""^^'niER GIRL /SV ^-^M^ ^.J(<^B^c^/U Class J.S 15:^1 Rnnic . A 5. ^ Copiglit^J". 903 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. SAMUEL E. Mcdonald. The Other Girl WITH SOI^E FURTHER STORIES AND POE^IS By SAMUEL E. McDONALD (ta NEW YORK BroadwaLV Publishing CompaLi\y 1903 a. A •• • • « » * • • ••<» ■«« • • Copyright, 1903, BY SAMUEL E. Mcdonald. All Rights Reserved. TO MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND, PAUL NORCROSS, THIS LITTLE BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. CONTENTS. PAGE The Other Girl 1 The Upper Current 5 The Downfall of Woman 13 The Little Clown 17 Georgie's Letters from Philip 22 The Will of Two 27 Franz Schubert 32 Franz Liszt 33 The Fate of the Greedy Bear 35 The Chieftain Sparrow 37 His Photo 40 The Uniting Power 43 The Shortest Day 46 The Love of Winnoa 51 Jim 57 The Foolery of Ping Pong 61 Spring 66 With the Spring 67 The Hay-Maker 6S The Yachtsman ♦;0 The Angler 70 Caroline 71 The Summer Girl 72 Undecided 73 The Man and the Photo 74 The Wooer of the Lakes 75 Grown Up 76 When a Boy's Bad 77 De Darky an' de Chicken 78 De Man dat Toils 79 Our Prayer 80 THE OTHER GIRL. They were sitting on the steps of the college chapel. ''Nothing," said Ethel, "could induce me to marry a fellow who has been born and bred in Chicago. They are never true. They are always (looking at him shyly) stubborn. I like these fresh young boys who live here in Beloit." ''But, Ethel," said George, "do you think it just right to marry a stranger ?" "Of course it is," she replied. "Why should it not be all right? If a girl marries a man whom she has known most of her life, she soon gets tired of him, and he of her. I say, marry a person that will be something new to you. That is the course I will pursue." -Ethel " "Nothing can change my mind now that it is 2 The Other Girl made up," she cried. ''I used to think our city boys were models ; but now I have changed my mind." ''Why, Ethel" he said, "what is the matter with you to-night ? I have never seen you in this mood before." "There is not anything the matter with me," said she, indifferently. "Doesn't Florence Taylor dress beautifully?" He, just beginning to discern the cause of her actions : "She dresses well. Florence is a very pretty girl. She has such a charming personality." "Do you not find my statement true?" she asked. "Do you not like her better than any girl with whom you have kept company in Chicago ?" "Why— I don't know," he said. "Now, George, you know you do. Now, don't you?' 'First question, no. I don't want to marry a I- " stranger "I do," said she, smoothing the folds in her dress. "I suppose," said he, "you want a fellow like Mike O'Brien, the junk buyer. He is a very nice fellow, and a stranger, also. We will have to watch you, or you will be eloping with him." "Oh, you horrid thing!" she cried. "I don't And Other Stones. 3 like you a little. Now don't you never, never speak to me again." ''Now don't you never. Little girl, you said that very nice. Don't get angry at a little joke. Come, now, let us not quarrel." "Don't you dare touch me," she cried, angrily. "I hate you." "Ethel," he pleaded, "do not get angry. That I love you with all my heart you well know. I was only joking. Please listen to what I have to say." "What !" she cried, huddling closer to him ; "you love me? I thought Florence was first in your heart." "Florence !" he exclaimed "what made you think I loved her?'' "Why, you were with her most of the time she was here. You never came to see me once." "But, little one, I love you, and you only. Will you not be the keeper of my tepee?" "I will," she said, seriously, "if you promise you will never go with that horrid Florence any more." "Would you have me shun my own cousin?" he asked, laughing. "Cousin !" she exclaimed. "My cousin," he repeated. "Now will you promise ? Will you be my wife ?" 4 The Other Girl "George, George," she cried, resting her head upon his shoulder. ''How could I refuse you?" "But," said he, laughing, "I thought you were going to marry a stranger." "Indeed I am," said she, smiling. "Haven't you been acting rather strange for the past two weeks?" And Other Stones. THE UPPER CURRENT. The four hundred of Chicago had never had a better season. The dinners given by various members of society and the numerous balls had been exceptionally well attended. Never had things gone so smoothly as they were then go- ing. There had been a number of interesting weddings, and many fond mammas held high hopes of getting a good catch for her daughter. There was only one woman who seemed to be worried about her daughter's future, and that was Mrs. Bahm. The Bahms lived in a beautiful brownstone front mansion on Lake Shore drive. Mr. Bahm was a member of the Board of Trade, and was in need of a son-in-law with great aspirations and plenty of currency. So it was at the first of the season he had taken time after dinner to have a chat with his wife. The substance of the con- versation was that their daughter Clara, who had just made her debut, should marry rich. Clara was a beautiful girl of the Creole type. 6 The Other Girl Her complexion was dark, her eyes black and flashing, and black coils of hair crowned her shapely little head. Her nature was as sweet as her appearance. She was the pet of the four hundred. The men would crowd around her and vainly plead for one more dance when her card had long since been filled. The greatest catch of the season and millionaire, Edward Drew, threw himself at her feet; but he was as gently rejected as many before him. Her mother begged and implored, and her father would not speak to her for many days, but all to no avail. "Oh, mamma !" she exclaimed one day, after her father had left her in a passion of rage, "1 would like so much to please you and papa, but how can I marry a man I do not love? It would only make life miserable for both of us. My mamma, you have heard of the outcome of these loveless marriages. What is money compared with happiness? You would not be happy, mamma, to know that I was unhappy. I tried to explain to poor papa, but he would not listen." "Your papa," said Mrs. Bahm, "is becoming financially embarrassed. If something doesn't turn up we will have to leave our place in society. Now, my daughter, consider which is the better to do. Will it be better for you to marry Edward Drew's millions, or live in poverty?" And Other Stories. 7 Clara buried her face in the pillows on the davenport and wept as though her heart would break. Her duty was to her parents, but she loved ''Is it true," asked Mrs. Bahm, "that John Allen, that worthless reporter of the Tribune, has been paying you his attentions?" "I have met him at the many balls and dinners," said Clara, raising her head from the pillows. "I like him. He has great plans, which he means to carry out in the future. He aspires to be an author. All society is interested in him." "Ha, ha!" laughed Mrs. Bahm. "And he as- pires to be a poor devil author. Well does he de- serve to live on bread and water. It has long been a puzzle to me how he gained a foothold in society. Think of it, Clara, you have been en- couraging a man who cannot even afford a cab. I know not what foolish notions have entered your head, but think well before you act. Upon you depends our future." Mrs. Bahm swept from the room, leaving Clara to her own meditation. She wept not now. Stern duty stared her in the face. She ovv^ed everything to her parents, and she must help them out of their difficulty. But John — ah, she loved John ! Light-hearted, good-natured John, who had great aspirations, and that was all. She thought of 8 The Other Girl how gently he had put her in the carriage the night of Mrs. Chandler's dinner party. He did not speak, but the love light in his eyes told the whole thing. It was the same sweet tale. He loved her. Dear, plain, good-natured John ! If he had only spoken that night; but now duty must come before love. It was with a heavy heart that Clara dressed for Mrs. Fields' fancy ball. She would meet both of them at the ball, and she knew which course she would pursue. In her mind she pictured each of them as she gave her answer. One was drunk with joy ; and the other looked far over her shoul- der into space. She could not weep ; the time for action was at hand. The ball room was crowded when Clara en- tered. There was the usual rush for her card, and among the first to reach her were John Allen and Edward Drew. When John did not care to dance, but led her to the conservatory, she un- derstood what was coming, and braced herself for it. "Clara," said John, as he seated her behind some palms, ''you doubtless know w^hat I have brought you here for. You have long since dis- covered that I love you. Dearest Clara, I haven't much to give you. I could not give you the home that you have always been used to ; but my sal- And Other Stories. 9 ary has been increased. We can live modestly and be happy. Tell me, my sweet one, what is your answer?" The tears were flowing down Clara's cheeks and she wept as though her heart would break. The only man she had ever loved, and the man who was life to her was pleading for her answer. Her mouth was dry. The words she wished to say seemed to stick in her throat. "Answer me," pleaded John. "Answer me, dearest." "John," she said, at last, "I love you, but I can never be your wife. You are poor, John." The word poor, stung him like a whip wielded by a slave-master of the olden days. "I must marry money. You doubtless know that anything raised in clover craves clover. So it is with me, John," taking his head between her two hands. "John, don't look so heartbroken. I love you, John. My love will ever live for you." She kissed his pale lips and fled from the con- servatory. John sat as though he had been stricken of his senses. He did not move for a long time, and when at last he regained his senses with a jerk, he fled from the house. He did not seek the busy down-town office. He wished for solitude. Oh, to be alone ! He was sick with disappointment. lo The Other Girl He had been deceived in Clara. He had thought that she was above other girls ; but she told him that she would marry riches. He was poor. Those cruel words still rang in his ears. She could not leave the upper current and descend to his level. No, not for love. She had said that she loved him. Bah ! her love was false. There was quite a stir among the reporters a few mornings later when they learned that John Allen, the society reporter, had gone west to live on a ranch. He gave no reasons for his hasty leave, but bid the editor a sad-faced fare- well, and was gone. There were all kinds of ru- mors about his departure, but no one about the of- fice knew what the real trouble was. One report- er had found out that he had bought a ticket for Butte, Montana, but farther than that he could not h6 traced. In the meantime Clara had been having a miser- able time. She was aroused from her reverie by the announcement of Edward Drew. Drew had proposed and had been accepted. He had come to plan with her their wedding tour. They were to go to Europe. Under other circum- stances Clara would have clapped her hands with joy; but now she cared not for the things she had once longed for. Her heart lay like lead in her bosom and beat with a dull thud. Life And Other Stones. ii was dead within her. The sunshine had fled from her forever. As June, the wedding month drew near, Clara's dark beauty faded slowly away. She looked years older; and Drew became quite alarmed about her condition. He rejoiced that the wed- ding day was near at hand so that he might take his darling across the seas and bring the roses back into her cheeks. He knew not what her ails were, for he had been blind to everything, so wrapped up was he in his great love. John Allen sat alone in his rude hut of logs, A paper lay before him on the floor. He stared through the door at the landscape stretched out before him. He was dreaming. He had struck it rich, and his mine was worth thousands of dol- lars ; and yet what was all that to him ? It could not buy happiness. ''She will be married to-morrow," he kept re- peating. "To-morrow, to-morrow. I love the little girl, but from what she said in the note I received the next day, the old man needed money. 'Twas all in the game, and it was right for the little girl to help her father ; but I love her, I love her!" He buried his face in his hands and wept as though his heart would break. He did not hear 12 The Other Girl the sound of horses' hoofs as they drew near his cabin. "John, John !" she cried, as she caught sight of him. "Clara !" he cried, springing up and folding her to his breast. "Dear John," she sobbed, "I could not live without you. We were to be married to-morrow, but I couldn't deceive him. I love you, John, and you only." The papers were full the next day of a great romance. Clara was married the next day, but to Mr. John Allen, Esq. And Other Stories. 13 THE DOWNFALL OF WOMAN". It was a pretty little boarding house nestled among the green hills of dear old Vermont. It was so home-like and cozy. From afar you could stand and look at it; but not a man could you see. The large veranda was crowded with richly dressed women. Women played tennis upon the lawn. Women were pruning roses and trees in the garden; but there was not a man to be seen. What strange place was this? If you would notice the magazines you would see — stop ! Don't speak so harshly of them. No, your expression is wrong. This beautiful, quiet place is Miss Dean's retreat for maiden ladies — not a retreat for old maids, for women never grow old. Miss Howells was the leader of this band. At the beginning of the season she had been chosen their leader. To her they all looked up, and her word was about law. Her stories and incidents were listened to in breathless silence, and were 14 The Other Girl loudly applauded. A good entertainer was she, and some said that she was rather inclined to be literary. She was medium height, fat, and had a happy disposition. In the extreme she was rather egotistic. Many chances had she to marry, but she always rejected them for obvious reasons, so she said. The tea bell rang and they crowded into the large, cool dining-room and sat down in little groups at the many little tables. The topic, as usual, was about man — wicked, cruel, heartless man. Hov/ they run hirn down ! Man, in their estimation, was no more than the mere worm that crawleth upon the earth. Miss Howells started to tell them some more of her experiences with the masculine gender. Oh, how she hated man ! This hatred was fierce and deep. All of her employees at home were women. No man would tread upon her premises unless it was absolutely necessary. She had just told them how near she was to fainting when she saw a man, when, she happened to look out of the window. A poor, forlorn looking tramp cam.e shambling up the dusty road. A little scream at first escaped her lips, then instead of fainting she sprang from her chair and pointed out the win- dow. "A man ! A man !" she cried. And Other Stories. 15 "A man ! A man !" cried they all rushing out o£ the room and down the road toward the hun- gry tramp. The tramp stood aghast looking at the rushing, excited mob of females that were bearing down upon him. He stood as though rooted to the ground. He knew not whether he was to be hanged or torn into minute bits. The crowd of rushing, scrambling women rushed up to him like wild and infuriated beasts before a prairie fire. What sprinters they were ! No one would have imagined that these peaceful man-haters could get up so high a rate of speed. Miss Howells proved to be the best runner. She pounced upon the poor, luckless vagabond and showered him with kisses. After a time the rest of the maiden ladies came up and fell upon the poor tramp. As .soon as each had tasted of the forbidden fruit, the bum was hurried off toward the quiet hotel. He was pushed into a beautiful room, given water and clean towels, new underwear, and told to clean himself up and present himself in the parlor. Miss Howells found a new suit of clothes some place and these were thrown into the tramp's room. The bum was just finishing his meal, which had been brought up to him by ready hands i6 The Other Girl and smiling faces. When he had finished he donned his new suit, white shirt and collar and stepped out into the hall. To his surprise the hall w'as crowded with smiling faces. He lost his nerve. He could not stand it. "Look at der ugly muggs!" he exclaimed. ''Humph, I can't stand dis." The ladies advanced toward him with out- stretched hands. A frightened look came into his eyes. He wavered for a moment, then in one wild bound he cleared the railing which sur- rounded the stairs, rushed through the hall and out the open door with the howling, infuriated mob following. Down the dusty road they ran. For a half mile he ran with them following. At last they gave up ; but the tramp did not stop until another half mile had been covered. He sat down upon a log by the wayside and heaved a sigh of relief. "Tank de debil !" he exclaimed. "It may ha' been worse." The poor maiden ladies could not look each other in the face; but tramped, ashamed, disap- pointed and weary, back to their boarding place. And Other Stories. 17 THE LITTLE CLOWN. From the great circus tents flags of every na- tion were waving. It was a beautiful scene. It was especially beautiful to Wilford Cance, for this was the first circus he had ever seen. It was amazing to him how quickly the large tents were put up, and very amusing to see the great elephants roll the big circus wagons about. Oh, how he longed to attend the circus ! If he could only do some work so that he could gain his ad- mission ; but working for a circus he had heard was the hardest kind of labor. His grandma had just bought him a new suit of clothes and he did not want to ask her for the money, so he tried to be content. He perched upon the gate-post and watched with interest the forming of the parade. There were so many pretty wagons, and nearly every one of them was filled with animals. The ele- phants attracted him more than, anything, for upon their backs men and women were riding. i8 The Other Girl A man came out of one of the smaller tents leading a little mule which was hitched to such a wee, pretty little buggy. After he had led the mule a little distance from the tent, a little clown ran out and jumped into the buggy. He was such a cute little clown, and did such funny things. Wilford laughed with glee as he watched him. As the parade started down the street the band began to play. The little clown tried to make the mule dance to the music. He made such laugh- able faces and said such funny things that Wil- ford decided to follow him about. "Hello, boy," said the little clown to Wilford, as they were going back to the circus grounds. "Would you like to ride back to the circus grounds with me?" "I would like to so much," said Wilford, as he climbed in beside the little clown. "You are so funny I would like to be with you always. I would like very much to be a clown in a circus." The little clown's face sobered. For a time he looked silently at Wilford. "Tell me," said he at last, "why would you like to be a clown ?" "Because," said Wilford, looking at him ad- miringly, "you have so much fun and travel every place." And Other Stories. 19 *'Fun !" exclaimed the little clown. "I don't have much fun. I have to work all the time ! be- sides I get awful beatings when I don't act well." "Do they whip you?" asked Wilford. "Does your mamma whip you hard?" "Mamma !" said the little clown, knocking a tear from his beautifully painted face. "I haven't any mamma. She died last year when I was ten. Now that I am all alone every one picks on me and kicks me about. My mamma was very kind to me, and she was so beautiful." Wilford now looked at the little clown with eyes of pity. It was awful to have no mamma or nice grandma, and besides the wicked circus men beat him. The poor little clov/n. They had now reached the circus ground and Wilford alighted from the buggy. The little clown invited him over after the performance and he promised to come. In the afternoon Wilford sat upon the gate- post and watched the people go to the circus. He longed to gO' and see the little clown act. Mr. Dun had promised to take him in the even- ing, but he could hardly wait. The band struck up a lively tune and Wilford knew that the circus had begun. Once when a man lifted the tent curtain, he saw a lady riding a horse around the ring. She was dressed beau- 20 The Other Girl liful, and things upon her costume ghstened Hke diamonds. After a time the band ceased playing and the people laughed at something funny. Wilford did not know what was going on. He thought perhaps his little clown was making them laugh. The band began to play "Get Your Money's Worth." He saw the little clown driving the quaint little mule at full speed into the main tent. A man raised the tent curtain and he saw the little clown driving around the big ring and doing all sorts of funny things. The man dropped the curtain and he could see no more. Faster and faster the band played, and louder the people laughed. From above this uproar there came a shrill scream, then a terrible crash as though something was being rent asunder. Immediately the band ceased playing, and a hum of excited voices reached Wilford's ears. What had happened he could only guess. He jumped from the gate-post and hurried toward some men who were bringing a little bleeding body from the tent. It was his little clown. The mule had run away and crashed into one of the big center poles. Tenderly the paint was washed from his face and the doctor examined him. Nearly every rib in his body was broken. He could not live. And Other Stories. 21 Wilford knelt down by him and wept as though his heart would break. After a time the little clown opened his eyes. "You here?" he said faintly to Wilford. "I can't meet you after the performance. I'm go- ing to meet mamma, by dear, darling mamma. Oh, I am so glad I am going to her. You have been so good to me. But listen, I hear dear God bidding me come. I must go. I — am — so — ■ happy. Good-by — good-by." Peacefully the little clown closed his eyes in death. The circus men could beat him no more. He had gone to God and his angel mamma. They buried him in the village cemetery. Of- ten Wilford goes with flowers and sits by the grave and wonders if the little clown is making people happy in heaven by his funny pranks. 2 2 The Other Girl GEORGIE'S LETTERS FROM PHILIP. No. I. Bedford, — . My Dearest Loving Georgie : I received your dear, loving letter just three minutes ago. How happy I was to receive those few little lines from my dearest little love. Oh, Georgie, how happy we shall be here when we are married and live in a beautiful cottage by the sea. I feel so lonesome without you, Georgie. I like my uncle very much. He is a very fleshy man, about the age of fifty. His hair is gray, his eyes are blue. As I look at him I cannot but feel sorry for him. His face looks so care- worn. His business is very good. I cannot see what makes him so sad. He pays me one hun- dred dollars a month for my services here. After a time he says that he is going to put me in as his junior partner. Ah, then the money we will have to be happy on ! Dear Georgie, don't forget me. If I should And Other Stories. 23 not hear from you to-morrow morning, in my brain I would feel like putting a bullet. Uncle is calling me, and I must stop for this time. Hoping to hear from you by return mail, I am Ever your loving Philip. No. 2. Bedford, — . My Dearest Loving Georgie : I went to my landlady this morning after the mail. You know not how I felt when there was no letter from the dearest little girl on earth — you, my love. It seemed as though all the world was against me, and I was left deserted. Georgie, my love, do not desert me. You know how dearly I love you. If it was not for you, darling, I would not be here. I am working for you and you only, my own dearest love. Uncle seems to be growing worse. He wants me to come in to-morrow as his partner in busi- ness. The dear old man seems to think that I am his only friend on earth. How I sympathize with him! I love him as I would my own father, were he living. Well, little darling, I must close for this time. Hoping to hear from you to-morrow, I remain Yours with a thousand kisses, Philip. 24 The Other Girl No. 3. Bedford, — . Dear Georgie: Why don't you write, dear? I have every morning got up early (9 o'clock) to meet the post- man. I also run to the post-office every time a train comes from your way, only to be disap- pointed. Darling, do not treat me this way. It is breaking my heart. I heard one of the clerks say this morning that I looked nearly as bad as the old man — he mean- ing uncle. Darling, what is it? Have I hurt your feelings in any way? I have always tried to please you ; and I love you with all my heart. Georgie, please don't leave me this way without an explanation. What have I done, little sweet- heart ? Hoping that I will receive an explanation soon, I am Your aggrieved Philip. No. 4. Bedford — . Dearest Georgie: Two weeks have passed since I last wrote you. Georgie, you are breaking my heart by this si- lence. Please, Georgie, write me this once and tell me how I have injured you. If you will only write me this once, I will never bother you And Other Stories. 25 again — if it is your wish. Answer me, dearest, answer me. This silence is worse than death. Is there another fellow in the case? Hoping, dear one, that you will listen to this last plea, I am Your ardent lover, Philip. No. 5. Bedford — . My Dearest Loving Georgie: Your letter was just received. Georgie, my own, my darling, you know not how happy you have m.ade me. Little one, I am so glad it was this way ; but just as sorry to know that you have been sick. Of course, I am selfish like the rest of the world. Little sweetheart, you know not how full my heart is to-night. I am so happy. You ask me to forgive you. Dear Georgie, I have nothing to forgive. I hate myself for ever thinking that you were not true to me. Darling, I am coming to see you next week. Can we not then set the date of our wedding? Dear uncle passed away last evening. His will was read yesterday. To me he left everything. The dear old man I believe is in a more beauti- ful palace and is happier than any earthly being. Little rosebud, perhaps they were right in not giving you my letters while you were sick. Afy- 26 The Other Girl how, I am satisfied that your love still lives for me. I must close for this time. With lots of love and a thousand kisses, I remain Your husband to be, Philip Pierce. No. 6. Bedford, — . Dearest Little Sweetheart : I cannot possibly wait until next week to see you. I expect at the time I am writing this let- ter, you are just reading mine of the same date. I will come to-morrow on the evening train. Do not try to meet me at the depot. You are not strong enough for that. Oh, Georgie, I can hard- ly wait until then to see you. Kisses to you, my darling. And now I must close, for I do not want to weary you by this correspondence. Your dear, loving Philip. And Other Stories. 27 THE WILL OF TWO. "She will make you a good wife," said my father, "But if we do not love each other?" I pro- tested. "You cannot but help love her," said my father. "Has she red hair?" I asked. "Certainly not," said he, frowning. "Have you spoken to her of this matter?" I again asked. "You're an idiot!" he exclaimed, turning his back upon me. "It's beautiful here by the lake," said I, chang- ing the subject. No answer. "Well," said I, "I guess I will take a little spin on my wheel." "See that you think well of this matter," said father, as I entered the house. "Russel," said my sister Clara, coming up to me as I entered the drawing room, "have you seen her?" "Who?" said I, gruffly. 28 The Other Girl "Why, Fannie. Who else could it be?" **Father said it must be Jennie," said T, turn- ing away. I mounted my wheel and rode some distance along the lake, when I was startled most out of my boots. "Help! Help!" cried a female voice. I fell off my wheel and ran down the steep in- cline to the water's edge. To my surprise I found a beautiful young lady of medium height, brown, lustrous eyes, and beautiful black hair. She was perched upon a large boulder. At the foot of the boulder sat a large turtle, stretching his neck and snapping at imaginary foes. The young lady looked very much frightened until she saw me. "Do not be afraid," I cried, "I will help you." Her face wreathed with pretty smiles as she watched m^y oncoming steps. Picking up a club I proceeded to knock that turtle insensible. I think I did the job well. "May I help you down ?" I asked, holding my hands up to her. "If you please, sir," said she, faintly. I placed my arm around her waist and lifted her down. "I was so frightened," she said, as her little head rested upon my shoulder. And Other Stones. 29 I sat down upon a nearby log and placed her beside me. Her head still rested upon my shoul- der; my arm still encircled her waist. After a time she felt better and straightened up. "I thank you ever so much," she said, rising from her seat and looking down into my eyes. ^'Will you wait until I get my camera? It is at the foot of that rock." "Let me get it for you," I cried, jumping from my seat. I was too slow, and the little minx had picked it up before I could assist her. I was becoming very much in love with her now. She was so graceful and pretty. "You were in quite a bad fix," said I. "How did it happen?" She laughed. What a beautiful, silvery laugh. "I was in quite bad circumstances," said she sweetly. "I was going to photograph that old hull of a ship when I turned and saw that hor- rid thing coming at me." I smiled and looked at the boulder. "I was so frightened," she went on. "How I did it I do not know ; but the next thing I knew I was on top of that boulder screaming as though I was mad." She looked at me. We both laughed. We sat down on the log and began talking. Before I knew it, I was telling her my life's story 30 The Other Girl and my latest mishap. I told her how I had just graduated, and come home from college to find my father had a wife picked out for me. "Who has your father chosen?" she asked, in a low, tremulous voice. ''Some girl," said I, "by the name of Jennie Robinson. I have always done as father wishes." "But she does not love you," she cried. "I do not blame her," said I ; "but how do you know she does not?" "Because," she said, smiling faintly. "Will you promise not to tell?" Of course I promised. "She and my brother are engaged," said she, looking at me curiously. I heaved a great sigh of relief. "Now you are out of it," said she, sadly. "I am in the same condition you were in. My papa wants me to marry a horrid old duke. I cannot see my way out of it as well as you." "There is only one way," said I, forgetting my- self. When I turned to look at her she was study- ing my face. "It's just terrible," she went on. "Our father? seem to think we have no feelings." Then she burst into tears. "Do not cry," said I, jumping up and getting excited. I hugged her to my bosom, my arm hav- And Other Stones. 31 ing involuntarily encircled her waist. "Our fathers be " Before I could get the naughty word out her little hand had covered my mouth. "My darling," said I, "there is only one way out of this dilemma. Will you, little one, be my wife?" "How can I be your wife when we do not even know each other?" said she, laughing. "I do know you, Fannie Sage. I have always felt acquainted with you, since Clara sent me your photograph six months ago." "Russel Howard," she said, "I knew you as soon as I saw you. Clara gave me your photo before Christmas. I would have known you among an hundred men." "Bless dear Clara," said I. "This is rather hasty, my dear r but I have started it. Will you cast your lot with mine ?" "But our fathers?" she faintly pleaded. "Darling," said I, "is it your father or me?" She smiled as she looked up into my face. The answer was lost in a long, sweet kiss. 32 The Other Girl FRAXZ SCHUBERT. Fraxz Peter Schubert was born at Vienna, January 31, 1797. He was a composer of both vocal and instrumental music. To his father he was indebted for his general education. In 1808 the beauty of his voice attracted much attention. While in the choir of the imperial chapel he was taught to play the violin. In 1843 Schubert lost his voice. This was a great blow tc him, but it did not dampen his zeal to compose music. During the year of 181 5, he composed five operas, one hundred and thirty- seven songs and many short compositions. He wrote whenever he was inspired, and turned out much good music. Schubert, like all great geniuses, never lived to see the effect of his work. Xot one of his sym- phonies v.'on him any notoriety during his life. His fame came after death. He died November 19, 1828. His "Ave ]Maria" and "Serenade" will live forever among the young musicians, while his symphonies will ever live am.ong the advanced students. And Other Stories. 33 FRANZ LISZT. Franz Liszt, a Hungarian pianist, was born at Raiding, Hungary, October 22, 181 1. When he was six years old his father began giving him lessons on the piano-forte, and when he was nine years old he attracted so much attention that some noblemen sent him to Vienna for six years' study. Here he studied under Czerny and Sa- lieri. In 1823 he was refused admission in the Conservatoire on account of his being a for- eigner. He studied in Paris under Reicha and Paer. At this time he aroused much enthusiasm by his playing on the piano-forte. From 1839 to 1847 ^^ traveled from place to place giving concerts. From these concerts he elicited m.uch admiration and praise. He was appointed conductor of the Court Theatre at Weimar in 1848. Liszt now settled down to serious work, and wrote the piece which brought him fame and fortune. His greatest sacred pieces were ''Faust," the ''Divine Comedia," "St. Elizabeth," the 34 The Other Girl "Grand Mass," "Christus," and many other sa- cred works. Liszt was a kind and generous man. He was always ready to help the fallen one, and his in- fluence upon the younger musicians was very great. He died at Bayreuth, October 31, 1886. And Other Stories. 35 THE FATE OF THE GREEDY BEAR. A BEAR one day met a deer in the woods which had been wounded by hunters. The poor deer, when it saw the bear coming, tried so hard to get away; but it was too badly wounded to run. "Have mercy, have mercy!" cried the poor deer. "Please, bear, spare my life this once." "Ha, ha, ha !" laughed the bear. *T could not show such a creature as you mercy. I am not hungry now, but I must eat you. If I would leave you here some one else would get you, and that would do my stomach no good. You are too sweet to leave for some one else. Indeed, pretty deer, I must eat you." And the greedy bear, although he was not hungry, pounced upon the poor deer and ate him up. He ate so much that he could hardly move. When he had finished he wended his way along the path in the woods, and becoming lazy, crept into a copse of underbrush which grew along the way With a grunt he lay down for a little nap. 36 The Other Girl The bear had not been asleep very long when he was awakened by the report of a gun, and was stung by a bullet which had entered his thigh. As quick as possible he got to his feet and tried to get away. This was impossible, because the wounded thigh and the food which he had eaten made things against him. Naturally, he thought of the poor deer. He had spared it no mercy, and he knew these hunters who wei*e fast ap- proaching would spare him none. He realized that if he had not eaten the deer he would have had a chance to get away. As it was, the hunt- ers soon came up and killed him. And Other Stories. 37 THE CHIEFTAIN SPARROW. A Parable of the Times. Two sparrows one day met in the forest. One was the chief of the sparrows; the other was a citizen. ''How do you do," said Citizen sparrow, bow- ing stiffly. "I am pleased to meet you." "The same to you," said the Chieftain sparrow, in his gruff way. ''But pray tell me, why look you so downcast?" "What makes me look so downcast?" reiter- ated the Citizen sparrow. "Do you not know?" "Certainly not," said the Chieftain sparrow, "or I would not have asked you. With me I hope you are not displeased. I gave you the position you so long desired." "I am very glad I met you," said the Citizen sparrow. "I must, under the circumstances, de- cline your offer." "What means all this ?" asked the Chief in sur- prise. "I see not why you decline my offer. 38 The Other Girl Five days ago you were anxious to get the posi- tion. If it is not asking too much of you, 1 would hke an account of your actions/' *'I should not think you would ask me," saucily said the Citizen sparrow, throwing back his head, ''but if it is your wish I will tell you." "Very well," said the Chief. "Proceed." "Chief," said the Citizen sparrow, "we thought you were going to make us a good leader; but you have made a great mistake, a terrible mis- take. Very well you know how we people in the south forest hate the blackbird. He is our mortal enemy, and through him you have com- mitted an unpardonable mistake. You ought to have known better. You have spoiled your future career. You might have held your office for another term ; but you invited a blackbird to dine with you. He crossed the line into our midst. He not only ate dinner in the big tree, but was the first person to dine with you since you entered office. Can we people of the south forest stand this? He not only ate with you, but was allowed to give you advice. A black- bird give advice to the Chief of this great office, this grand forest ! Can you wonder I decline the office you offer me? I want nothing to do with any person wdio has any dealings with a cursed blackbird. You should not have done it." And Other Stories. 39 It was very hard for the Chief to hold back his anger. When the Citizen had finished the Chief broke forth. "Very well, sir," said the Chief. "I will not miss your presence. There is one thing I want you to understand. I will not have you or any other person dictate to me. I will have you understand that I am running this forest, and will invite whoever I wish to the big tree to dine. That is not any of your business. It is my business — not the public's. If ever you come to me as you have to-day, you will leave faster than you came. Tell your people that I am run- ning this forest. I do not care if I am not elected another term. I am master while I am here. Do you understand?" When the Chief finished the Citizen tried to offer apologies ; but he was hushed by the thun- dering voice of the Chief, the Chief who would be Chief. Finally the Citizen, not able to stand it any longer, went twittering angrily away. 40 The Other Girl HIS PHOTO. It was by accident they met. They used to be playmates when they were boy and girl to- gether; but he had left her then and went to travel with his uncle. He used to write often, but after a time the letters began to come far apart. Things kept on in this' way until at last the letters ceased coming altogether. It hurt her at first, but after a time even she forgot. She was down at the beach watching the waves as they washed the pebbles from place to place upon the sand. At Ann Arbor the waves do this in excellent style. Dreaming was she, not of the boy who had left her many years be- fore, but of an imaginative creature which had crept into her brain. Of these young dandies she was tired. She was so tired of it all. She craved for something new and original. She could love somebody. Now that she was free from the old walls of Vassar, where she had been shut up for three long years, her heart yearned for companionship. And Other Stories. 41 As she was marking upon the sand, a shadow moved before her. Turning quickly she saw a handsome young man, about twenty-two years of age, looking down upon her. When he caught a glimpse of her face he started, then came for- \vard with a glad cry. "Gladys! Gladys!" he cried. '^Gladys, don't you know me?" He was surprised at her in- creased beauty. She was upon her feet now and came toward him with outstretched hands. A glad look brightened her eyes, while her face was flushed with excitement. "Fred !" she cried, her whole soul in her voice. "Fred, where have you been these long years? I — I had almost forgotten you. Why did you stop writing? I — a. — mamma missed your let- ters eo much. In fact, we all missed them. They were so interesting." "My time was so much taken up, Gladys," he said, still holding her hands. "I could not find time to write. When a fellow is traveling, you know, there is so much to see." "Yes," said she. "So many pretty women. The foreigners are so very^ charming." "The women did not bother me, little girl," said he. "I was lonesome. I looked, but T could not find an equal to her face. There is no 42 The Other Girl one like her in the wide world. I was only a boy then; but I loved. My love is stronger now, Gladys." ''Here is his photo, Fred," said Gladys. "The wedding is next week." She handed him the photograph of a nice look- ing young man. Fred staggered, as though he had been struck a terrible blow. "Gladys," he cried. 'T loved you. I love you still. I came all the way from Italy for you. But now " "That photograph," said Gladys, a smile light- ing up her face, "is my sister's husband to be." And Other Stories. 43 THE UNITING POWER. They sat calmly discussing the matter. She with white, drawn face ; he with dark, lowering brows. She seemed to care for nothing in the world; he was despondent. Two years they had been married. A baby girl had been born to them, and it was such a sweet child. Both loved it with all their hearts. The baby died after living three short months. It almost broke both their hearts, but they would not seek consolation in one another. They were husband and wife, and yet their lives seemed so far apart. A perfect paradise their life had been until about three months before the baby was born. A gulf then seemed to come between them. With time this gulf widened, until they seemed perfect strangers to each other. Then came the crisis. The baby died. They realized then that they could not live together. He called her into the library and put the matter before her. She agreed with him. They would part. 44 The Other Girl "For the sake of our dear child's memory," said he, "I will not apply for a divorce for a year. Then, Mollie, you will be free." "Then, Willie," said she, calmly; "then." Neither could speak for a time. They sat silently looking about the room. How dreary it seemed ! Tears came to her eyes, but she choked them back. A lump came in his throat, but he quickly swallowed it. "I will go now, Mollie," he said. "Will you get my traveling bag for me? Excuse me, Mollie, I forgot. I will get it." "No, no, Willie," she cried, hastily arising from her chair and going upstairs for his suit case. She was back in a short time, and they slowly packed his clothes. He could not see her face. She kept it hidden from him. She picked up his handkerchiefs, and something blue dropped from them. She hastily picked it up and pressed it to her lips. Big tears trickled down her cheeks, and her whole body shook with emotion. "Don't, Mollie, don't," he said, softly. "Don't cry, you break my heart." "Oh, my baby, my baby," she cried. "It was the only one that loved me. Oh, God ! why did you take her ? My heart is broken." "Mollie," he pleaded, taking her in his arms. And Other Stories. 45 "Mollie, please don't. It hurts me to see you cry that way. Would you break my heart?" He had taken her in his arms and was kissing her lips and hair. It was the first kiss he had given her for many months. After a time she became quiet and lay peacefully in his arms. ''Darling," he said, "do you wish me to leave?" "Oh, Willie," she cried, her whole soul in her voice. He kissed her again. Peace settled over their faces. How long they sat entwined in each other's arms they never knew. When they arose at last they kissed the little Vv^oolen shoe. It had been the uniting power. 46 The Other Girl THE SHORTEST DAY. May was to spend the summer with her cousin at Lake Harbor. She was glad to get away from the din of the crowded city. She wanted so much to sail upon the lake and see the green vegetation. There was only one person in Chi- cago she dreaded to leave, and that was Charlie Ray. Charlie worked with his father in the city. They were engaged in a large shipping business, and this was the busy season. Therefore Charlie would not get his vacation until August. May and Charlie had had a disagreement the night before her departure. He declared that he did not care if he ever saw her again ; and, of course, she did not care to see him. So they parted in anger. Cousin Louise met May at the station, and what a jolly time they had. The depot was only a short distance from Louise's home; and it was not long until they were sitting upon the long, And Other Stories. 4]^ cool veranda talking over old Smith College days. After tea they took a walk along the beach. There were so many strange and new sights to see that May thought she would never get used to them. The people of the city were forgotten. Louise did not give her time to think of Charlie, and even he was forgotten for the time being. But that could not last forever. The third day at her cousin's was a trying day for May. The novelty of things began to wear off, and she again was her old self. When she was left alone for a short time the remembrance of that foolish quarrel would come upon her with double force. He was coming up the next Sun- day to spend the day with Cousin Jack, and she would get to see him. He would be there one short day. May burst into tears and buried her face deep in her pillow. It was all her own fault. Now she must stand the consequences. Charlie had always been good and kind to her. She had brought about the quarrel just to see how it would be ; but it had ended very different from what she had thought it would. It was their first quarrel. It seemed as though Sunday would never come. The pleasure began to fade from the in- tervening days. She cared not for golf or tennis, 48 The Other Girl and her cousin began to fear for her health. Often while May was talking to Louise she would relapse into dreams. At last the eventful Sunday came. The train pulled in, and within a short time Cousin Jack and Charlie were riding up the drive to the house. Charlie was dressed in cool flannels, and, to May's disdain, he seemed to be enjoying him- self. Was it because he was to spend the day near her? No, she could not believe it; because when he shook hands with her his salutation and the look from his eyes was as cold as steel. She could have wept, but she would not. She would not let him see that she cared for him. At dinner May surprised Louise by being witty and gay. The meal passed very pleasantly, and afterward the party strolled down toward the beach. Louise walked along with her brother, who told her college tales. May and Charlie took seats among the rocks. For a time they sat silent. "I will be glad," said May, breaking the silence, "when this day is over." "And so will I," retorted Charlie. "Really," said May, "it is the longest day that I have known. I have got so used to soli- And Other Stories, 49 tude within the last week that I almost hate to see any one come." "And I," said Charlie, "am so interested in business that I have not time to think of my friends. I will be glad when to-morrow comes so that I can get down to business once more." Silence. "Don't you think of any of your friends?" asked May. "Isn't there one that you often think about? Surely you are not so occupied that you never think of — of — well, the one you like best." "I am afraid," said Charlie, "that I don't like any one best. I have grown selfish and think about no one but myself. The fact of the mat- ter is, I don't get out much any more." "And so," said May, "you have grown hard- hearted. Well, I don't suppose any one will care about it, and few more will grieve." Charlie hid his mouth in his big hand, while his eyes twinkled with glee. "I have," said May, "grown to be a dreamer. I have of late decided to enter fiction. I will put my whole self into it. From the world I will hide myself and make many books. Oh, Charlie — a — Mr. Ray, you know not how ambitious I have become." "Allow me," said Charlie, coldly, "to congrat- 50 The Other Girl ulate you. I wish you success. I will take the literary reviews and watch your career. May I ask what your pseudonym will be?" This little speech cut May to the quick. 'T will use my own name," said she. The two sat in silence for some time, but were aroused by Louise calling them. Each seemed in no hurry to leave the spot. As they were arising to go the church bells began to ring for league. "It is half after three," said Charlie. "The day is almost gone. Hark! List what the bells are saying. They seem to say : 'What fools you two children are.' Mav, do you think they mean us?" May looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "Charlie," she whispered, "they do mean us. What fools we have been." "Then, May," said he, "you do care for me, don't you, darling?" "Of course, I do," said she, hiding her face upon his breast. "What a day," he sighed, kissing her. "I must go away to-night." "It Is the shortest day we have ever had," said she. "There is a longer day coming," said he, smil- Ine. And Other Stories. 51 THE LOVE OF WINNOA. ''It does not make the least difference how I talk to you," said Harold, looking down into her dark, wondrous eyes. He was talking to Winnoa, daughter of the sixth chief of her race. 'T love you, little girl. I tell you so, and yet you understand me not. Oh, the pity that so many jof you Indian nmidens have no schooling. Liv- ing in the midst of civilization, and yet you know not how to speak the English language. Oh, little one, little one, if you only knew my heart." "I no understand what pale-face say," Winnoa would say at every pause Harold would make. ''I no understand. I no understand." Harold Wesley had just graduated from the University of Illinois and had come out to Arkan- sas for reptiles and such for specimens. He had only been there a week, yet he had fallen des- perately in love with Winnoa, daughter of the great chieftain. He had secured his specimens, but still he lingered on. He could not leave this 52 The Other Girl pretty Indian n^.aiden. Could you blame him? He loved her ; loved her madly. She was about medium height, with large, dark, lustrous eyes. Her figure was slight, while her hair was dark as the raven's wing. She was indeed beautiful. She was lovable and worth loving. He stood close to her, looking down into her eyes. It was all he could do to restrain himself from hugging her to his bosom and pressing kisses to her lovely pretty rose-bud lips. What a beautiful mouth she had. As he gazed at her, it almost drove him mad ; she was so beautiful, and yet so ignorant. "Why don't you answer me, dear one?" he cried. ''Can't you understand I love you. Come with me back to dear Illinois. There we will have a nice tepee and live like civilized people. We will love each other, Winnoa, and be happy. We will come back and see your people often, so that you will never be lonesome or homesick. A chance you will not get to be lonesome for you will live off of my great love. It will be your strength and your salvation. Oh, Winnoa, how happy we shall be !" "I no understand; I no understand," cried Winnoa, excitedly. "Oh, curse the luck!" cried Harold. "God, And Other Stories. 53 my God, why did you put this beautiful creature upon the earth to be a stumbling block for man's feet. I love her, but how must I make her un- derstand ? In what v/ay can I show her my burn- ing heart which is fired by this great love?" ''I no understand," said Winnoa. He was looking heavenward. ''The Great Spirit no understand," she went on. Harold snatched the Indian maiden to his bosom and showered her face, eyes and hair with kisses. He then looked about him, set the Indian maiden to the ground and fled. Winnoa stood looking after Harold as he sped down the pass. He looked neither to the right nor the left, but sped along as though he were mad. 'Tale-face kiss Winnoa, pale-face mad. He be very angry at Winnoa. Pale-face be surprised some day." She smiled. 'Twas a strange smile. Then she relapsed into dreams. Three days had passed. Harold had not seen the beautiful Winnoa since the day he had so desperately made love to her. He was almost wild. He must see her, for upon her rested his future happiness. He called at her father's tepee three times 54 The Other Girl during the morning but she was not there. She was out upon the prairie, they said, and had not returned. He became impatient. He could not wait for her. He would go to White Feather and borrow a pony. He would soon find her upon the prairie. In ten minutes, Harold was galloping across the country. One hand was placed to his brow while he scanned the plains. The other hand held the reins of the wild little beast he was riding. For two hours he rode over the burning plains looking for Winnoa. He looked for her in her favorite haunts but she could not be found. The sun grew scorching hot, the plain threw up a sickly heat. Harold dismounted and tied his horse to a sage bush. He then threw himself in the cool, delicious shade of a large boulder and was soon fast asleep. A blue haze seemed to arise from the prairie toward the west. Harold's pony began to jump and plunge and soon broke his fastenings and galloped wild and free across the prairie. From the south, a cloud of dust seemed to arise from the plain. As it drew nearer, a horse and rider could be distinguished. It was Win- noa. She was riding at break-neck speed toward the boulder. From afar, with her sharp, pierc- And Other Stories. 55 ing Indian eyes, she had seen her lover lay him- self down. The blue haze grew closer and closer. Now you could tell what it was. It was not the heat arising from the plain, but a prairie fire, which was bearing down upon them with the rapidity of an express train. Winnoa swept down upon her lover, caught him by the hair and raised him to his feet. "The prairie is on fire," she cried, pointing toward the west. "Come, jump upon my horse behind me and we will be off." Harold stared at her. Was this Winnoa? Surely not, for this girl was speaking English. "There is no time to waste," she cried. "The fire is close upon us now." Harold looked for his pony. It was gone. He sprung upon her pony behind her and they were off. "To the river," cried Harold. "Go north. If we reach the river we will be safe for the fire cannot jump that." The little bronco fairly leaped along under its double burden. But this could not last for- ever. The strain was too much for so little a horse. The fire was now within fifteen hundred yards of them. The little horse was slowly but surely 56 The Other Girl losing his speed. Winnoa loosened her feet from the stirrups. "He cannot carry us both," she cried without a tremor. "I will jump off. I am sure that then you can reach the river." "No, you will not," said Harold, placing his arm about her waist. "I have found that you are not ignorant, Winnoa, your love is greater than any white woman's. You have just now proved it; and if we must die, we will die to- gether." She smiled, squinted her eyes and looked con- tent. They reached the river by a hair's breadth and were safe from the devouring flames. How cool and delicious the water was! They stood up to their waist in it. Both were silent. "And you knew all the time what I was say- ing to you," said Harold. "Why did you not kill me?" "Because," said Winnoa, dipping her fingers in the water, "I thought you knew it. I went to school in the east. I teach school out here in the winter. As to killing you, I — I " "Winnoa," said Harold, "you're going to mar- ry me." "Well — a — yes, dear pale-face," said Winnoa. And Other Stories. 57 JIM. Uncle Jamie was at his usual haunt, the cor- ner grocery store. About him sat a number of the boys of the town begging him for a story. Uncle Jamie had a wide reputation as a man of great experience, and one who had seen a good part of the world. He knocked the ashes from his pipe and looked about at the little group which had gathered. After a moment of medi- tation he settled back on the box upon which he was reclining, while the group of expectant listeners sat in silence waiting for him to begin. ''Ah," exclaimed Uncle Jamie, "and true it is. Never once have I told you of my old pard, Jim. Jim, he war a good feller — as good a fel- ler as ever walked God's green arth. How well I remember Jim ! No one ever see Jim but what he war smilin'. Yes, good natur'd war Jim ; an' he war al'ays happiest when he war doin' somethin' fer some one. "It war in '62 when Jim an' I fust become acquainted. Durin' the war nither one o' us 58 The Other Girl would go any place without t'other. Ever'one knew Jim an' I t' be fas' friends. I was as much 'tached t' Jim as I could ha' been t' a brother, if I ha' been for'nate enough t' of had one. But that good fortun' ne'er fell t' my lot; an' I hon- estly believe the Lord sent me Jim t' make up for 't. "Jim war an awful sight t' see In battle. Many a time ha' I watched him an' quaked with fear at that smile 'pon his face. His aim war true. Jim war shootin' to kill. He war earnest in everythin' that he did, an' once he started t' do a thin', no power on arth could stop him. "It war in '63 at the Battle of Gettysburg that Jim saved my scalp. We were 'long with a party that war sent t' inclose a little grove on the hill- side. I war feelin' righter'n a fox that day, an' defied the whole Confederate shebang. Jim an' I war sent out as scouts, an' I frisked erbout in front o' Jim as spry as er young kitten. Jim kept cautionin' me ter keep down out er sight ; but I like er young fool did not see it that way. I warn't afraid o' ther sneekin' rebels, an' I wanted them t' know it. But thar, my boys, war where I war not wise. "We came t' ther edge o' ther woods an' looked down into ther valley. The 'hole thin' was chuck full o' ther pesty rebs ! I cursed them, I gnashed And Other Stones. 59 my teeth at them. Oh, how I hated them ! But Jim — he war quiet as a cucumber. He lay thar watchin' their ever' movement. '' '^diYmQ,' said he t' me, 'yer ha' better lay low er some o' them Johnny rebs will take er shot at yer.' But I scoffed at the ide'; but I ha' no more 'an got the words out o 'my mouth when — zip! a bullet struck me in the left arm an' I fell t' ther ground. 'Look you,' said Jim, pointin' t'ward a feller erbout two hundred yards distance settin' in a tree. 'That feller did it,' said Jim, 'an' now I am goin' t' make him leave his position.'' I allers knew that Jim's word war as good as himself, an' I knew that feller would be a deader afore long. "Ther feller in ther tree war loadin' his gun t' take er shot at Jim, but Jim war t' quick fer him. Long an' careful aim did Jim take, an' when ther smoke cleared away we saw ther reb throw up his gun into ther air an' fall head fust t' ther ground. From the loss o' blood T fainted. ''When I awoke I war in ther hospital. I couldn't move at first, fer I war so weak. Ther sun kind o' hurt my eyes. When I could see good, I noticed ther nurse an' some men put- tin' a man on the slab. He war dead, poor fel- ler. Ther nurse came over t' me an' I asked 6o The Other Girl who it was. ^That man/ said she, 'is Jim Dan- vers.' 'Jim Danvers !' I cried. 'Jim, my old pard V 'Yes/ said she, 'the man who brought you here. He was mortally wounded when he laid you on that cot.' Jim, my old pard, Jim, dead. I fell back upon the pillow in a faint. "After I got better the fellers told me how Jim happened t' get shot, carrying me 'cross an openin' t'ward ther rear. He war a brave Jim. I shall ne'er forget him. He gave his life fer me." And Other Stories. 6i THE FOOLERY OF PING PONG. "But can I not see you just once more?" asked Harold. "I don't think your papa will object to let me come just this once." "No," said Fay, "you cannot come any more. In papa's sight you are very detestable. Can you not act like a gentleman?" "Darling," said Harold, "I have not done any- thing wrong. I cannot see why you are so hard on me." "Harold, you know how you are. That you are sickly you cannot deny. Just think, you kissed me four times yesterday afternoon ; and what is worse, papa saw you do it. Can you not control your feelings?" "But, Fay," protested Harold, "you were the cause of me doing it. Those pretty red lips of yours were melting with sweet nectar, and that pretty little pout was too bewitching." "Well," said Fay, picking at her handkerchief, "you — you made a fool of yourself. Papa will never forgive you." 62 The Other Girl "Fay," said Harold, growing excited, "tell your papa I promise never to kiss you again if he will only let me come. Will you do that for me? "No — I — will — not," said Fay, stamping her little feet. "Darling," said he, "you have not deserted me, too, have you?" "Oh, you big old dunce," cried Fay, bursting into tears. "I hate you. I don't want you to come and see me. The idea of you, a great big man, twenty years old, wanting me to tell my papa that you will not kiss me any more if he will only let you come. Boo — you terrible thing. I hate you.'' Fay turned her back upon Harold, rested her head upon the cool arm of the rustic bench and wept. She had always liked Harold, but — he was such a fool. Harold in turn could only look at Fay. She was such a queer girl. He could never under- stand her. "Fay," he said, leaning toward her, "what can I do? Let us both think how we can con- quer and overthrow this trouble. Shall I go and tell your papa that I will try to act the gen- tleman ?" No answer. And Other Stories. 63 "Oh, curse the luck !" he exclaimed, arising from the bench. "I am going. I will never stay in Newport another day. I am doing more harm than good here. I will go to-night. I care not to stay longer. Fay, will you tell me good-by ?" Fay did not raise her head. She wept harder than ever. "Good-by, love," said Harold. "Good-by." "Harold," cried Fay, bounding toward him as he was retreating, "don't go. Don't leave me here all alone. I am afraid to go along the beach alone." "Forgive me, love," said Harold. "I did not mean to leave you here. I was not thinking. It is growing late. We had better start for home." Each looked as though they had lost their last friend. "Harold," said Fay, "I forgot something. Papa said when you came again he would watch us. I had forgotten all about that. Will you come over this evening and have a game of ping pong with me?" "But your papa?" said Harold. '*Oh, we don't mind him if he does watch us. Have you forgotten that often the ball is lost and we have to hunt for it? Very often it goes under the table. I yesterday fixed a silk cloth 64 The Other Girl around the table. Papa will be deeply ingrossed in his paper." "I will be there," said Harold, his face bright- ening. At eight o'clock that evening the game was in •full progress. Both wore flushed and excited faces. Truly they were happy to be near one another; but — curses of all curses — within the library with the door wide open sat papa read- ing the evening paper. During the evening the ball was lost a num- ber of times ; and, strange to say, every time it was lost under the ping-pong table. They would both dive under after it at once and were very slow in emerging. Papa, they thought, had not noticed this ; but he was indeed a close observer of events. He would hide his face behind his paper and chuckle to himself. It was about nine o'clock when Harold and Fay in the last game dived under the table after the ball. They had become bold now and were growing reckless. There was a smothered cooing, then the crisis came. Smack ! Smack ! The room resounded with the two caresses. "O, there you did it, Harold," cried Fay. And Other Stories. 65 "Now you have spoiled the whole thing," cried Harold. "Ping pong?" cried papa, running into the room. Harold and Fay crawled sheepishly from un- der the table. They stood side by side studying the pattern of the carpet. After a time Fay took courage in the silence and looked up at her papa whose face was purple with suppressed mirth. "Papa," cried Fay, throwing her arms around her father's neck, "don't you dare scold us. We are engaged, aren't we, Harold?" "A — a — yes, dad," said Harold, moving closer to papa. 66 The Other Girl SPRING. The rain falleth on the drear earth, Pray tell me what it means to do, The drops splash on the panes with mirth, Soon things will look the same as new. And Other Stories. 67 WITH THE SPRING. The gentle spring has come again, And with it comes sorrow and pain, The lover pleads and pleads in vain To her whose will is hard to bend. 68 The Other Girl THE HAY-MAKER. The farmer in the hay-field works, The sun beats down with scorching rays, Not once his duty does he shirk As he works on day after day. He laughs and sings from morn 'till night, When twilight o'er the meadows steals, Home goes he to his happy wife Who makes him like a king to feel. And Other Stories. 69 THE YACHTSMAN, The yachtsman to his yacht he hies, And over the blue sea he flies, He tacks and veers from side to side, And with the sailor doth he bide. He wears a suit of navy blue. And great wonders plans he to do. His yacht is one of the best make, On it his money doth he stake. 70 The Other Girl THE ANGLER. Doth know what is the one great theme, The ice with skates no longer rings. How beautiful the woodland scene ! The gentle spring has come again. The angler starts o'er field and stream, His angling kit he holds in hand; And with a smile this man he seems The happiest beast in the land. And Other Stories. 71 CAROLINE. I love to take thy hand In mine, Sweet CaroHne, And tell thee that I love but thee, O, how sublime! Thy love o'er me a spell doth cast, My own dear love, I cry at last, Thou art all mine — My lovely Caroline. 72 The Other Girl THE SUMMER GIRL. The summer girl Is on your trail, Beware ! Beware ! Your love she'll win, she will not fall, So there! So there! Her lips are sweet as roses red, With glory crowned Is her fair head, With this sweet girl you'll surely wed — Now I will stop, for there's "nuff said." And Other Stories. 73 UNDECIDED. Some time I think she loves me, And other times I doubt, My love for her will constant be. No power this love can rout. She is the jewel of my life. Far sweeter than the rose. My love at last o'er doubt doth rife, To her I will propose. 74 The Other Girl THE MAN AND THE PHOTO. A man sat silent by a stream, He frowned and smiled alternately, His thoughts were in some far off dream, His heart he felt suspiciously. He did not want to foolish be. His actions were always just so, This was his first real love, you see ; On his warm heart was her photo. And Other Stories. 75 THE WOOER OF THE LAKES. He makes the rounds of all the towns, That border on our western lakes, This man he is no dunce or clown. His happiness has he at stake. He visits none but rich resorts, The maidens fair he tries to woo. They call him a real dead game sport. His blood is said to be of blue. Fine jewels doth this masher flash; If looks were all he would be it; When they find that he has no cash. Our wooer of the lakes is hit. 76 The Other Girl GROWN UP. He clapped his hands and jumped with glee, For happy was young Johnny Lee, He kissed his ma and kissed his pa; For they had given him a saw. He sawed and sawed and sawed all day, And when night came he asked no pay. Pa winked and smiled his best at ma, Would John, when grown up, like his saw? The years have flown since that bright day, And John grown big asks for some pay; And ma just grins and looks at pa, 'Cause John grown big don't like the saw. And Other Stories. 77 WHEN A BOY'S BAD. I do so wish my ma was near, I's bad, that's why she sent me here, I wish now that I had been good, 'Cause it's as dark as granma's hood. What's that thing standin' by the door? Oh, my ! it's crawHn' on the floor. I'm scared, I don't know what to do; It's what mammie calls a hoodoo. Oh mamma, mamma, come to me! I'se sick, dear mamma, can't you see? Here comes my mamma with the light, W'y, the white thing's my big white kite. C A 78 The Other Girl DE DARKY AN' DE CHICKEN. De co'n am planted in de fiel', De darky am happy an' gay, 'Tis time de darky 'gins t' steal, Wat ca's he w'at de whi' folks say ? De neighbo's done raise nice big chicks, Dey's fresh dis spring f'om out de nes', De darky smacks an' licks his lips.; An' when night comes he cannot res'. Wen twelve 'clock an' all is still. Vague dreams de darky's brain dey rack, Excitement make him body thrill ; He get up an' get de ole sack. Ober the hill the darky goes, All de time his lips be lickin', De rooster he begins t' crow ; De darky hab got his chicken. And Other Stones. 79 DE MAN DAT TOILS. De spring hab come at last, ha, ha ! De darky am feelin' quite gay, He'll work an' work in de ploughed fiel', An' glad he'll be t' draw him pay. De cash he'll take t' him dea' wife, She'll kiss him wif a glad, yah, yah ! ''Ole man, you's had a bitter strife; But you's a good hubby, yes sah." De wife she spends the coins for silks. Her hubbie am content wif rags ; But when her clothes him sees him wilts, Dat's wa't drains him ole money bags. The Other Girl. OUR PRAYER. Our God redeem us in the end, For we are only mortals weak, If we on earth Thy name offen.d, To Thee in prayer we humbly seek. At night we kneel when all is still. We beg of Thee our sins forgive. We try so hard to do Thy will; For in Thy faith we wish to live. THE END. NOV 9 1908 ^SS!:SS!!&»!S!;SSS^^