN i57 
 
 both for table use and stock. The Red-top Strap-leaf may 
 be sown anywhere until the tenth of August. It is a gen- 
 eral custom, in the middle of July, to scatter some seed 
 of this hardy variety among the corn: hoe it in lightly, 
 and there is usually a good crop. Every vacant spot may 
 be utilized by incurring only the slight cost of the seed 
 and the sowing. It may be well, perhaps, to remember the 
 advice of the old farmer to his son. He said, "Stub your 
 toe and spill half the seed before sowing it; for scattered 
 broadcast it is usually much too thick." If this proves 
 true, thin out the plants rigorously. This turnip is good 
 for table and stock as long as it is solid and crisp; but it 
 grows pithy toward spring. There are other kinds well 
 worth a trial. 
 
 Perhaps no vegetable is more generally appreciated than 
 celery. Like asparagus, it was once, and is still by some, 
 regarded as a luxury requiring too much skill and labor for 
 the ordinary gardener. This is a mistake. Few vegetables 
 in my garden repay so amply the cost of production. One 
 can raise turnips as a fall crop much easier, it is true; but 
 turnips are not celery, any more than brass is gold. Think 
 of enjoying this delicious vegetable daily from October till 
 April! When cooked, and served on toast with drawn but- 
 ter sauce, it is quite ambrosial. In every garden evolved 
 beyond the cabbage and potato phase a goodly space of the 
 best soil should . be reserved for celery, since it can be set 
 out from the first to the twentieth of July in our latitude; 
 it can be grown as the most valuable of the second crops, 
 reoccupying space made vacant by early crops. I find it 
 much easier to buy my plants, when ready for them, than 
 to raise them. In every town there are those who grow 
 them in very large quantities, and, if properly packed, 
 quickly transported, and promptly set out in the evening 
 following their reception, and watered abundantly, they 
 rarely fail. 
 
 There are decided advantages, however, in raising our 
 own plants, especially if midsummer should prove dry and 
 
158 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 hot, or the plants must be long in transit. When they are 
 growing in our own garden, they can be moved with very 
 slight check to their growth. In starting the seed there is 
 no necessity for hot-bed or cold-frame. It may be put in 
 the ground the first week of April, and the best plants are 
 thus secured. Much is gained by preparing a warm but 
 not dry plot of ground in autumn, making it very rich 
 with short, half- decayed stable- manure. This preparation 
 should be begun as soon as possible after the soaking Sep- 
 tember rains. Having thoroughly incorporated and mixed 
 evenly in the soil an abundance of the manure described, 
 leave the ground untouched for three weeks. The warm 
 fertilizer will cause great numbers of weed-seeds to germi- 
 nate. When these thrifty pests are a few inches high, dig 
 them under and bring up the bottom soil. The warmth and 
 light will immediately start a new and vigorous growth of 
 weeds, which in turn should be dug under. If the celery 
 seed bed be made early enough, this process can be repeated 
 several times before winter— the oftener the better; for by 
 it the great majority of weed-seeds will be made to germi- 
 nate, and thus are destroyed. The ground also becomes 
 exceedingly rich, mellow, and fine — an essential condition 
 for celery seed, which is very small, and germinates slowly. 
 This thorough preparation does not involve much labor, for 
 the seed-bed is small, and nothing more is required in spring 
 but to rake the ground smooth and fine as soon as the frost 
 is out. The soil has already been made mellow, and cer- 
 tainly nothing is gained by turning up the cold earth in 
 the bottom of the bed. Sow the seed at once on the sun- 
 warmed surface. The rows should be nine inches apart, 
 and about twelve seeds sown to every inch of row. The 
 drills should be scarcely an eighth of an inch deep. Indeed, 
 a firm patting with the back of a spade would give covering 
 enough. Since celery germinates so slowly, it is well to 
 drop a lettuce- seed every few inches, to indicate clearly just 
 where the rows are. Then the ground between the rows 
 can be hoed lightly as soon as the weeds start, also after 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 159 
 
 heavy rains, so as to admit the vivifying sun-rays and air. 
 Of course when the celery plants are clearly outlined, the 
 lettuce should be pulled out. 
 
 If the bed is made in spring, perform the work as early 
 as possible, making the bed very rich, mellow, and fine. 
 Coarse manures, cold, poor, lumpy soil, leave scarcely a 
 ghost of a chance for success. The plants should be thinned 
 to two inches from one another, and when five inches high, 
 shear them back to three inches. When they have made 
 another good growth, shear them back again. The plants 
 are thus made stocky. In our latitude I try to set out 
 celery, whether raised or bought, between the twenty -fifth 
 of June and the fifteenth of July. This latitude enables 
 us to avoid a spell of hot, dry weather. 
 
 There are two distinct classes of celery — the tall- growing 
 sorts, and the dwarf varieties. A few years ago the former 
 class was grown generally; trenches were dug, and their 
 bottoms well enriched to receive the plants. Now the dwarf 
 kinds are proving their superiority, by yielding a larger 
 amount of crisp, tender heart than is found between long 
 coarse stalks of the tall sorts. Dwarf celery requires less 
 labor also, for it can be set on the surface and much closer 
 together, the rows three feet apart, and the plants six inches 
 in the row. Dig all the ground thoroughly, then, beginning 
 on one side of the plot, stretch a line along it, and fork 
 under a foot- wide strip of three or four inches of compost, 
 not raw manure. By this course the soil where the row is 
 to be is made very rich and mellow. Set out the plants at 
 once while the ground is fresh and moist. If the row is ten 
 feet long, you will want twenty plants; if fifteen, thirty 
 plants; or two plants to every foot of row. Having set out 
 one row, move the line forward three feet, and prepare and 
 set out another row in precisely the same manner. Con- 
 tinue this process until the plot selected is occupied. If the 
 plants have been grown in your own garden, much is gained 
 by soaking the ground round them in the evening, and re- 
 moving them to the rows in the cool of the morning. This 
 
160 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 abundant moisture will cause the soil to cling to the roots 
 if handled gently, and the plants will scarcely know that 
 they have been moved. When setting I usually trim off 
 the greater part of the foliage. When all the leaves are 
 left, the roots, not established, cannot keep pace with the 
 evaporation. Always keep the roots moist and unshriv- 
 elled, and the heart intact, and the plants are safe. If no 
 rain follows setting immediately, water the plants thor- 
 oughly — don't be satisfied with a mere sprinkling of the 
 surface — and shade from the hot sun until the plants start 
 to grow. One of the chief requisites in putting out a celery 
 plant, and indeed almost any plant, is to press the soil firmly 
 rounds against^ and over the roots. This excludes the air, and 
 the new rootlets form rapidly. Neither bury the heart nor 
 leave any part of the root exposed. 
 
 Do not be discouraged at the rather slow growth during 
 the hot days of July and early August. You have only to 
 keep the ground clean and mellow by frequent hoeings until 
 the nights grow cooler and longer, and rains thoroughly 
 moisten the soil. About the middle of August the plants 
 should be thrifty and spreading, and now require the first 
 operation, which will make them crisp and white or golden 
 for the table. Gather up the stalks and foliage of each plant 
 closely in the left hand, and with the right draw up the earth 
 round it. Let no soil tumble in on the heart to soil or cause 
 decay. Press the soil firmly, so as to keep all the leaves in 
 an upright position. Then with a hoe draw up more soil, 
 until the banking process is begun. During September 
 and October the plants will grow rapidly, and in order to 
 blanch them they must be earthed up from time to time, 
 always keeping the stalks close and compact, with no soil 
 falling in on the developing part. By the end of October 
 the growth is practically made, and only the deep green 
 leaves rest on the high embankments. The celery now 
 should be fit for use, and time for winter storing is near. 
 In our region it is not safe to leave celery unprotected after 
 the tenth of November, for although it is a very hardy plant, 
 
THE KITCHEN-GARDEN 161 
 
 it will not endure a frost which produces a strong crust of 
 frozen soil. I once lost a fine crop early in November. 
 The frost in one night penetrated the soil deeply, and when 
 it thawed out, the celery never revived. Never handle celery 
 when it is frozen. My method of preserving this vegetable 
 for winter use is simply this. During some mild, clear day 
 in early November I have a trench ten inches wide dug 
 nearly as deep as the celery is tall. This trench is dug on 
 a warm dry slope, so that by no possibility can water gather 
 in it. Then the plants are taken up carefully and stored in 
 the trench, the roots on the bottom, the plants upright as 
 they grew, and pressed closely together so as to occupy 
 all the space in the excavation. The foliage rises a little 
 above the surface, which is earthed up about four inches, so 
 that water will be shed on either side. Still enough of the 
 leaves are left in the light to permit all the breathing neces- 
 sary ; for plants breathe as truly as we do. As long as the 
 weather keeps mild, this is all that is needed; but there is 
 no certainty now. A hard black frost may come any night. 
 I advise that an abundance of leaves or straw be gathered 
 near. When a bleak November day promises a black frost 
 at night, scatter the leaves, etc., thickly over the trenched 
 celery, and do not take them off until the mercury rises 
 above freezing-point. If a warm spell sets in, expose the 
 foliage to the air again. But watch your treasure vigilantly. 
 Winter is near, and soon you must have enough covering 
 over your trench to keep out the frost — a foot or more of 
 leaves, straw, or some clean litter. There is nothing better 
 than leaves, which cost only the gathering. From now till 
 April, when you want a head or more of celery, open the 
 trench at the lower end, and take out the crisp white or 
 golden heads, and thank the kindly Providence that planted 
 a garden as the best place in which to put man, and woman 
 also. 
 
 GARNISHING AND POT HERBS 
 
 "There's fennel for you; there's rue for you." Strange 
 and involuntary is the law of association! 1 can never see 
 
162 THE HOME ACRE 
 
 the garnishing and seasoning herbs of the garden without 
 thinking of the mad words of distraught Ophelia. I fancy, 
 however, that we are all practical enough to remember the 
 gavory soups and dishes rendered far more appetizing than 
 they could otherwise have been by these aromatic and pun- 
 gent flavors. I will mention only a few of the popular sorts. 
 
 The seeds of fennel may be sown in April about three- 
 quarters of an inch deep, and the plants thinned to fifteen 
 inches apart Cut off the seed-stalks to increase the growth 
 of foliage. 
 
 Parsley, like celery seed, germinates slowly, and is some- 
 times about a month in making its appearance. The soil 
 should therefore be made very rich and fine, and the seed 
 sown half an inch deep, as early in spring as possible. 
 When the plants are three inches high, thin them to eight 
 inches apart. 
 
 Sweet-basil may be sown in early May, and the plants 
 thinned to one foot apart. The seeds of sweet-marjoram are 
 very minute, and must be covered very thinly with soil 
 finely pulverized; sow in April or May, when the ground 
 is in the best condition. Sage is easily raised from seeds 
 sown an inch deep the latter part of April ; let the soil be 
 warm and rich; let the plants stand about one foot apart 
 in the row. Thyme and summer- savory require about the 
 same treatment as sage. I find that some of the mountain 
 mints growing wild are quite as aromatic and appetizing as 
 many of these garden herbs. 
 
 THE END 
 
V'« «• 
 
 ^P 14 DAY USE 
 
 RBTURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 ^^pr'60RT 
 
 
 IN STACKS 
 
 
 API? 1 A 19S0 
 
 
 
 
 ' KLiC'O L. 
 
 o 
 
 Wfir Si jy( 
 
 !0 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 '( 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 i 
 
 I LD 21A-50m-4/60 Ilni^i^irnSiSrnia 
 
 I (A9562sl0)476B ^'"'^^ bJacSP 1 
 
^ 
 
 .^^ 
 
 y 
 
 
 [5376 
 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LIBRARY