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73Ae 
 
 BASHFUL MAN 
 
 andOthejwhy 
 Charles Pierce Burton 
 
 THE BLUE SKY PRESS 
 ChicagV) 
 
Acknowledgement is made to What to Eat and 
 the Boston Transcript for the use of certain essays 
 contained in this volume. 
 
 76 3^0 3 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 C0t-;GRc.5S. 
 
 : NOV.;lO 1902 
 
 CUA.SS ^ XXc. No. 
 CCPv B. 
 
 Copyright igo2 
 
 by Charles Pierce Burton 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Bashful Man 13 
 
 On Being A Misfit 17 
 
 Carving 21 
 
 After Dinner Speaking 25 
 
 Valentine's Day 31 
 
 The River 35 
 
 The Willow 39 
 
 Nature's Transformation 43 
 
 Government and Seeds 49 
 
 Strawberries 53 
 
 The Dandelion 57 
 
 Daisies and Weeds 61 
 
 The Mediterranean 65 
 
 The Domesticated Feline 69 
 
 Nature's Orchestra 75 
 
 On Being Bald 79 
 
 Women — Young and Old 83 
 
 Apples and Roses 89 
 
 The Harvest Moon 93 
 
 Some Autumn Weeds 97 
 
 On Kindling A Fire ioi 
 
 Playing Whist 105 
 
 The Old Home 109 
 
 Winter's Heritage i 13 
 
 On Growing Old 117 
 
To My Wife 
 Cora Vreeland Burton 
 
THE BASHFUL MAN 
 
 I WOULD like to say a word for that waif of 
 humanity known as the bashful man. Some one 
 must speak for him or he will never be heard, and 
 why not one who has long borne that peculiar rela- 
 tion to society which falls to the exclusive lot of the 
 bashful ? Just why some men are more bashful than 
 others is hard to explain. But Nature certainly dis- 
 criminates against many of her children in a marked 
 degree. They come into the world blushing and 
 never get over it. There is nothing which makes a 
 man look so foolish as to blush. That which is 
 fascinating in woman in him looks idiotic. Es- 
 pecially as he is sure to blush at the wrong time, 
 turn a brazen face to that which should send rivers 
 of blood to his cheeks and grow crimson without 
 the slightest provocation. 
 
 The bashful man is handicapped from the time 
 he leaves his mother's arms until he is encircled in 
 those tender, waiting arms of Mother Nature. The 
 over-modest man is a spectator in mundane affairs. 
 He hangs apologetically in the skirts of society, 
 longing to break away from his thraldom but unable 
 to do so. Many and many a time he resolves to go 
 ahead and do as others do, but his fatal disposition 
 holds him back. Yet, strange to say, bashfulness is 
 often the first indication of dawning intelligence in 
 humanity. When baby hangs his head and refuses 
 to tell what doggie says, there is hope for that child. 
 It sometimes takes wisdom to be afraid. But when 
 a man, ever conscious of his limitations and acutely 
 alive to the geographical position of his feet, is silent 
 
 13 
 
among men and evades the gaze of women, he is 
 looked upon askance and regarded as cold and 
 haughty. 
 
 Poor fellow! In his heart of hearts he knows there 
 is a love for all humanity struggling for expression. 
 He resolves that he will overcome this defed: and 
 plunge into the seethingvortex of society. He actu- 
 ally goes to the church sociable, deliberately setting 
 himself afloat on this sea of dissipation. He thinks 
 he will get away from himself and |delight the whole 
 company with his brilliancy and good fellowship. 
 The door opens. Where now is his cherished brav- 
 ado ? He sees familiar faces along with the strange 
 but his feet are glued to the floor. He wonders what 
 he can do with his hands and earnestly longs for the 
 quiet of his own room with a good book for company. 
 
 As he stands there awkwardly where he entered, 
 a wave seizes him and washes him across to the 
 other side of the room where he remains during the 
 rest of the evening, from time to time assuring 
 the anxious hostess that he is enjoying himself 
 hugely. He always takes his fun that way in home- 
 opathic doses. He sees with envious eyes his friend 
 surrounded by a group of laughing and admiring 
 ladies. O were he that friend! There! An openinj- 
 presents itself! With a feeling of suffocation about 
 his heart, conscious that all eyes are upon him he 
 approaches a beautiful creature and informs her that 
 it is a delightful evening. Then silence ensues — a 
 painful silence and he flees. Once in the dressing- 
 room with his overcoat on his arm, what brilliant 
 things he might have said, come to him unsought! 
 He walks home alone and wonders if any one will 
 
 14 
 
ever love him. Love him ? How little he knows the 
 heart of woman ! Any man can get a wife, and I 
 sometimes think that the meaner the rascal, the bet- 
 ter the wife he manages to find. 
 
 There is no accounting for bashfulness and ap- 
 parently no cure for it. Time and struggle enable 
 him to overcome it in a degree and deceive his 
 friends, but he can never deceive himself. I have 
 seen a bashful young man walk four times around 
 the block before he could bring himself to ring the 
 bell, knowing all the time she would be glad to see 
 him. I have known ministersof the gospel todo the 
 same thing and suffer agony of spirit before making 
 a pastoral call. I have known men too bashful to 
 flee from a woman and suffer greatly not knowing 
 how to break away. 
 
 But she is seldom bashful. Bashful womanhood 
 is something of a myth. Mind, I do not say there 
 is no such thing as maidenly modesty. Neither 
 are all men bashful. But let the average man find 
 himself alone in a company of strange women, he 
 suddenly becomes timid as a fawn. Reason tells 
 him in unmistakable language to flee. Pride bids 
 him stay. This is not the first victory pride has 
 gained over reason. 
 
 Who is the bashful one at a wedding ? Tell me, 
 you who have lived through the marriage service or 
 have listened to the strains of Lohengrin from afront 
 seat. Is it the sweet young bride, with a soft color 
 in her cheeks and a glad Hght in her eyes? Or is it 
 that perturbed youth at her side, that shy, shrinking 
 creature with his heart in his mouth and his knees 
 knocking together like castanets? The clergyman 
 
 15 
 
can hardly hear what response he makes to the all 
 important question and takes much on faith. But 
 listen to her voice, low but clear, distindl, audible 
 throughout the room. Ah, were he not so badly 
 "rattled," that tone would fill him with vague alarm, 
 entirely discrediting the conventional promise to 
 love and obey. 
 
 Therefore I say be kind to the bashful man. If 
 the great law of compensation holds good, some 
 time, somewhere there will be a great reckoning. 
 He may hesitate, perhaps, at the grave and linger 
 modestly outside the pearly gates until St. Peter 
 sees him. Then, I am sure, that impetuous but just 
 saint will throw open wide the portals, grasp him by 
 the hand and lead him into the midst of Paradise. 
 
ON BEING A MISFIT 
 
 THERE comes to nearly every one, at times, 
 a feeling that he is a misfit. And a melancholy 
 convidion it is. Naturemusthave developedhim out 
 of various remnants which she happened to have on 
 hand — good enough, perhaps, as far as they went, 
 but they did not go far enough. She ran out of ma- 
 terial in every direction. Even that which he can do 
 the bestjthere seems to be no opportunity for doing. 
 His finer aspirations must be smothered or held in 
 check by the necessities of existence. The times 
 are out of joint and he seems an alien among his 
 fellows. The books which other people are reading 
 and raving over, he has not read and does not want 
 to. He does not care for Browning, except an occa- 
 sional, homeopathic dose, and Browning being one 
 of the world's great fads, he worries about it. Even 
 Kipling does not attrad him altogether. Privately, 
 although it is not popular to say so, he regards much 
 of this famous author's recent work as a series of 
 literary gymnastics, to be admired for their poten- 
 tialities rather than their art. 
 
 This misfit is ready to acknowledge the genius of 
 these writers and the greatness of Shakespeare, but 
 — and here is where he bitterly bewails his short- 
 comings — he adually does not care to read the im- 
 mortal plays, save now and then some glorious pass- 
 age. He would far rather weep over Eugene Field's 
 "Little Boy Blue" than the misfortunes of Lear. 
 Best of all, he would lie down in the clover with 
 James Whitcomb Riley, "Knee deep in June," 
 
 17 
 
and — "keerlessly 
 
 Sprawl out len'thways on the grass 
 
 Where the shadders thick and soft 
 As the kivers on the bed 
 
 Mother fixes in the loft 
 Alius, when they 's company." 
 Worse yet, as if all these weaknesses were not bad 
 enough, although it will not do to own it, a street 
 piano — a common, ordinary street piano — sets 
 every nerve in his body tingling. How he enjoys a 
 street piano! He tries not to show it, but in spite of 
 himself smiles light up the gloom of his counte- 
 nance, the color rushes to his cheeks and he walks 
 with the elastic step of youth. Poor misfit! That is 
 not music. "Little Boy Blue," whose great tragedy 
 so many aching hearts have lived, may not survive 
 a century, while Shakespeare seems destined to live 
 a thousand years. 
 
 He wonders if any one really enjoys reading the 
 horrors of Lear and Hamlet and the rest of those 
 monumental plays which so defy the ravages of time 
 from Scene First to exeunt omnes in the last act, 
 usually by sword or poison. He never tires of the 
 grand soliloquies, of Hamlet's subtleties, of Touch- 
 stone's quaint humor and philosophy, of Anthony's 
 eloquence. Ah, that is different. The misfit some- 
 times wonders if all these people who are making 
 analytical studies of such colossal works, dwelling 
 laboriously on the hidden meaning of this word and 
 that and reading into the lines much of which the 
 distinguished author probably never dreamed, are 
 not a little given to fad-ism, and if they do not, 
 when it is all over, sink into some favorite chair 
 
 i8 
 
at home and revel in "The Old Swimmin' Hole" 
 and "Jes 'Fore Christmas" which do not mean any- 
 thing in particular, only speak to the heart from 
 which comes the best that is in us all. And while he 
 reasons and wonders, the thought strikes him with 
 overwhelming force that notwithstanding his own 
 comparative indifference, Shakespeare is attracting 
 more attention in the world today than he has in 
 three hundred years and that critical studies of his 
 writings form a literature in themselves which would 
 require a life time to master. 
 
 I fear there are many who do not enjoy gymnas- 
 tics in art, whether in literature or music. Most of 
 us are plain, ordinary people who love melody. We 
 admire the skill by which the prima donna goes 
 through her many vocal contortions; but the melody 
 of the street music quickens the pulse and a bit of 
 "rag time" sets the feet in motion. Cheer up, mis- 
 fit though you be, there are others. Ordinary peo- 
 ple have a large part in life, and there is room for 
 talent as well as genius. The great mountain peaks, 
 looking down upon us through the centuries, awe 
 us with their majesty and inspire us with their 
 grandeur, but they are far away and can be ap- 
 proached only through toil and fatigue. Among 
 the foothills which they love and understand, smil- 
 ing up at the blue,filling the heart with their melody, 
 their beauty and truth, and leading up uncon- 
 sciously to the majestic heights beyond, dwell a 
 great multitude. 
 
CARVING 
 
 THE unwelcome conviction is gradually forcing 
 itself upon me that girls are getting a little the 
 best of the training, which, if true, all must admit is 
 an unfortunate state of affairs. Possibly this arises 
 from the fad: that most of the training falls upon the 
 women of the community whose minds naturally 
 appreciate the needs of their sex. H owever that may 
 be, we find here and there, schools and kitchen-gar- 
 dens for girls. Maidens are shown how to perform 
 the rudiments of housekeeping — to wash dishes, 
 set and serve the table, make the beds. They are 
 trained in the art of building fires, which is certainly 
 amatterof great importance to the future husbands 
 of the country; are taught to cook various dishes 
 and to roast meat. 
 
 The value of all these accomplishments can not 
 be questioned. They are foundation stones in our 
 elaborate social strud:ure. The morals, the very 
 civilization, perhaps the sanity, of the community 
 are largely dependent on them. I would not have 
 this solicitude for girls abated one jot or tittle. Give 
 them all the preliminary training in housekeeping 
 possible. But how about the boys? Is any one 
 teaching them to carve that roast or turkey after it 
 comes steaming from the household laboratory ? 
 This is no matter for trifling. Far from it. It is ser- 
 ious in the extreme, as many a man and woman will 
 bear witness. For, say what you will, carving plays 
 an important part in society. Much discomfiture 
 and many a heart-ache, yes, and stomach-ache as 
 well, is in store for that boy and his friends, if he is 
 
 21 
 
permitted to grow to maturity without having 
 learned to carve. 
 
 The time will surely come when he will be con- 
 fronted with the perplexing problem, how to dissed: 
 the turkey, how to properly carve the roast. Such 
 a moment is one of the most critical in a man's 
 career. The guests, who have long been saving up 
 their appetites for the occasion, are at last seated at 
 the table. The roast turkey, a pile of plates and a 
 dozen or more hungry looks confront this pitiable 
 ignoramus. The head of the house — his wife, poor 
 soul — looks anxious, as well she may; but he is a 
 man, made of sterner stuff; he assumes a calmness 
 born of desperation. While anxiously scrutinizing 
 the steaming platter to discover whether it contains 
 fish, fowl or flesh, and on which end he should be- 
 gin operations, a happy idea seizes him. He calls 
 for the steel and with a series of muscular strokes 
 proceeds to take off what little edge the blade pos- 
 sessed. It is strange what a feeling of importance 
 and confidence is engendered by the simple act of 
 sharpening a knife — a feeling out of all proportion 
 to the result attained. With perspiration starting 
 from every pore, he throws one quick, nervous 
 glance at the flushed cheeks of his wife; yet strong 
 to the last, wearing the look of one who has long 
 been accustomed to carve for a livelihood, he pre- 
 pares for the onslaught. The supreme moment of 
 his life has arrived. For untold ages the universe 
 has been working up to this point. Painful is the 
 ensuing struggle, and the Recording Angel drops a 
 tear. The guests talk of other matters and try to 
 look unconcerned, but they are alive to every con- 
 
 22 
 
tortion, and the poor fellow knows it. 
 
 Of what avail is ordinary education on occasions 
 like this? Lawyers, poets, statesmen, scholars, alike 
 are helpless in presence of this crisis. He may be 
 abundantly able to calculate the distance of the 
 nearest star or to find the corner stone of a city lot; 
 but where is the mathematical formula by which he 
 can determine the exact construction of a roast fowl? 
 He may understand Browning, science may be as 
 an open book, he may be able to trace the evolution 
 of the steaming bird from the primordial unit to the 
 dinner table. In vain! Under excitement of battle 
 men have faced almost certain death with less anx- 
 iety than he feels in the presence of that inoffen- 
 sive fowl. At last he hacks off a leg and separates 
 the joint. If he could only take the thing out back 
 of the barn and put his foot on it! He tries to joke 
 as he removes several savory slices from the table 
 cloth. But all the time his appetite is constantly 
 waning and that of the guests growing more keen. 
 With flushed cheeks, trembling arms, and a tired 
 feeling he finally serves the last plate, his own, with 
 the despised neck, and giving a mental sigh of relief 
 sinks into a less strained position, only to discover 
 that several of the plates first supplied are about 
 empty. But the worst is over. The guests are 
 having a good time. Jokes fly thick and fast, and 
 under cover of the general merriment and goodfel- 
 lowship, he gradually recovers his mental equilib- 
 rium. 
 
 Hence, I say, let us not neglect the boys. It is 
 well enough to train the girls ; they need it. But if 
 you would confer a blessed boon on humanity, teach 
 
 23 
 
the boys to carve; they will be a pleasure to them- 
 selves and friends. All such harrowing experiences 
 will be turned to joy. The carving knive is mightier 
 than the sword, and the man who goeth forth to the 
 feast, proud in the consciousness that he can carve 
 a turkey in dactylic hexameter measure is a person 
 to be envied. What shall we say of the man to 
 whom carving for company is merely an incident in 
 the daily routine ? What shall we say of that won- 
 derful being who can carve and tell a good story at 
 the same time ? Such men actually exist. Their 
 name is not legion, it is true; but they dwell among 
 us and seldom if ever give themselves airs over this 
 accomplishment. Yet is it not a remarkable accom- 
 plishment? To carve well is a great thing; few can 
 do it. To tell a good story is perhaps greater. But 
 to carve and tell a story at the same time ! To what 
 heights does not mankind sometimes attain ! I 
 know such a man. He moves among his fellow 
 citizens like common humanity. Dignity, wealth, 
 learning — all are his; I envy them not. But when 
 he carves, 1 take off my hat and prostrate myself at 
 his feet. Friends forget their hunger in watching 
 the poetry of his movements; and as a crowning 
 glory, one which sets him apart from ordinary mor- 
 tals, he can carve and tell a story at one and the 
 same time. 
 
AFTER DINNER SPEAKING 
 
 IT has been claimed with some show of truth that 
 men more than women love a "good dinner" and 
 it may be said without much fear of contradidlion 
 that men enjoy no form of entertainment more 
 than a good dinner with all that the word implies. 
 Women, to be sure, like to play at eating, to toy 
 daintily with wafers and kisses, but more as a stimu- 
 lus to sociability than from any inherent virtue in 
 the art itself. No man would be content with such 
 frivolities. When a hostess desires to please him 
 she prepares something more substantial. But we 
 must not lose sight of the chief part of the dinner, 
 the good fellowship, and especially must we not 
 forget that modern product of culture known as the 
 after-dinner speech. Whatever may be urged for 
 or against after-dinner oratory, no social fun(5lion, 
 where intelligent men gather around the banquet 
 table, is complete without it, and, whoever else is 
 present, the unfortunate persons who are on the 
 program for speeches are the guests of honor. 
 
 I say unfortunate persons, for surely it is a mis- 
 fortune to feel that you are soon to be called upon 
 to entertain a company. Try as he may, the ordi- 
 nary man cannot escape from the horror of it. In 
 vain he trifles with the good things on his plate, as- 
 suming a careless, unconscious air, or pretends to 
 be absorbed in the conversation of his neighbors; 
 there is a far away look in his eyes which tells a dif- 
 ferent story of inward perturbation. He wishes that 
 his neighbor was in the bottom of the river, or, at 
 least, that he would attend stridly to the business 
 
 25 
 
in hand and let him have a few minutes to colled 
 his rapidly scattering senses. To heighten the illu- 
 sion he laughs loudly at every joke that strays his 
 way, in a strained, metallic voice which startles him- 
 self. Even if he be one of those rare mortals whose 
 mental serenity is not disturbed by a little thing like 
 making a speech, the consciousness is ever before 
 him that if he is to do justice to himself or his 
 friends he must not eat. No matter how hungry he 
 may be or how appetizing the viands, he must only 
 dally with the food. Of what use is a banquet if one 
 must dally ? The brain is an exadling organ and 
 demands undivided attention from the circulatory 
 system. If it is obliged to share and share alike with 
 the stomach neither will do its full duty. Other ani- 
 mals sleep after dining instead of making speeches. 
 Many a speaker finds that his hands are cold and 
 clammy after an oratorical effort, showing that the 
 brain demands the full blood supply. Oliver Wen- 
 dell Holmes had evidently experienced something 
 similar, for he declared it to be a good sign if a writer 
 works with heated brain and cold feet. Some well 
 meaning persons contend that the custom of after- 
 dinner speaking is more ruinous to digestion than 
 pie. Demosthenes used to talk successfully, when 
 no one was around but the ocean, with a pebble 
 in his mouth. But even the great Athenian must 
 have shrunk from the task had he been asked to 
 address the populace, with ice cream and four kinds 
 of cake in his stomach. 
 
 At last the fateful moment arrives; the poor vic- 
 tim of misplaced confidence hears his name called 
 by the toast master and with a feeble attempt to 
 
 26 
 
smile struggles to his feet. The company shove 
 their chairs noisily back and around to get a better 
 view of his agony. The speaker nearly always be- 
 gins by telling what a pleasure it is to address such 
 an intelligent audience. Poor liar ! He is trembling 
 in every limb; at sound of his own voice he breaks 
 out in cold perspiration. His hands feel like chunks 
 of ice and a haze forms before his eyes. He clears 
 his throat, gropes around blindly and with infinite 
 relief lays hold of the back of his chair. Ah, a friend 
 in need is a staunch chair back, tried and true ! 
 Here, at least, is something tangible to be clung to 
 at all hazard. And he does cling to it, moving it oc- 
 casionally with both hands to make sure he is alive. 
 After a little, the haze begins to clear and he thinks 
 he can see a bored look on the faces of the assem- 
 bled guests. He makes a feeble attempt at a joke 
 and subsides, while a wild burst of applause tells of 
 the joy of the listeners that he has finished. Now a 
 strange phenomenon presents itself. Immediately, 
 a host of ideas, brilliant in conception and coloring, 
 wonderful jokes which would have brought down 
 the house, could they have been uttered, flash 
 through his brain. Too late ! Too late ! The 
 orchestra is playing and the company is resting at 
 ease, preparatory to the next speech. But a great 
 burden is rolled from his mind. He becomes al- 
 most hilarious with the reaction which follows,can 
 even watch the struggles of the succeeding speakers 
 with pitying complacency. Finally, he accepts the 
 congratulations of friends as a matter of course, 
 with an air which plainly says, "Pshaw, it was noth- 
 ing; I could have done much better if I had been 
 
 27 
 
given more time." 
 
 If the average after-dinner speech was what it 
 should be, we could afford to sacrifice the indi- 
 vidual for the general good of the company. Such 
 sacrifice seems to be the law of life. To feel at peace 
 with all the world and listen to a bright and brief 
 after-dinner talk is unquestionably a great pleasure. 
 But what shall be said of the weighty and labored 
 discourses which usually follow a feast.? A heavy 
 speech on top of a heavy dinner is too much; it can- 
 not be appreciated. No one desires instrudtion at 
 such a moment. Witness the relief when a speaker 
 contents himself with talking nonsense. The com- 
 pany snatches at the faintest suggestion of a joke as 
 drowning persons at a straw, laughing inordinately 
 whenever there is possible excuse. The ideal after- 
 dinner speech is to entertain, not to instrud. It 
 should be like some delicate dessert — a great deal 
 of fiavor and very little substance, and it should be 
 brief. There ought to be some punishment laid 
 down in the penal code for a man who, having been 
 asked to speak five minutes, consumes fifteen in a 
 labored attempt to kill time. The pradice of im- 
 promptu toasts should be discouraged. No man 
 living can say anything worth hearing without pre- 
 paration. An unprepared talk is invariably too long. 
 Condensation requires time. These brilliant im- 
 promptu speakers possibly keep an assorted lot of 
 speeches on hand which they can work off on an 
 unsuspecting public. The subjed: makes no dif- 
 ference. That is one of the beauties of an after-din- 
 ner speech. If a person is asked to toast the north 
 pole, he can with perfect propriety swing around 
 
 28 
 
to the equator and will be forgiven if he discusses 
 religion or politics. Yet, though ofttimes stupid and 
 long drawn out, we would not part with the after- 
 dinner speech. Far better that we curtail the sub- 
 stantial of the meal and give the brain a chance. 
 Let us rather advance our ideals and endeavor to 
 realize them whenever possible — for, after all, ora- 
 tory is a great and much neglected art. 
 
VALENTINE'S DAY 
 
 WHAT would you not give, mature and ma- 
 tronly dame, or you, care-marked and gray 
 father of an interesting family, to feel once more that 
 delicious thrill of expectancy and the exultation of 
 requited hope which come to your children on Val- 
 entine's Day? I am not certain why thrills should 
 be confined to youth and enthusiasm reserved for 
 immaturity, but certain am I that such is too often 
 the case. We who assume the responsibilities of 
 family are prone to look upon life rather seriously 
 and take matters of sentiment for granted in a very 
 prosaic, undemonstrative way. Life is restricted to 
 so many stomachs to feed and so many bodies to 
 clothe. We overlook St. Valentine's Day as alto- 
 gether too frivolous for our sedate and burdened 
 maturity. Whereas the day surely belongs to us 
 rather than to childhood. For are we not blessed 
 with a valentine whose gentle ministration is not 
 confined to a single day, or week, or year? And do we 
 not, if we live right, live the message inscribed there- 
 on? Ourvalentineis notthe pretty nothing leftover 
 from last year's stock or purchased for the occasion, 
 but a living, loving personification of the time hon- 
 ored v^alentine spirit. 
 
 In spite of ourselves sentiment plays a great part 
 in human affairs. It is one of the real things of life. 
 Deeds may be forgotten but we cherish sentiments 
 from generation to generation, through centuries of 
 time. Who knows or cares anything about that 
 ancient martyr, Valentinus? All that comes down to 
 us through the years is the pretty sentiment which 
 
 31 
 
seems destined to forever attach to the fourteenth 
 of February. Few people are aware that he lost his 
 head for a sentiment in the early years of the Chris- 
 tian era, although most of us have at some time lost 
 ours for the sentiment which perpetuates his name. 
 And although we commemorate good St. Valentine 
 on the fourteenth of February, it is by no means 
 certain that the pleasing custom did not originate 
 long before he laid his head on the block for love of 
 Christ. Indeed traces of the custom may be found 
 among the northern pagans of ancient Europe. 
 Some say that the birds select their mates on that 
 day and the pretty idea finds expression in litera- 
 ture. Quaint, old Chaucer, father of English poe- 
 try, wrote five hundred years ago, "For this was on 
 seynt Valentine's day when every bird cometh ther 
 to chese his mate." Shakespeare two hundred years 
 later alludes to the same tradition in Midsummer 
 Night's Dream, " Saint Valentine is past. Begin 
 these wood-birds to couple now?" 
 
 Others trace the custom to the Roman Luper- 
 calia, an ancient festival held on the fifteenth of Feb- 
 ruary, and profess to read an analogy between the 
 practices observed on that day and those of our own 
 festival. Perish the thought! If we cannot give St. 
 Valentine the whole credit, let us cling to that other 
 tradition of the birds. Trace for yourself, if you can, 
 the analogy. On the festal day known as Luper- 
 calia, members of the two colleges of Luperci met 
 at a cave on the Palatine. Goats and dogs were sacri- 
 ficed, also cakes made of the latest fruits of the har- 
 vest. The foreheads of two young men, selected for 
 the occasion, were smeared with blood from the 
 
 3a 
 
victims and then wiped with wool dipped in milk. 
 Whereupon the youths were required to laugh, 
 when in reality it was no laughing matter, as the 
 sequel will show. Divested of all clothing, these un- 
 fortunate young men were required to run around 
 the hill and strike all women who happened to get 
 in the way with thongs of hide made from the skin 
 of slaughtered victims. Ugh! It makes one shiver 
 to think of it. I am sure such a rite could never be 
 popular in America, with the thermometer playing 
 hide-and-go-seek with the zero point. Possibly the 
 sending of comic valentines may be traced to such 
 a custom, but most of us would prefer the other 
 theory. 
 
 It is interesting to note how not only is life per- 
 petuated from generation to generation but so also 
 are the things and customs of life. We croon to our 
 children songs which were sung at our own cradles, 
 which delighted our grand-parents and great-grand- 
 parents and which will become the possession of 
 generations yet unborn. The children who throng 
 the stores today searching for the precious missives 
 are apparently the same children who thronged the 
 stores in our childhood. The valentines are the 
 same with the addition of many which appeal more 
 to grown up children. There are the same lace work 
 edges, so wonderful, so beautiful; the same bright 
 pictures of two hearts which beat as one; the same 
 envelope with its embossed wreath or border. What 
 joy does the sight of that dainty envelope cause ! 
 How bright the eyes which eagerly greet the post- 
 man! How caressingly the fingers close over the 
 precious missive, loath, yet eager, to open it and 
 
 33 
 
display the mysterious treasure within! How gloat- 
 ingly at length does she drink the contents. It is a 
 little thing, only one of life's too rare flowers, but 
 it is destined to blossom perpetually in memory's 
 garden, even after the roses have faded from the 
 cheeks and eyes once bright are dimmed with age. 
 Who could have sent it? And the little, overworked 
 mother gazing fondly on the loveliness of her own 
 youth says never a word, but her own eyes shine, a 
 glint of sunshine from the long ago plays about her 
 lips, and yes, a thrill passes through the heart. The 
 depth andsacredness of thatthrill the child can never 
 know until in later years she too looks into eyes so 
 like her own, and experiences the greatest thing in 
 life — maternity. 
 
THE RIVER 
 
 TODAY I watched the river stretching itself 
 and swelling with pride and strength, ready for 
 the annual metamorphosis — that almost incredible 
 change from death to life. There is something mag- 
 nificent in the way in which a river, rousing from 
 its lethargy and rising in its might, bursts asunder 
 the fetters riveted by a stern and uncompromising 
 season and casts them off like flecks of foam. I like 
 to look upon this change we call Spring. A few days 
 of sun to weaken the ice, a few hours of rain to swell 
 the flood and our river with a fine burst of rage will 
 tear loose the fields of ice, break them into huge 
 cubes and hurry them out of sight. In a few days 
 the pond will run clear, the frowns will give way to 
 smiles, and mirroring in its depths the blue of the 
 sky, the trees, the buildings and even the dead weeds 
 and grasses which fringe its banks, the river will be 
 itself again. If we could only throw off our chains 
 and burdens with equal completeness! 
 
 There is a fascination about a river which attaches 
 to no other manifestation of Nature. Running water 
 so typifies life that it appeals to all lives. Old age, 
 gazing pensively into the stream and listening to the 
 entrancing murmur, as of angels' voices, sees more 
 than is there portrayed and hears more than the mar- 
 velous music. To the vigor of maturity the river is 
 an inspiration. But to youth, especially, does the 
 river belong,and with youth,inseparabiy associated. 
 Search the fields and gardens of your memory, and 
 somewhere, hidden from all but you, enriching your 
 whole life by its presence, flows a beautiful stream. 
 
 3S 
 
Around that stream cluster the closest of child- 
 hood's associations. How you used to pick your 
 way across, leaping with fearful delight from stone 
 to stone which trembled and turned beneath your 
 little feet! Now, perhaps, you could almost jump 
 from bank to bank with ease. Around yonder bend 
 was the old swimming hole, fountain of joy, where 
 the waters ran deep. Beyond, in a sheltered nook, 
 willows swept the bank in graceful curves and birds 
 poured out their life melody. There were fish the 
 greediest, and there were spent happy vacation 
 hours. Here is some sacred spot indelibly engraved 
 on the memory by associations still more dear. 
 No other stream is quite the same. Its waters 
 were clearer and sang a richer song which is audible 
 through the years. Close your eyes to the present 
 and from out of the past comes again that song, 
 come the confused voices of childhood's com- 
 panions and the bright visions of childhood's joys. 
 O, a wonderful, a living thing is the river — al- 
 ways the same from yearto year, yet never the same. 
 The water which sparkles for us and ministers to 
 our comfort and happiness today will tomorrow 
 minister to others. Drawn heavenward by the magic 
 of our sun, it will float in cloudsof exquisite delicacy 
 and outline, yet still minister to mankind with the 
 revealing, inspiring ministration of beauty. In 
 its sky pictures, its sunrises and sunsets of superb 
 coloring we may no longer recognize our river; but, 
 reflecting those pictures and the gold and crimson 
 of those sunsets, the river hurries joyfully on to its 
 destiny. Gathered in rain drops or frozen into star 
 crystals of snow, our river again and again visits the 
 
 36 
 
earth, again sings its way along to the sea — that we 
 may live. 
 
 Always young, yet how old ! Before white men 
 rested their glad eyes on the beauties of the valley, 
 the primitive children of forest and prairie guided 
 their canoes across our river. Before Columbus was, 
 the stream poured its placid water through fertile 
 fields. Before our Saviour was baptizedin the Jordan 
 it was an ancient river. Before the civilizations of 
 Assyria and Egypt, Greece and Rome arose and 
 passed away, before the beginnings of history, even 
 before man began to be, did our river, perhaps, live 
 and do its work. And when we who seem so impor- 
 tant are gone, our children are gone and generations 
 yet unborn, when the present has become history 
 and we and that history have faded out of the 
 memory and knowledge of man, still our river may 
 sing its song and round out the cycle of its exis- 
 tence, birds will fill the air with their melody and 
 flowers with their fragrance, children will bathe in 
 the waters, lovers will plight their troth and rejoice, 
 old age grow pensive, and God's work of creation 
 proceed toward its glorious culmination. 
 
THE WILLOW 
 
 A LOVER of flowers has delighted many 
 friends, during the past week, by distributing 
 branches of the pussy willow, on which the catkins 
 are unusually beautiful. They are large, of rich 
 mouse color, bearing no resemblance to the ordi- 
 nary flora of the country, and are very suggestive, 
 as the name implies, of tiny Maltese kittens. The 
 beauty of these willow buds bears out the observa- 
 tion, that as a rule only in human beings, and the 
 most civilized races at that, does the female take the 
 lead in color and attractiveness. The most beauti- 
 ful of the willow catkins are males, and right proud- 
 ly should we human brothers welcome them into 
 our humble ranks. They are little cupids. Disdain- 
 ing the usual perianth of flowers, they glory in a 
 nakedness which is truly shocking at this stage of 
 willow civilization, especially when we consider that 
 the tree blossoms early in the season, while the air 
 is yet cool. The first to respond to the warming 
 smiles of the sun in Spring is the willow; its flowers 
 are the first of the year — a fact which bees know 
 well. Ask these busy little insects what is the most 
 certain sign of Spring, and they will tell you, if you 
 can understand their melodious undertone, when 
 the willow blossoms and off^ers them delicious nec- 
 tar — their first food after winter's hibernation. But 
 the bees are not the only ones to appreciate its 
 charms. Eagerly do we appropriate the fruits of 
 their industry — the nediar, stored up for a rainy 
 day. The pussy willow is sought by children, far 
 and near, as the incarnation of Spring and can be 
 
 39 
 
resisted by few grown people. 
 
 The willow, aside from its beauty. Is one of the 
 most useful of trees. There are a great variety of 
 species, of which sixty are found in North America. 
 Its wood is used in making hoops, tool handles and 
 turned wares of various kinds. Paddles for steam- 
 boats are of willow, because it loves the water so 
 well. The twigs of the osier are woven into baskets. 
 The first ropes used by man were willow withes. 
 The bark of some species is valuable for tanning 
 and contains a substitute for quinine. Its ashes are 
 rich in potash; its leaves are sometimes fed to cattle, 
 and in some countries even the young shoots are 
 dried and stacked for the purpose. Although the 
 most peaceful of trees, suggestive of country shade 
 and quiet rivers, the willow has figured largely in 
 war. I n ancient times its wood was used for shields, 
 and today gunpowder is made from its charcoal. It 
 has also come to man's assistance in great engineer- 
 ing feats. In thefamousEads jettiesalongthe Miss- 
 issippi, willow brush was extensively employed to 
 prevent erosion, and willow trees strengthen the 
 dykes of Holland. The sprouts are even put to the 
 inglorious use of correcting the youth of the land. 
 
 But thechief glory of the willow lies not in these 
 or other uses, important though they are. It is dear 
 because of the inseparable association with child- 
 hood days. The boys in years and those other boys 
 grown up cherish the willow in their hearts, — cer- 
 tainly not for the memory of switchings received 
 from reluctant branches, not even because of willow 
 ball clubs which have beguiled so many hours, — 
 but pre-eminently becauseof willow whistles. Many 
 
 40 
 
pleasures may be in store in after years for the 
 youthful mechanic with his new knife, but what later 
 success can compare with the great happiness which 
 enters the careless heart of that boy as he makes his 
 first whistle? Perhaps he has tried a score of times 
 unsuccessfully. At last, the tree lovingly yields 
 its best shoot for the experiment. Not a bud mars 
 the smoothness for the desired distance. Gleefully 
 and heedless of fingers he circles the soft bark with 
 the keen blade and in anxious expectation gently 
 pounds the green surface. Finally,after many trials, 
 he gives a quick twist; the tender shoot gracefully 
 yields its coat, revealing the exquisitely white wood 
 beneath. Did anything ever look so clean? Care- 
 fully one of the gleaming sides is cut partially away, 
 and a hole made in the bark to correspond; the end 
 has already been shaped to fit the mouth. Will it 
 go? One more tiny shaving to let in the air, then in 
 blissful anxiety the fragrant coat is replaced and the 
 wood put to the lips. Hurrah! It whistles! — a 
 fact which the entire neighborhood soon finds out, 
 sometimes to its discomfort. But the old willow tree 
 has not lived in vain. Thatcheery whistle will sound 
 through the years, until, perhaps, its echo is heard 
 across the boundaries of another world. 
 
 The willow, too, has been prominent in history. 
 According to one writer, the political face of North 
 America was altered by thenotesof a willow whistle. 
 A prisoner in a Quebec fortress beguiled the tedium 
 of his confinement by making whistles and distribut- 
 ing them to children. The tones of one were so 
 weird in their quality that the guards became fright- 
 ened, attributing the sound to ghosts. Taking ad- 
 
 41 
 
vantage of this, the prisoner escaped to the British 
 camp and, the only one who knew the secret path 
 up the supposed inaccessible heights, led the im- 
 mortal Wolf to glory and death. Moses, the greatlaw 
 giver,in establishingthe feast of the tabernacle, com- 
 manded his people to take "willows of the brook," 
 and "rejoice before the Lord, your God." Out of a 
 whirlwind spake the Lord to Job, of the hippopota- 
 mus, "the shady trees cover him withtheirshadows; 
 the willows of the brook compass him about." 
 David, that great poet of nature, sang, "we hanged 
 our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof ," 
 namely the rivers of Babylon. David, we may be 
 sure, loved the willow. Is it reasonable to suppose 
 that the youthful shepherd confined his music to 
 the harp? Did not this lover of green pastures and 
 still waters also know the joy in a willow whistle ? 
 
 "The willows of the brook!" How inseparably 
 is this tree associated with running water! At sound 
 of the whistle some half forgotten stream is recalled 
 from the past; we see again the graceful sweep of 
 willows on its banks and hear the merry shouts 
 of boys. Willow! The very word breathes of 
 the water. Sound it, letting the voice linger lov- 
 ingly on each syllable, and there comes to your ears 
 that marvelous music, the entrancing, inspiring song 
 of babbhng brooks. 
 
NATURE'S TRANSFORMATION 
 
 HOW fickle is humanity! More fickle than 
 spring itself, for no sooner does March 
 storm upon us and tantalizing April draw near, than 
 we forget the delights of winter, the dazzling sheen 
 of snow, the crisp and purifying air, the cozy hearth. 
 Away with them! Give the ice man a chance! 
 Give us birds and flowers, green fields and fragrant 
 woods! 
 
 The first robin which braves the fickleness of 
 March amply repays us for all the rigors of winter. 
 With what keen delight we listen, spell-bound, to 
 his melody, after so long a silence! We are all 
 Doubting-Thomases where the first robin is con- 
 cerned. There is no first but ours. Others may 
 think they heard one, but we smile skeptically, con- 
 fident that it was a sparrow. When the plump little 
 fellow appears he comes straight to our yard and 
 sings his first song. We hasten out of doors to ob- 
 serve what ravages winter has made in the garden, 
 noting that the roses are green to the very tips; 
 well, well, that hardy lily must have been up a week 
 or more, and see there, the tulips are pushing their 
 green spines through the mulching. The first thistle 
 which spreads its ungainly self over the ground is 
 welcomed for the promise it brings. Soon the rhu- 
 barb will appear and the asparagus send up strag- 
 gling soldiers to spy out the country, preparatory 
 to the advent of the whole troop. For once we take 
 pleasure in the neighbor's chickens as on the sunny 
 side of the barn they complacently arrange their 
 plumage or search the yard for tender, young blades 
 
 43 
 
of grass. A little later they will profoundly stir our 
 wrath. Now there is music in the lay of the hen and 
 in the conceited prattle of her sturdy spouse; his 
 enthusiastic challenge is irresistible. The frogs, too, 
 in the lowlands, are tuning their strident voices for 
 their ceaseless, summer song. 
 
 These are some of the perquisites of country life. 
 What do people in the city know of spring? No 
 fairy wand waves for them; no song of birds greets 
 their wakening ears. Spring means more dirt, sloppy 
 streets and a warmer sun. We of the country often 
 fail to appreciate our blessings. We sigh for the 
 metropolis, with its greater advantages for making 
 money, forgetful of the greater opportunities for 
 misery. Is making money the chief aim of life? 
 What wealth can bring the early robin to city homes? 
 There nature is set apart; men must make pilgrim- 
 ages to worship at her shrine. Here, in the country, 
 she comes to us, and we are better for the contact. 
 Here is where she lives. Where else but in nature 
 can we look for perfection? When is man more re- 
 sponsive to her teachings than in spring, the glad 
 Easter season? 
 
 I would almost rather hear a good chorus of frogs 
 in the spring time than grand opera at five dollars a 
 seat. If a few of these interesting creatures can make 
 such a noise, what a tremendous chorus they must 
 have had in old Egypt when Moses called millions 
 of them out of the swamps and marshes until they 
 filled all the land. 
 
 Surely the Easter tide is the most interesting 
 season of the year. The very air is filled with mys- 
 tery; All nature seems bursting with some great 
 
 44 
 
secret. Wonderful are the hidden processes which 
 have been set in motion by a few days of sunshine 
 and rain. In forty days and forty nights, the entire 
 country-side will be a mass of bloom. O, the wonder 
 of it! What is this thing we call life? Where are 
 those roses now? Stiff and straight stand the canes 
 and unattrad:ive in themselves. Only through the 
 eyes of faith can we look into the future and see 
 roses. We drink from the same soil as do our rose 
 cousins. We breathe the same air, rejoice in the 
 same sunshine, are loved by the same Creator. The 
 same possibilities for truth and beauty abide in each. 
 And yet that bare and careless stalk, absorbing in 
 some mysterious manner carbon from the air and 
 moisture from the earth, will produce a rose, and 
 we, — O God, our jails and alms houses and dens 
 of iniquity! 
 
 I saw a dandelion in the front yard yesterday. It 
 had pushed through the ground and was just begin- 
 ning to show its homely and persistent teeth and 
 spread over the grass. Such is the perversity of 
 human naturethat the sight awakened no animosity. 
 On the contrary, the few who noticed it adiually 
 smiled with pleasure and satisfad:ion. "Look," they 
 said, "spring has come." Later in the season a 
 dozen hands may be raised against it and butcher 
 knives and weed exterminators will be brought forth 
 from their hiding places. Who can stand unmoved 
 in the presence of the first dandelion of spring, with 
 its promise of greens, of dewy mornings and golden 
 sunshine? Not I, at any rate. As I gazed my bosom 
 swelled, and, stretching forth both hands, I ex- 
 claimed after the sublime manner of Byron: 
 
 45 
 
heart for they shall see God." 
 
 O, this ceaseless striving for the future, vague 
 hope and fear, necessary, perhaps, in man's intel- 
 lectual and moral chaos! What is that future but 
 the present drawn out? And what promise can the 
 future bring more than this truth of the present, 
 which being true in the present must necessarily be 
 true in all time? I recently asked a maiden what 
 quality she most admired in men and she answered 
 with simple frankness, "goodness," not of the nega- 
 tive, impotent sort, but goodness in its broadest 
 sense. Here, thought I, is a true child of nature. 
 For it is so with our Great Mother. Only to the 
 pure in heart, does she open the doors of the inner 
 temple and reveal not only a beauty which is the 
 visible expression of God's thought, but God him- 
 self. One who is acquainted with his own being can 
 learn to measure his relative goodness by the reve- 
 lations which nature makes to him. Happy is he 
 who can rise above the sordid affairs of life into a 
 higher, spiritual atmosphere; can hear God in 
 whispering breezes and murmuring water; can see 
 God and his revealed purpose in tree and flower; 
 in the great song of life can detect divine harmonies. 
 
GOVERNMENT AND SEEDS 
 
 MY heart was gladdened the other day by the 
 receipt of a package of garden seeds from 
 the United States Government, through the good 
 auspices of a Congressman who ranks high in the 
 estimation of his country. The package contained 
 a choice assortment of seeds, — lettuce, radish, 
 bean and beet with a few watermelons thrown in for 
 luck, calculated, you must admit, to tickle a well 
 ordered imagination and awaken enthusiastic vis- 
 ions of spring and early vegetables in spite of bliz- 
 zards and snow storms. It is very pleasing to be on 
 such intimate terms with a real, live Congressman, 
 who, in the hurry and bustle incident to conducting 
 the internal affairs of this great country has time 
 also to look after the internal affairs of some humble 
 countryman. Note, too, the corred: philanthropic 
 spirit in which the seeds were sent. Did this famous 
 man forward a bushel of potatoes, or beets, or a 
 package of peas ready grown, their green pods re- 
 freshing the eye and making the mouth water un- 
 duly for the contents? Not a bit of it. For that 
 would be placing a premium on idleness. To profit 
 by the gift I must labor, stir the soil, drink in the 
 oxygen of a spring morning, absorb the life virtue 
 of spring sunshine, — in short, become a better 
 citizen. 
 
 It is gratifying, also, to be so highly regarded by 
 this great Government; to feel that you are neces- 
 sary to the Department of Agriculture. I do not 
 mention this incident of the seeds in a vainglorious 
 spirit. Far from it. But simply to record a circum- 
 
 49 
 
stance which demonstrates beyond dispute that 
 republics are not ungrateful. Anyone can get mail 
 when the necessary postage is affixed. But here was 
 a package on which was no stamp. "Official busi- 
 ness" was the magic talisman which sent it forth on 
 its important mission, which brought trains and 
 postal clerks into my service. How complacent it 
 makes one feel to get a government envelope with 
 the autograph of some highly esteemed Senator 
 or Representative scrawled over the top thereof. 
 Government usually seems so far off. We speak of 
 it as something foreign to ourselves, in which we 
 have no part. What does Government care for us? 
 Then some stormy morning when the world looks 
 dark, the mail carrier comes with an air of import- 
 ance and leaves us a package of seeds. Government 
 at once takes on new meaning. We are again citizen 
 kings, a part of the greatest Government on earth. 
 Is it not fine for our Congressmen to take such 
 interest in gardening, which is reputed to have been 
 the first of all human occupations, and even at this 
 late day is of paramount importance? The great 
 power of habit is hereby shown, and the value of 
 getting a boy started in the right dired:ion. Strange 
 as it may seem, many of our Congressmen were 
 once boys (I trust I am not giving away family 
 secrets) — little, freckle-nosed boys, barefooted and 
 with one suspender fastened by a shingle nail. At 
 this blissful period of their lives, when they cared 
 nothing for Presidents or Speakerships, were inter- 
 ested in no public question save that of expansion, 
 most of them labored in the country. There, all 
 unconscious of future honors, they learned the dis- 
 
 50 
 
 / 
 
tinguishing traits of pumpkins and beets, commit- 
 ted whole rows of corn and potatoes to memory, 
 and indulged in similar agricultural pursuits, which 
 have since made them so invaluable an adjunct to 
 farmers' picnics and county fairs. 
 
 They are no longer boys, yet retain all their boy- 
 ish enthusiasm for seeds. What an interesting sight 
 it must be to see these great men in Washington, 
 after a day of unusual mental strain in the halls of 
 Congress, pull off their coats and goout into the 
 garden to gather seeds for some less fortunate 
 friend. 
 
 It is a fine thing, too, for the United States Gov- 
 ernment to take such interest in an humble citizen ; 
 after sowing the West Indies and Philippines with 
 grape and canister, thirteen-inch shells and the like, 
 to come down to the real business of life and vir- 
 tually admit that war is but an incident in a nation's 
 career, important at the time and far reaching in 
 its results, yet an incident and sometimes an acci- 
 dent; that the great ideal of our country is not con- 
 quest, but civilization and democracy; the great 
 strength of our country lies not in battleships and 
 armies but in its men and women, fitted by their 
 uses of peace to meet the emergencies of war. For 
 the great life of our Nation is a life of peace, and its 
 chief occupation is the raising of pease and other 
 seeds, and sometimes cane. 
 
 I did not think my skill as a gardener, however 
 well known by my neighbors and however well ap- 
 preciated by my neighbors' fowls, would so soon 
 penetrate to the Capital. Who knows ? Perhaps the 
 President, himself, suggested the sending of this 
 
 51 
 
package ! "Old man," he may have said, affedion- 
 ately, "I understand that a newspaper friend of 
 mine out in the rural districts has raised some all- 
 fired big beats. Give him these seeds with my com- 
 pliments, ask him to plant them in the full of the 
 moon and send me a record of the results, with any 
 recommendations he may be willing to make for 
 the benefit of his distra6ted, but appreciative coun- 
 try." 
 
STRAWBERRIES 
 
 DURING the early days in May when clouds, 
 perhaps, hang heavy overhead and life does 
 not seem worth living, it is cheering to read that 
 strawberries are ripe in Southern Illinois and the 
 crop promises to be an unusually large one. There 
 are few things better calculated to drive away mel- 
 ancholy and reconcile one to physical existence than 
 ripe strawberries. I know it is common to be think- 
 ing of eating. "Get on a higher plane," says our 
 ethereal friend ; "think of your soul and eat a few 
 platitudes for dinner." All of which may be well 
 enough, but no one eats strawberries, — that is, no 
 one who has a proper conception of the matter. He 
 absorbs them. And as the rich flavor, the quintes- 
 sence of spring, permeates through his system, he 
 takes another hold upon life and begins to think 
 that the world is very beautiful, after all. I am will- 
 ing to admit that eating is an expensive habit, even 
 if it be not altogether bad, but consuming great 
 luscious strawberries, with a sprinkling of sugar and 
 a dash of cream, if you like, is not eating. The 
 daintiest bud of womanhood, with eyes of heaven's 
 own blue, and rich red lips that open like a kiss, 
 and I am sure are utterly unconscious of even the 
 existence of roast beef and cabbage — such an 
 ethereal being as this does not look at all out of 
 place toying with a strawberry. It is a pretty sight 
 to see a dish of this royal fruit melt away before 
 Her Dainty Highness, like dew before the sun. 
 
 How like a maiden's heart is the berry shaped ! 
 At least like the pictures of one sometimes found 
 
 S3 
 
in the back of the dictionary. I never happened to 
 see a maiden's heart. How tender and easily 
 broken ! Coarseness and selfishness, mascuHnity al- 
 most, seem out of place in its presence. And what 
 flavor! In that first ecstatic, irresistible, indescriba- 
 ble taste one absorbs the glory of the entire 
 spring, — long sunshiny days and moonlight 
 nights ; hears the singing of birds, the rustling of 
 trees. Standing on the threshold between spring 
 and summer, each season is revealed in its luscious- 
 ness. John Burroughs, that keen observer and great 
 writer, says that he once potted a few plants and 
 grew them in the house. They ripened in March 
 and filled the room with their deUcious odor, ap- 
 parently teasing the appetite beyond all endurance. 
 "For", he naively continues, "there were not many 
 of them ; just enough to make one consider wheth- 
 er it was not worth while to kill off the rest of the 
 household so that the berries need not be divided." 
 I do hope they have strawberries in heaven. I 
 would far rather stroll through an ethereal meadow 
 with wild strawberries hidden in the grass and graze 
 like Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon, than walk on 
 streets of shining gold. 
 
 Wild strawberries! How the words bring back 
 youth and the dear, old days in New England or 
 New York. Fruit growers have accomplished won- 
 ders but have not been able to transfer the elusive, 
 wild flavor which the proudest berry that grows in 
 your garden can not equal. Half up the mountain 
 you will find them shyly hiding in the grass. Like 
 real maidens' hearts, they will not yield themselves 
 unsought. You must love them and show your de- 
 
 54 
 
votion. Down on your knees ! Nay, throw yourself 
 prone at their feet, if you would win them. What 
 though yonder in the valley the busy world is re- 
 vealed. Here is the divine music of Nature, the 
 whispering of pine trees, glimpses of hill-side and 
 valley and woodland, the perfumed breezes of 
 spring ; here are strawberries. I would not give the 
 memory of a single afternoon of childish joy, roam- 
 ing the hills for strawberries, for all the wealth of 
 Croesus and a forgotten boyhood. 
 
THE DANDELION 
 
 IN walking or driving about town in May, one 
 is impressed with the great number of people on 
 their knees, bending over the pretty lawns. The 
 most natural inference is that they are engaged in 
 worship, and surely no fairer shrine could be found. 
 But they are not at their devotions — far from it. 
 In fact, the opposite is almost true, for some of 
 them are swearing. All are doing their best to exter- 
 minate the dandelions. It is hard work, too; it 
 makes one's back ache, creates a discord in the gen- 
 eral harmony of nature, and, worse than all else, 
 bags the knees of one's trousers — if that one hap- 
 pens to be a man. It is really the ruination of the 
 nether garments. A little frolic on the front lawn 
 with the dandelions would have made Apollo Bel- 
 videre, himself, look bowlegged — providing, of 
 couse, that Apollo wore trousers, which he ought 
 to have done if he didn't. A popular clergyman, 
 whose name I will not divulge for the sake of his 
 family, spent almost an entire day digging dande- 
 lions with which his large yard was thickly spat- 
 tered. He finally gave up in disgust and went down 
 town, thinking anything but ministerial thoughts. 
 What was his surprise, on returning at supper time, 
 to see a marvelous stretch of green without a yellow 
 head in sight. It made him happy the entire even- 
 ing, for he was not aware that dandelions, following 
 the example of many merchants, close their places 
 of business at six o'clock, and he imagined that he 
 had succeeded in the work of extermination. The 
 next morning he did not miss a single blossom. 
 
 57 
 
What has the poor dandelion done to deserve 
 such relentless enmity ? Of what enormity has it 
 been guilty that it should be hewn down and cast 
 into the oven ? Is it not as pretty as the rose? Is it 
 not the first blossom to greet us in spring and the 
 last to leave in fall — often smiling on us in De- 
 cember? There are only three months in twelve 
 without the dandelion. How entrancingly beautiful 
 are the rich, green lawns, dotted with specks of 
 gold, as if bits of sunshine had been caught and held 
 for our inspection and delight ! 
 
 But, if the esthetic side of the dandelion fails to 
 appeal to you, there is that other, considered by 
 some more practical. Does not this humble plant 
 minister to the physical needs of man ? We cannot 
 eat grass, let the lawn be never so fair and tender. 
 No one ever ate grass, except Nebuchadnezzar and 
 he did not make a success at it. But dandelion 
 greens ! Ah, there is something that should appeal 
 to all. The first, tiny, yellow eye, which opens after 
 a long, hard winter, telling of the glories of spring, 
 does not receive a warmer welcome in the heart 
 of storm-bound humanity than does the selfsame 
 plant receive in the stomach. A man who is color- 
 blind can appreciate greens. Then there is dande- 
 lion coffee. What ! Never heard of this delectable 
 drink, warranted to cure all the ills to which flesh is 
 heir? There are worse things in the world than a 
 concoction of dried dandelion root. Is it not a com- 
 forting thought in hard times, that so many of our 
 door yards contain both food and drink along with 
 other things too numerous to mention ? 
 
 If these great arguments fail to reconcile you to 
 
 58 
 
 n 
 
the ubiquitous dandelion there is a sentimental side 
 to the plant. Is there a woman so old that she has 
 forgotten the joy of making dandelion chains, 
 link after link, and dandelion curls ? Is there a man 
 who even yet does not feel an impulse to pull the 
 hoary head from some venerable, stately blossom 
 and blow through the hollow, milky stem, to pro- 
 duce the note of a miniature organ ? Since time 
 immemorial have romantic maidens plucked these 
 gray haired flowers to see if their sweethearts really 
 loved. Close they hold the whitened heads to cherry 
 lips and blow long and hard. The gray hairs scatter 
 far and wide to take root in lawns and gardens, the 
 bald pate of the blossom appears, and, see ! not one 
 hair is left where there were a hundred a moment 
 before. The sweetheart loves ! Boys, less sentimen- 
 tal, blow to see if their mothers want them and they 
 blow thrice that there may be no doubt as to their 
 temporary freedom from maternal authority. I no- 
 ticed two girls giving dandelions the names of their 
 mates and gaily tossing them in pairs into the 
 brook to learn their fate. Side by side, some of the 
 floral couples glided swiftly along until out of sight ; 
 again one would strand and leave its companion to 
 finish the journey alone. Thus we all float through 
 life. 
 
 If you are not moved by the practical, the artis- 
 tic, or the sentimental side of this remarkable plant, 
 the poor, down-trodden dandelion must make the 
 best of it. I have a neighbor to whom the sight of a 
 yellow head, nestling in the grass, is like waving a 
 red flag in the face of an unmentionable beast. 
 Early and late he toils on his lawn from which he 
 has already this season gathered six bushels and ex- 
 
 59 
 
pects to make it twelve before the summer is far 
 advanced. He says with Grant that he will "fight it 
 out on this 'lion if it takes all summer." All of which 
 is proper enough if he feels that way, but he always 
 ends with offering to loan me his "weed eradicator." 
 Some people cannot take a hint, and have to be 
 kicked before they see a point, but even a gentle, 
 little prod like that is sufficient to send me into the 
 yard, armed with a butcher knife, to bag my trous- 
 ers in vain attempts to exterminate the dandelions, 
 while he looks on approvingly. But it is of no use. 
 They come up bright and early the next morning 
 and smile cheerfully as I pass. Flowers of hope and 
 truth are they, springing eternal on the breast of 
 Nature, and, though crushed to earth, rising again. 
 Neither do they require hoeing and watering and 
 do not have to be covered on frosty nights. Eastern 
 people in California are pining to see one of these 
 bright blossoms while the California poppy which 
 we of the east cultivate assiduously with such scanty 
 results, grows there in wild profusion. I have often 
 been tempted to plant and tenderly care for a dan- 
 delion as an experiment to see if the grass would 
 not creep into the bed and choke out the flowers. 
 
 "That is all very well," I hear some one say. 
 "No doubt the dandelion is very pretty in its place. 
 But its place is by the road side and along the rail- 
 road track, not in my dearly beloved lawn. I, too, 
 like the dandelion. So am I fond of roast beef, but 
 do you suppose I want to fill my door yard with 
 cows?" The logic is unanswerable and the conclu- 
 sion, irresistible. All considerations of beauty, sen- 
 timent and the practical vanish in a trice. Welcome, 
 the weed eradicator ! The dandelion must go ! 
 
 60 
 
 n 
 
DAISIES AND WEEDS 
 
 SOME of this year's "sweet girl graduates" Have 
 been editorially criticised because they chose 
 the daisy for a class flower — "a mere weed," says a 
 prosaic editor, "the bane of farmers". "Such senti- 
 mental liking for the daisy, the golden rod and 
 other weeds," continues the utilitarian, "is a fad, 
 unworthy of cultured people," or words to that ef- 
 fect. Are daisies weeds? Well,sobeit. They are none 
 the less beautiful on that account. To be sure, their 
 foliage is not much to brag of, nor are they sought 
 after for their fragrance, but what appeals to the eye 
 and through our sense of beauty to the soul more 
 than a field of daisies, looking up to heaven with 
 sweet modesty, nodding with each passing breeze ? 
 Appreciation of beauty depends upon the point of 
 view. The editors in question regard these blossoms 
 from the standpoint of utility. They find no use for 
 the daisy, utterly forgetful that beauty has its own 
 place, and a great one, in the world's development. 
 If the owner of the whitened field is a farmer, he 
 probably considers his daisies weeds, for the daisy 
 does not, it is true, make good hay. It is not con- 
 sidered a delicacy by man or beast. Neither is the 
 rose for that matter, so where is the superiority on 
 that score? The trouble with many of us is that our 
 artistic sense is circumscribed by the immediate use- 
 fulness of an object. Carry this idea to its legitimate 
 conclusion and you will transform our pretty, green 
 lawns and parks into unsightly hay fields. Yet, even 
 hay fields are picturesque under harmonious condi- 
 tions. 
 
 6i 
 
If the editor were running the universe he would, 
 no doubt, arrange things on a different plan. Under 
 his benign administration, what we call weeds would 
 require an extraordinary amount of cultivation to 
 make them grow ; while their aristocratic brothers 
 and sisters would grow nights and Sundays, utterly 
 indifferent to their environment. It must be con- 
 fessed there is much to commend in this idea and 
 at first thought one feels like exclaiming "hasten 
 the day." It would be a new and altogether delight- 
 ful sensation to return from an outing and find our 
 choice bed of purslain stunted and killed for lack of 
 hoeing; to stroll into the garden, if we are fortunate 
 enough to have one, when the morning dew glistens 
 from a thousand leaves, and discover our pet bur- 
 docks withered and dead for want ofwater; to watch 
 the white clover choke and crowd out the plantain; 
 roses instead of rag weed spring up in the middle of 
 the drive, and flowers by the road side everywhere. 
 Nothing tries the soul of an ordinary mortal more 
 than, returning from a brief vacation, to find a 
 bushel of thistles in his greatly cherished lawn. 
 Where they come from no man knoweth, but he 
 can even feel their noxious presence. From a pure- 
 ly artistic standpoint the thistle may be beautiful, 
 but no one can appreciate its beauty under such cir- 
 cumstances. It is only when we call it a cactus and 
 cultivate it assiduously with meagre results, we feel 
 it worthy a place in our affections and conservatory. 
 This brings us to the question, what are weeds? 
 Weeds are the ancestors of flowers. The sweetest 
 rose that blooms, beloved alike by man and worm, 
 was once a weed. Weeds may be described as her- 
 
 62 
 
baceous plants out of place. Transplant the daisy 
 weed from the hayfield into the garden and it be- 
 comes at once a beautiful flower ; daisy bouquets all 
 summer long will be the result. 
 
 But whether weed or flower, it is worth a trip in- 
 to the country to see the daisy fields. Go on your 
 wheel, the cars, drive or walk, any way to get there. 
 First you will see them in timid, scattered patches 
 along the road-side, as if fearful of trespassing; then 
 your way will be through continuous bloom ; fin- 
 ally you will come to a field literally white with the 
 pretty, modest blossoms. Go into the field ; throw 
 yourself prone on mother earth, and with daisies 
 nodding and whispering over your head, blue sky 
 and fleecy clouds far above and love of nature in 
 your heart, forget for a moment care and the money 
 question and thank God that you are alive. 
 
 In truth, the daisy is an ideal class flower. Daisies 
 are beautiful, yet modest. There is no pretense or 
 false pride about them, yet they look the world in 
 the face. Quick to take advantage of favorable cir- 
 cumstances, they nevertheless make the best of all 
 circumstances ; do good to those who spitefully use 
 them and although trodden under the feet of unap- 
 preciative humanity, come up smiling. They are 
 stayers, flourishing with tenacity of purpose which 
 is itself an inspiration. The daisy may be likened to 
 the modern club or lodge. It believes in co-opera- 
 tion, in the brotherhood of the race. For the daisy is 
 not a single flower; it is a whole colony, male and 
 female, who work together for a common object, 
 love, marry and rear children. The yellow eye in 
 the centre of the daisy consists of many tubular 
 
 63 
 
blossoms. The outer white florets, from which 
 maidens love to know their fortunes, are distinct 
 flowers, members of the daisy club. These white 
 eyelashes are indeed a club within a club — a 
 woman's club, being composed entirely of females. 
 There is not such great difference between human 
 beings and plants after all. We, conceited animals, 
 think flowers were created for our especial benefit ; 
 the rich coloring to delight our eyes; the pleasing 
 fragrance for our delectation. But while, man-like, 
 we appropriate these things, they are not ours. The 
 brilliant hues of our garden pets are to attract, not 
 us, but bees and other insects in search of honey. 
 The artistic markings of the tiger lily are simply 
 guides to the honey cup ; the soft fragrance of the 
 sweet pea blossoms is to lure the insects ; and all 
 this solicitude for bees and insects, from which man 
 profits so greatly, is because the flower youths and 
 maidens wish to get married. The daisy and golden 
 rod weeds ! The next thing we know some one will 
 insist that sunflower and dandeHon blossoms are 
 not beautiful. 
 
THE MEDITERRANEAN 
 
 IT is said that starving men dream of feasts and 
 feasting. So, too, have I and you, perhaps, in the 
 midst of winter, starving for a taste of woodland 
 and meadow and a draught of the perfumed and 
 balmy atmosphere of spring, sometimes dreamed of 
 fortunate friends basking somewhere in the sun- 
 shine of fair Italy, on the historic shores of the 
 Mediterranean. Think of that, you toiler at your 
 bench, you slave of a dingy office, you weary man 
 of affairs ! To most of us the Mediterranean is but 
 a fascinating dream and must ever remain so. It is 
 a part of our great dream-life, which, after all, is a 
 most important part of our earthly career. Books, 
 the writers of which we may never see and whose 
 word we may well doubt against the evidence of our 
 own senses, — books tell us that there is a Medi- 
 terranean. But, for one, I intend to ask my friends, 
 as soon as they return, if there really is such a place, 
 or is it only a phantasmagoria of the imagination ? 
 We have heard much of this far-away sea, the blue 
 of its sky and the glory of its sunshine. But here are 
 people we know who are actually going there, so 
 it is claimed ; are there now, in all probability. 
 And in the course of time they will return and talk 
 learnedly and copiously of Italy, of Venice, Flor- 
 ence, Rome, Vesuvius and other dream-places, and 
 we shall listen respectfully, knowing well that such 
 scenes exist only in that wonderful world, without 
 time or space or law of gravitation — the imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 Yet, if we accept only those things as true that 
 
 65 
 
are bounded by the limit of our physical percep- 
 tion, the world is narrow indeed. Imagination leaps 
 over the intermediate waste of land and ocean and 
 time and creates a Mediterranean which is our own 
 splendid dream, more real than that which is actual 
 and present. To the rude fisherman drawing his 
 net in its placid waters the Mediterranean is a place 
 to fish. But I, in whatever land or clime, see not 
 only two thousand miles of beauty which eyes and 
 soul would fain drink in, I see the sweep of history. 
 Across these waters from old Egypt and Phoenicia 
 are wafted the germs of civilization. Great Greece 
 rises from its azure flood. I follow the wanderings 
 of Ulysses, whose name Homer has made more en- 
 during than the hills. Xerxes with his two million 
 Persians and that mighty fleet, four thousand ships, 
 proudly embarks on this ancient sea and hurls him- 
 self on these wonderful Greeks at Salamis. There is 
 a battle at which imagination stands appalled. The 
 new civilization triumphs and flourishes, until Alex- 
 ander sighs for more worlds to conquer. 
 
 Across these waters Aeneas, of whom Vergil sang, 
 makes his way to Carthage, — and Italy; Rom- 
 ulus lays the foundations of mighty Rome, and 
 Rome rules the world. Across this sea, again and 
 again the great Hannibal and his Carthaginian war- 
 riors in vain hurl their strength against this Rome, 
 and across the sea echo the words of Cato, thun- 
 dered in the Roman Senate, "Carthage must be de- 
 stroyed." Paul, that wonderful man of God, one of 
 the grandest figures in all history, through ship- 
 wreck and sufi^ering, every inch a king, though in 
 chains, is dragged over this beautiful but treacher- 
 
 66 
 
ous sea to Rome and martyrdom and immortality. 
 Spain rises into greatness. A Columbus sets out 
 from a Mediterranean port and discovers a new 
 world. The tramp of mighty armies and the horrid 
 clash of arms shake all Europe; then the great Na- 
 poleon beats out his soul at Elba. Ah, there is much 
 to see in our Mediterranean. 
 
 Surely, here are scenes worth visiting. Yet many 
 profess not to care for travel — a most comfortable 
 condition of mind when one has not the wherewith- 
 al. Said Emerson, 
 
 "Why seek Italy, 
 Who can not circumnavigate the sea 
 Of thoughts and things at home and 
 
 still adjourn 
 The nearest matter for a thousand days ? " 
 Why indeed? And yet, I could be induced to 
 seek Italy and let the thoughts and things at home 
 shift for themselves a season. After all, there is 
 virtue in contact. Fed through the physical senses, 
 the imagination burns more brilliantly. The Old 
 World is the home of History. Under the blue of 
 Italy's sky, methinks one could feel the centuries 
 surging through his veins. 
 
THE DOMESTICATED FELINE 
 
 MY neighbor has been having an experience, 
 during the past few weeks, which, although 
 common enough perhaps, was harrowing in the ex- 
 treme. Last fall a tramp cat took up her abode in his 
 cellar, unmindful of the fact that she was not wanted. 
 It mattered not that sundry portions of milk and 
 crumbs were doled out to her grudgingly ; she ate 
 and was thankful. Many were the plans proposed 
 for getting rid of the unwelcome guest without hurt- 
 ing her feelings. The humane owner of the cellar 
 aroused the suspicions of his friends by making se- 
 cret night excursions to various parts of the town, a 
 basket hung on one arm. They little knew that with- 
 in the basket the despised cat clawed and struggled 
 for liberty. When he had reached some out-of-the- 
 way place, remote from home, puss would be 
 turned loose. With a bound and a yell she would 
 put a safe distance between herself and her tormen- 
 tor, then stop and gaze at him reproachfully until 
 he would feel as if he had been dodging the assessor. 
 Bright and early the next morning she would be at 
 her old place near the cellar door, waiting for her 
 breakfast. Once, he took her so far and by such an 
 intricate route that days elapsed before her return, 
 and he was pained to see that she had grown as thin 
 as a shadow. The atrocities which a humane man will 
 commit from the kindness in his heart are truly as- 
 tonishing ! As a last resort, the cat was chloro- 
 formed in a barrel and taken out and buried. But 
 she was at the cellar door the next morning, as usual. 
 In despair, the wretched man took her to his office. 
 
 69 
 
Then it was that the inherent meanness of the 
 creature became manifest. She crawled under the 
 floor to an inaccessible spot and gave up the ghost. 
 To such lengths will spite carry even an inferior an- 
 imal. 
 
 There is something peculiar in the relations be- 
 tween a cat and human beings. We are either quite 
 fond of pussy or we hate and despise her. There is 
 no halfway business about it. We can be indifferent 
 to a dog but if we do not like a cat we have no sym- 
 pathy for her whatever. Neither can we forgive a 
 homely cat. An ill favored dog is often the greatest 
 pet but pussy must be sleeck and handsome if she 
 would win favor. Having done so, she becomes the 
 presiding genius of the place, an outlet for a great 
 deal of harmless affection. There is no greater pic- 
 ture of solid comfort and contentment than a cat on 
 a rug before the fire, unless it be a cow calmly 
 chewing her cud in the shade of a summer tree. The 
 cow possesses a great advantage, one which would 
 commend itself to hurried business men. She eats 
 her dinner in haste and chews it afterward at her 
 leisure. But while this boon is denied the cat, hers 
 is the satisfaction of being ornamental rather than 
 useful. In her most indolent moments nature is at 
 work within the cow for the good of humanity. But 
 puss lives to be waited upon. She "toils not, neither 
 does she spin." To be sure, once in a great while she 
 catches a mouse ; but it is by way of adding variety 
 and therefore comfort to her life, as an occasional 
 discord is said to bring out the harmony in music. 
 
 Cats are credited with nine lives and they need 
 them all ; for no animal is so sought by assassins as 
 
 70 
 
the domesticated feline. Even if one is not thirst- 
 ing for the gore of his own cat, as is often the case, 
 he would like to murder the wretched creatures 
 which belong to the neighbors. If the cat were not 
 so musically inclined she would get into less trouble. 
 For some reason the majority of people do not prize 
 her humble efforts in this direction. I have not the 
 hardihood to set up a defense of these nocturnal 
 concerts. They are sometimes untimely and are cer- 
 tainly not conducive to sleep. But regarded as a vig- 
 orous and persevering effort of an inferior animal 
 to express its feelings in song, they are not entirely 
 without interest. Even the warbling of a canary 
 grows tiresome when too greatly prolonged, and 
 one must be in harmony with the music to really 
 appreciate Wagnerian opera. 
 
 Perhaps I ought not to confess it to a critical 
 public, but I sometimes enjoy a quartet of feline 
 voices on the back porch. If other people would sus- 
 pend hostilities long enough to listen intelligently 
 and really try to interpret the music, they would find 
 much to interest them. Just why cats prefer the 
 mystic hour of midnight when other concerts begin 
 at eight, has never been thoroughly explained. Per- 
 haps it accounts for the unpopularity of their songs. 
 No matter; listen intently and dispassionately and 
 you will plainly hear soprano, tenor, contralto and 
 bass strangely intermingled in weird confusion. So, 
 have I heard a country choir of earnest but un- 
 trained voices, struggle with an anthem. They sing 
 alone, by twos, by threes, all together, then fall be- 
 hind and hurry to catch up, with such vigor that the 
 listeners are constrained to wonder whether the 
 
 71 
 
singers are in pain. Were they to voice their 
 troubles on the back porch at midnight, perhaps 
 we should throw shoes and hair .brushes at them 
 also. In the morning when puss demurely makes 
 her toilet we gaze at her curiously. Could she have 
 been one of the midnight performers? No, it must 
 have been that good-for-nothing, miserable cat over 
 the way. 
 
 Yet a sleek and handsome cat, one which we 
 might almost excuse the ancient Egyptians for wor- 
 shipping, adds much to every well regulated house- 
 hold. She seems a part of the home. What comfort, 
 to sit before a blazing fire, with puss contentedly 
 purring on the rug. With what assurance does she 
 appropriate the snuggest corner ! How daintily she 
 makes her toilet until not a single hair is out of 
 place ! How lazily she yawns, showing for a mo- 
 ment those cruel teeth ! She gazes at you compla- 
 cently when you enter the room. Perhaps she will 
 even condescend to rise and rub gently against your 
 legs, but it is plainly a condescension on her part. 
 Sometimes she will deign to play a little with ball 
 or spool, but she still maintains her dignity. Not 
 for a moment does she forget that she is mistress 
 of the house. The various members of the family 
 are useful in their way. They can pet her and wait 
 on her and build fires for her to enjoy, but puss be- 
 longs to the place and the place to her. An outcast 
 cat is certainly a miserable and unfortunate creat- 
 ure; but a well-fed household favorite occupies a 
 very enviable position. 
 
 Notwithstanding these facts, there is an evident 
 and far reaching discrimination against poor puss in 
 
 72 
 
favor of her rival, the dog. Law regards her as a 
 nonenity, while the dog is property. She pays no 
 taxes, wears neither muzzle nor tag and is assassin- 
 ted with impunity. Never does beautiful woman 
 lead her through the streets or carry her snugly en- 
 sconsed within shapely arms. No. If a person feels 
 called upon to carry a cat, shunning publicity, he 
 waits until after dark or slinks through back al- 
 leys. It is difficult to estimate how many there are 
 in the country. There must be millions of regularly 
 accredited cats with their credentials in good order. 
 In addition, there are numerous cat-at-large. What 
 a concert, could they be assembled in one back yard 
 in tuneful chorus ! 
 
NATURE'S ORCHESTRA 
 
 BY midsummer Nature has her orchestra in full 
 play. The curtain is rung up nightly at sun 
 down and the concert continues without intermis- 
 sion, regardless of whether the human audience is 
 listening or was lulled to sleep by the monotonous 
 music hours ago. The vocal part of the program is 
 practically over. Early in the spring the frogs began 
 to tune their strident voices. With what rapture did 
 we listen to their weird minstrelsy which told of ap- 
 proaching summer ! Then the birds filled the air 
 with their glad melody, making the days one round 
 of song until midsummer silenced the sweet voices. 
 To be sure, we have been favored with an occa- 
 sional instrumental solo, as the yellow hammer 
 cheerfully drummed on the roof for no other reason 
 apparently than to give expression to the exuber- 
 ance of his feelings, and the harvest fly sounded his 
 strange, shrill note. But not until August can 
 Nature be said to have fairly commenced Part 2 of 
 the entertainment. What an earnest, energetic or- 
 chestra it is ! What a myriad of players ! How it fills 
 and takes possession of the night, until the very 
 darkness vibrates, and heart and soul sing in voice- 
 less sympathy ! Nature does not love silence and 
 has gone to infinite pains to arrange a program, both 
 constant and varied. Solitude is comparatively easy 
 to find but absolute silence is a rare experience. Let 
 the night be never so dark and the listener wrap his 
 soul in gloom and retire into the wilderness or lose 
 himself in the depths of the forest. Still do those 
 silent sounds come to his ears through the darkness, 
 
 75 
 
revealing the solitude by their mysterious music. 
 
 I am aware that all do not like this music. Some 
 people even characterize it as din. To them it is 
 harsh and stridulant ; to others doleful, causing an 
 unaccountable depression of spirits, a desire for 
 light and the companionship of friends. It is a mat- 
 ter of temperament, I suppose. To the poetic na- 
 ture, the chirping is not only cheerful in itself and 
 not unmusical, but it contains a world of suggestion. 
 Night in its overpowering beauty and grandeur be- 
 comes audible. Did not Dickens, that prose poet, 
 chirp of the Cricketon the Hearth and Holmes sing: 
 
 "I love to hear thine earnest voice. 
 Wherever thou art hid. 
 
 Thou testy little dogmatist. 
 Thou pretty katydid ? " 
 The katydid may well be said to play first fiddle 
 in this orchestra and it must be conceded that he 
 plays it loud and strong. His cousin, the cricket, 
 does his full share and those other cousins, the 
 grasshoppers, come in on the chorus with com- 
 mendable zeal. Some of them cannot wait until 
 evening and the regular performance begins, but 
 can be heard late in the afternoon tuning their vio- 
 lins and giving the strings an occasional scrape by 
 way of preparation. When darkness comes, how 
 they do play ! Listen closely and you will detect a 
 half dozen sets of musicians, each playing in differ- 
 ent time and on a different key, but the effect is not 
 altogether inharmonious. High above the rest from 
 a neighboring tree, which one you cannot deter- 
 mine, sounds the refrain, "Katy did, she did, she 
 didn't, Katy didn't, did, did, didn't, she did," until 
 
 76 
 
we fain would know who this Katy is and of what 
 mischief she has been guilty to occasion such noisy 
 and public denunciation. 
 
 The katydid is noisy, that's a fact. We must re- 
 member that he is not playing for our pleasure. 
 That nightly chorus is not for us. It may shock our 
 conceit to feel that the katydids and crickets are 
 quite indifferent to our approbation. We like to 
 think that the planets roll in space for our benefit, 
 that for us all nature is attuned, and indeed there is 
 a measure of truth in the conception. But what cares 
 the katydid for the human insect ? That lusty, little 
 musician is in love. He is serenading his sweetheart 
 to the best of his ability, who is also a katydid, per- 
 haps Katy herself whose virtues, instead of faults, 
 are being extolled. How great that love if in pro- 
 portion to his song. I want to emphasize the fact 
 that only the male is thus musically inclined. Katy 
 herself is as dumb as an oyster. Like the human 
 males these young gallants prefer to do their court- 
 ing after nightfall with the lights turned low. Little 
 know they of frost or the corn crop. Let the old cit- 
 izen base what weather prognostications he may on 
 the sturdy song and welcome, if only Katy, up in 
 the tree, enjoys the serenade. We certainly must 
 give her credit for enjoying it, whatever may be our 
 opinion regarding the matter. It does not stand to 
 reason that the little minstrel would be so faithful 
 were his efforts unappreciated. It follows, too, that 
 dumb as she is, Katy and all the little cricket and 
 grasshopper maidens can hear. What a queer place 
 to wear one's ears ! Naturalists tell us that cricket 
 girls have ears in their legs, near the thigh. 
 
 77 
 
Music seems to be the universal art, the bond 
 which binds together Nature's parts. A certain 
 rythm and harmony pervades all space, but the 
 wondrous music is too delicate for human ears. 
 Nearly the whole animal kingdom is susceptible in 
 a greater or less degree to the charms of music and 
 to many is added the power of expression. Man 
 who revels in grand opera and pays fabulous prices 
 to prima donnas may, perhaps, boast the greatest 
 culture, but he is not alone. Note the earnest quar- 
 tette of feline voices in the back yard, the awe in- 
 spiring song of the donkey, the clarion tones of the 
 rooster, the vocal efforts of the neighbor's dog, the 
 hum of insects, the gleeful lay of the mosquito, the 
 wonderful sweetness of bird music ! Truly, this is a 
 great world and we are all brothers. 
 
ON BEING BALD 
 
 IT is really a comfort in hot summer days to be 
 bald. Man greatly admires the long and abund- 
 ant tresses which are at once the glory and bane of 
 womanhood, but he does not envy them. The man 
 whose head is bare in spots like a lawn beneath a 
 hammock is for once in luck. The gentle zephyrs 
 of midsumm.er play about his classic temples, bring- 
 ing neither discomfort nor influenza. Nature evi- 
 dently intended these breezes to blow through co- 
 pious whiskers and luxuriant locks. But man has 
 flown in the face of Nature once too often and the 
 Ancient Dame, woman-like, gets even with him by 
 going back on herself He persists in shaving his 
 face and she, abandoning the custom of centuries, 
 insists upon shaving his head. Between the two the 
 race seems destined to become hairless. 
 
 Let the baldheaded man gather what crumbs of 
 comfort he can from these observations ; there are 
 many thorns in his pathway. The world looks on 
 a bald head with suspicion which the most exem- 
 plary conduct fails to wholly avert. Having a full 
 shock of hair, one can sow great patches of wild oats 
 in sweet obscurity ; but let the shining surface of his 
 scalp come into view, visible to the gaze of a cold 
 and unsympathetic world, he is a marked man 
 thenceforward — fit target for wit, calumny and 
 falsehood. That good man, the prophet Elisha, was 
 bald, and a terrible fate befell his calumniators, fair 
 warning to future ages. 
 
 As beauty is said to lie in the eye of the beholder, 
 so good and evil dwell in the imagination. What is 
 more eminently respediable than a bald head in 
 
 79 
 
1 
 
 church ? It occupies the front pew and fairly glows 
 with righteousness and respectability. It is a shining 
 witness to virtue and sobriety, adding dignity to the 
 service, emphasizing the truths of the sermon. We 
 feel proud to worship in close proximity. The own- 
 er may be fast asleep, but his shining poll stands 
 sponser for him and clothes him with unthought-ot 
 graces. Yet, behold that same bald head in the front 
 row at the theater. What a positively wicked look ! 
 The baldheaded man assuredly has a grievance and 
 he should not hesitate to make it known. 
 
 The questions naturally arise, what is the imme- 
 diate cause of Nature's discrimination against the 
 heads of so many of her children, and what becomes 
 of the hair? The hairs of man's head are numbered, 
 the Good Book tells us ; but there must be a quanti- 
 ty of missing numbers. Woman's hair can be found 
 everywhere — on men's coat sleeves, in the butter; 
 the brush and comb are full of it; yet, like the 
 widow's cruse of oil, the supply remains undimin- 
 ished. A baldheaded woman is a rarity. But man's 
 hair melts away like dew before the sun, and no one 
 can say whither it goeth. Why this discrimination 
 between the sexes ? Is it profound thoughts which 
 heat the brains of men — the intense mental activity 
 of modern times? Woman sometimes thinks and 
 never yet has the process loosened her hair. The 
 only satisfactory solution of the problem seems to 
 be the difference in the millinery worn by the two 
 sexes. Woman's vanity is the salvation of her tress- 
 es. Her hat is an ornament which leaves the head 
 untrameled. Man's hat is a monstrosity which ex- 
 cludes the air and heats the scalp. Observe that his 
 
 80 
 
bald spot follows the line of the crown. 
 
 Nature not only discriminates between the sexes 
 in this particular but between different classes of the 
 same sex. Has anyone seen a baldheaded musician 
 outside of a brass band ? There seems to be some- 
 thing in music which makes the hair grow. Music 
 hath charms we know not of. The soothing melody 
 of Chopin and the forceful harmony of Wagner 
 lengthen the hair and make in grow in profusion, 
 which even poesy and football cannot equal. 
 
 It is a serious time when a man begins to grow 
 bald. He may flatter himself that the cause is severe 
 brainwork ; but no one else is deceived. Then, too, 
 every one of his acquaintances seems required to tell 
 him about it. As if the trouble had not caused him 
 enough anxiety already 1 He stands the pressure as 
 long as possible, then falls an easy victim to the first 
 agent with his hair restorer, and purchases "Nat- 
 ure's own remedy", extract of grape vine or some 
 equally efficacious compound. O joy ! a fuzz forms 
 on his head, which he proudly exhibits ; he is point- 
 ed out by the agent as a living demonstration of the 
 remedy's virtue. Alas ! fuzz is not hair. The bare 
 spot continues to expand until it looks like a map 
 of Greece, and the misguided man resigns himself 
 to his fate and makes what hair he has left go as far 
 as possible. That man is not fit to join the honora- 
 ble ranks of the bald who cannot spread and plaster 
 down three hairs until they cover the entire top of 
 his cranium. Meanwhile, a fortune awaits the man 
 or woman whose inventive genius can stop the beard 
 from growing and keep the hair from falling out. 
 
WOMEN— YOUNG AND OLD 
 
 IT is not often that a man sits down deliberately 
 to write of woman. A proper elaboration of such 
 a theme is clearly impossible. To be sure, I once 
 knew a learned D. D. who tried it. But even he was 
 obliged to court the muse and required two hun- 
 dred and ninety-seven stanzas, of five lines each, to 
 perform the task to his satisfaction. Besides, he was 
 about to be married. Every one must admit that 
 woman is a necessity in the world's economy — a 
 delightful necessity, if you like; but further than 
 that few are willing to go. For woman is one of 
 God's inscrutable mysteries. Given a certain man 
 and known conditions, it can be figured with reas- 
 onable accuracy how he will act. Not so with woman. 
 Like some delicately attuned instrument, she not 
 only responds to all the touches of life, but vi- 
 brates in sympathy with various influences. The 
 result may be harmony, but it is uncertain. We 
 think we understand her, then some new mood dis- 
 turbs our calculations or some new depth of char- 
 acter is revealed which upsets all our notions. Still, 
 one can look and admire and record his observa- 
 tions, even if he does not understand their import. 
 Walking down the street, the other day, was a 
 young woman with bright eyes and the roses of 
 eighteen summers in her cheeks. Under her flower- 
 decked hat shone a wealth of soft, brown hair, with 
 that enchanting glossiness which is sure evidence of 
 much brushing, and she had on a new gown. It was 
 one of those dreamy organdies — a remarkable 
 creation — and was very beautiful, a fa{5t which no 
 
 83 
 
one knew better than this self-same bit of budding 
 womanhood. She tripped along the street with an 
 indescribable swing which set all the frills and 
 flounces in motion, and her silk petticoat rustled 
 irresistibly. Occasionally she lifted her skirt a few 
 inches and let it fall again to straighten the folds, 
 perhaps to show the silk, while every movement of 
 the graceful figure and every wave of thought and 
 emotion which swept over her countenance said 
 plainer than words, "Just look at me 1" She was 
 certainly worth looking at and a gray haired man 
 was so absorbed in contemplation that he had eyes 
 for nothing else. He seemed ashamed at being 
 caught in the act, as if he had committed some hein- 
 ous offense against society. 
 
 Now, why should not old age look at youth, 
 even youth in petticoats, and why be ashamed to 
 admire the loveliness of eighteen, than which there 
 is surely nothing more beautiful ? What are organ- 
 dies for if not to look at? Calico or cheese cloth, 
 whatever that is, would be within the law, but would 
 not be tolerated a moment. Mother Nature, her- 
 self, is clothed in garments most exquisite. You 
 never catch her in calico. To be sure, the young 
 woman was overly conscious of her attractions ; how 
 could she help it ? There is nothing which will make 
 a man, — strong, masculine creature that he is and 
 supposed to be above such trifles, — so conscious of 
 himself as a new suit of clothes. Shall we begrudge 
 his sister the same privilege, and look askance at old 
 age which still retains the heart of youth and eyes 
 for the beautiful? 
 
 Woman has been described as a human blossom, 
 
 84 
 
and, in truth, there seems some reason for so poet- 
 ic a metaphor. Rather is she a composite flower, 
 combining the attributes of all. Is she not as beau- 
 tiful as the rose and as full of briers ? Her persist- 
 ence is that of the dandelion ; no willow surpasses 
 her in grace, nor sensitive plant in emotion. She 
 is as clinging as the sweet pea and as dainty, as pep- 
 pery as the nasturtium. In short, is she not a daisy ? 
 Even like the lily of the field, for Solomon in all 
 his glory was not arrayed like one of these fair creat- 
 ures. 
 
 Yet, in spite of this undisputed likeness, woman 
 was never known to have anything to wear, unless 
 just from the hands of her dressmaker. Is there to 
 be a party, or an excursion planned, even a picnic, 
 she "has not a thing to put on." Her husband, poor 
 soul, has reason to know that the big closet hangs 
 full of gowns of every description. When they were 
 married that same closet was divided by an imagin- 
 ary line exactly in the middle. The east half, next 
 the door, was claimed for her dainty dresses ; the 
 other was to be held sacred to his scanty wardrobe. 
 Like the American Indian he has gradually been 
 driven west until his one good suit occupies the last 
 hook where a search light is necessary to find it. But 
 she always goes to the party and seems to enjoy her- 
 self, notwithstanding her predicament. The affair 
 creates no talk and causes no surprise — small won- 
 der ! — for every woman there is in the same 
 trouble. 
 
 What has become of the old ladies? Years have 
 passed since I have had the good fortune to look 
 upon one, and it would be worth a long journey to 
 
 85 
 
■ 
 
 see one again. To be sure, the world is full of 
 women — an excellent thing, by the way — a most 
 satisfactory manifestation of divine favor. There 
 are grandmothers too, and it is to be hoped there 
 always will be. There are all sorts of elderly women 
 and oldish women and women of uncertain age ; but 
 what has become of those dear, old ladies, so sacred 
 to memory — venerable saints, whose whitened 
 hair, smooth combed, is crowned with dainty caps — 
 beloved grandmothers in whose busy fingers knit- 
 ting needles click and flash in tireless labor of love ? 
 Will we never see their like again ? 
 
 There is a pathetic side to this, what may be 
 called the decadence of the old lady, which may not 
 appeal to all. I know that to many it is not a de- 
 cadence, but a transformation for which the world is 
 to be congratulated. Women no longer grow old. 
 Peach-like and distracting maidenhood gives place, 
 in the course of years, to matronly middle age ; the 
 fingers of Time trace wrinkles on once smooth and 
 rounded features, hair whitens, hands lose their 
 plumpness ; but further than this, the great magi- 
 cian is powerless. Women become grandmothers, 
 but no longer old. Why should they grow old ? 
 someone asks. Why should old age be set apart to 
 wait and watch ? Why, indeed ? And yet — I love 
 the old lady, with her cap and knitting. 
 
 I see her yet, as she sat, long years ago, in the 
 ancient chair made sacred by that presence, like a 
 queen upon her throne. I see the cap of black lace 
 and dainty lavender ribbon, the "best cap," put on 
 for state occasions ; the kindly face, which every 
 wrinkle made more kindly yet and beautiful ; those 
 
 86 
 
consecrated hands, now folded in eternal rest. 
 
 Yes, she was set apart. Long years, well lived, 
 stretched down the course of Time, and her face re- 
 flected the peace and happiness of Heaven, not far 
 removed. The frivolities of the world were not for 
 her. Apart from them, but not apart from the love 
 of friends and the homage of her little court. We, 
 too, will grow old; we may — happy thought! — 
 become grandfathers and grandmothers, but who of 
 us, having experienced that blessed relationship, 
 having once known one of those not rare women, 
 who grow old sweetly, can forget the grandmother 
 of his youth. There may be yet, for aught I know, 
 old ladies as dear. There are many grandmothers. 
 Whitened locks surely need no added crown. Friz- 
 zled hair and jeweled hands may, perhaps, go with 
 a grandmother's heart, but may we long cherish 
 that vision of the dear old lady with her cap and 
 knitting, her crown of years, and the ancient chair. 
 
APPLES AND ROSES 
 
 I wonder if the apple which played so important a 
 part in that episode of the Garden of Eden was 
 anything like the apples at the present time which 
 help to make life worth living for such a large part 
 of humanity. If so, then must it be admitted, reluct- 
 antly perhaps, but positively, that the temptation 
 was a great one. If the apple was a handsome, rosy 
 cheeked pippin, and we had been present, I fear that 
 not one, but a whole tree full of the fruit, would have 
 disappeared before our newly awakened appetites. 
 Far be it from me in this age of moral develop- 
 ment to countenance stealing apples. That is never 
 justifiable except, perhaps, during a bicycle trip, 
 and even then its propriety is questionable. When 
 a wheelman is tired and hungry and thirsty and 
 a tree loaded with delicious, red fruit reaches its 
 generous branches over the fence toward the 
 weary wayfarer, then he is apt to forget his cat- 
 echism and follow in the unfortunate example set 
 by Mother Eve so many centuries ago. Indeed, 
 there is a fine point in morals involved in the oper- 
 ation. Do not apples, which overhang the public 
 highway, if they be ripe and good and fair to look 
 upon, belong to the public? The oft quoted inci- 
 dent of the Garden of Eden is by no means the only 
 time apples have figured in the world's history, al- 
 though perhaps, the most far reaching in its conse- 
 quences. Was not a great war brought about be- 
 cause of the presentation of an apple to fair Helen 
 of Troy ? A falling apple suggested the law of grav- 
 itation to Newton. 
 
 89 
 
But no one cares today whether apples have fig- 
 ured in history or not. We love them for their own 
 sake. Eliminate from the harvest time all other 
 fruits — grapes and peaches, to think of which 
 makes one's mouth water ; yes, take out the water- 
 melon and its sweet sister, the cantelope ; the apple 
 alone is sufficient to gladden the year, to crown it 
 with a glory which penetrates not only to the hearts 
 but, what is more to the point, to the stomachs of 
 mankind. Without apples man might, indeed, exist, 
 but much of life would be taken away. The apple is 
 the most sociable of fruits. The melon is better 
 eaten alone ; when consuming an orange, man earn- 
 estly desires to sink from sight or retire from mor- 
 tal gaze ; but the apple ! I ts ruddy cheeks tell of the 
 glow on winter's hearth, when family and friends 
 gather at the fireside in sweet and joyful communion 
 of spirit. Some one leaves the group for a moment 
 and returns with a dish heaped up with apples. 
 There is comfort and pleasure for you. Jokes fly 
 faster, conversation is more brisk, enjoyment more 
 keen; merrily fly the sparks up the chimney and 
 cheerily sputter the apples before the transforming 
 blaze. Through apples hospitality finds ready ex- 
 pression. In days of innocent childhood which 
 solicits and receives with gratitude a gift of the core ; 
 in the halcyon days of youth when our sweetheart 
 intersperses her favors with delicious Baldwins, 
 rubbed till they shine like her own rosy cheeks ; 
 in toothless old age which scrapes the apple and en- 
 joys it none the less, does this wonderful fruit min- 
 ister to the happiness of mankind. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, the apple belongs to the 
 90 
 
great rose family. By what accident or process it 
 developed into a sturdy tree and came to rock its 
 young in such a delightful cradle of lusciousness can 
 only be imagined. It is thought to have been indi- 
 genous to Northern Russia in remote times, and its 
 cultivation spread rapidly throughout the temperate 
 zone. America is the great apple producing country 
 today, but we are not alone in the cultivation of 
 this popular fruit. Apples are grown in Europe, 
 South Africa, Northern India, China, Australia, 
 New Zealand. From the original wild crab of Rus- 
 sia, the fruit has developed until today there are 
 several thousand distinct varieties and few bad ones 
 in the lot. In 1890, in North America alone, there 
 were over two hundred forty million apple trees 
 growing in nurseries. The American apple has be- 
 come a great favorite abroad. We export hundreds 
 of thousands of barrels every year and many of them 
 find their way to England. The English people 
 know a good thing when they see it, especially when 
 that good thing is something to eat. It is interest- 
 ing to note that red has no terror for Johnny Bull. 
 Red is the national color. He wants red apples and 
 lots of them and the red pippin is his favorite. 
 
 Think of thousands of varieties of apples and the 
 multitudinous forms in which they may be eaten 
 and digested. Think of apple jelly, apple butter, 
 baked and boiled apples, apple sauce, even dried 
 apples, and surely there is no harm in thinking of 
 cider, and the old cider mill which was the delight 
 of childhood days. The apple in an uncooked state 
 is not very digestible, says one authority. The apple 
 should be eaten just before going to bed, says an- 
 
 91 
 
other. The skin should never be eaten at all, says a 
 third. What do we care ? The way to eat an apple 
 is to eat it, and if it distresses you, be happy in the 
 thought that you die in a good cause. The pippin, 
 says science, is composed approximately of eighty- 
 two parts of water, ten parts of sugar, less than one 
 part of free acid and five or more of albuminous sub- 
 stances and salts. But what enjoyment is there in 
 analyzing an apple, except by the natural processes 
 of the stomach ? Can science with all its learning 
 make an apple ? And can any amount of water and 
 sugar and acid console us for a failure of the apple 
 crop ? Not if the great American people knows it- 
 self. The apple may be a rose, but is it not greater 
 than a rose ? Beautiful as she is, the garden rose need 
 not blush for her cousins, the first pink tinted apple 
 blossoms of early spring; graceful as is her foliage, 
 there is no place for hammock and swing beneath 
 her friendly branches ; no chance to revel in grate- 
 ful shade, and the chief glory of the greater rose re- 
 mains to be spoken — the apple. 
 
THE HARVEST MOON 
 
 I have been wondering while noting the unusual 
 number of midsummer weddings, how many 
 of these can be attributed to the unquestionable in- 
 fluence of moonlight. The effect of the moon on 
 sensitive natures is something astonishing. And 
 when we come to compute the immense floods of 
 moonlight which bathe a city during two weeks of a 
 harvest moon, imagination stands appalled at the 
 possibilities. But the moon means well, and at the 
 risk of being thought sentimental I would like to 
 speak a good word for her. I sometimes think 
 poor, frail humanity does not deserve the blessing 
 of a moonlight night in summer. Yet, if we never 
 received more than our deserts life would be indeed 
 barren. To see the moon rise majestically in the 
 east and hang in the heavens like the Eye of God 
 is an experience which cannot be described, only 
 felt. If it were not so common and free, all the 
 newspapers in the land would straightway fall to 
 describing the phenomenon and it would be the 
 talk of the town for weeks. 
 
 Science tells us that night is absolutely necessary 
 to the physical existence of man. Even so is it to 
 the soul. For in that flood of radiance, issuing as 
 from Heaven, making the darkness beautiful, we 
 are led from a world of turmoil and struggle and im- 
 perfedlion and heartache into the ideal. Far away 
 seem the shop and the office and the store. Time 
 stands still and the universe waits while humanity 
 catches up. All this may not pass through our 
 minds as we look out into the moonlight, but it 
 
 93 
 
enters the soul, though unconsciously, as we begin 
 to perceive somewhat of life's reality. I know not 
 if it were for this that back there in remote ages our 
 moon in some great tidal wave swyng off from the 
 earth's surface into space. I do know that the 
 blessed orb not only influences the ocean, but caus- 
 es tides in the soul that ebb and flow through life. 
 
 And so a few words do not seem out of place in 
 appreciation of the wondrous moonlight evenings 
 when "the cattle that lie on the ground seem to 
 have great, tranquil thoughts", and how much more 
 man ? I really feel sorry for that person, no matter 
 how great his worldly blessings, who can stand ab- 
 solutely unmoved in the presence of such splendor. 
 How insignificant seem the troubles and annoy- 
 ances, the things of day, in thy presence, O Mirror 
 of my Soul ! There is a serenity in her beauty that 
 soothes. "Why fret and worry ? " she says, "I 
 know all about it. Before man was I began to cir- 
 cuit the heavens. I have seen all the struggle from 
 the beginning, and yet the day dawns. And as far in 
 the future as imagination can penetrate shall your 
 remotest posterity see me shining, even as you see 
 me now." 
 
 There is a diff^erent world at night. We stroll up 
 and down familiar streets; all is changed. Weseemin 
 anew land. The toil of day is hushed. The houses 
 of the neighborhood have an unfamiliar look. The 
 moon rests lovingly on them like sunshine photo- 
 graphed. Trees are revealed as masses of foliage. 
 We can not discern details, save where some dainty 
 branch is outlined against the moon-lit sky. Not a 
 leaf is stirring. The trees seem asleep. Earth is 
 
 94 
 
asleep. Time is asleep. Alone with the night is the si- 
 lent watcher — alone with the great, visible, audible, 
 palpable night, which like some living presence 
 broods over the world. We are in a region of en- 
 chantment. Tomorrow's sun will kiss this sleeping 
 beauty and restore all things to life again. To fully 
 enjoy the night one should be alone. Then is trou- 
 ble forgotten and the peace of all nature pervades 
 and assures the soul. Political boundaries, party, 
 creed, disappear and one becomes a citizen of the 
 universe, a worshipper in the universal church. 
 
 Sound, too, comes under the spell of the en- 
 chanter. How different are the common sounds of 
 day when heard at night ! The crowing of cocks, 
 the sleepy twitter of birds, the moaning of some 
 restless tree, the barking of dogs in the distance, 
 the subdued rumbling of far away trains, all seem a 
 part of night itself. The footsteps of some unseen 
 pedestrian mingle their ghostly sounds with the 
 rest, pass and die away in the distance. 
 
 But, after all, the real night is lighted only by 
 stars. A moonlight landscape is wondrously beau- 
 tiful, but when night blots out all landscape, and 
 trees and houses become as darker shadows, then 
 are one's spiritual eyes opened and the soul sees 
 God. Darkness which shuts in the body releases 
 the spirit and we soar through space. At night man 
 rises to his greatest height and sinks to his lowest 
 depth. He is imprisoned by day. That canopy of 
 blue holds him down to earth and the things of the 
 world. At night the curtain is lifted and the ma- 
 jesty of the universe stands revealed. How immeas- 
 urably more remote is the nearest star of night than 
 
 95 
 
the broadest of day's horizons, though viewed from 
 a mountain top ! Countless suns look down from in- 
 finitude and search out his heart. How man shrinks 
 and shrivels under their steadfast gaze ! What are 
 wars ? what are political intrigues, in the presence 
 of such vastness and glory ? 
 
 "Tell me what you feel in your solitary room," 
 says Amiel in his incomparable Journal, "when 
 the full moon is shining in upon you and your lamp 
 is dying out, and I will tell you how old you are, 
 and I shall know if you are happy." Which seems 
 another way for saying that we can find only our- 
 selves in nature. She sits in judgment upon us. 
 Like the Fairy Godmother her real self is visible 
 only to kindred souls. After all, is not he richest, 
 who is in tune with nature? For him she puts on 
 her richest robes, to him she reveals her greatest 
 glories without money and without price. Her 
 moon shines as beautiful on us as on lands far dis- 
 tant and scenes we have vainly longed to visit. 
 
SOME AUTUMN WEEDS 
 
 IT is perhaps but another illustration of the great 
 law of compensation that weeds, the bane of 
 spring-time, man's great enemy in early summer, 
 should become so picturesque a feature in the 
 autumn landscape. How persistent they have been 
 since the sunshine and rain of April first called them 
 forth. How they have evaded the toiling gardener 
 and grown unseen. Defiant to the last, they no lon- 
 ger skulk but, proud as the stateliest, take full pos- 
 session of forgotten nooks and hold high their fear- 
 less heads. One can not help admiring them. 
 
 Chief among these autumn weeds, if it be not 
 sacrilege to thus class a plant so beautiful, is the 
 goldenrod. This popular flower so rich in color has 
 many poor relations who are heartily despised — 
 rag-weed, beggar-tick and the rest — but we must 
 not hold goldenrod accountable for their misdoings. 
 Rather let us take off our hats to him for teaching 
 us that fine surroundings, fine clothing, fine family, 
 while excellent and desirable, are not essential to 
 fine living; for in spite of his lowly birth and poor 
 relations, goldenrod makes the world brighter and 
 is much loved. He is the greatest of the wild flow- 
 ers ; there is hardly a section in the whole United 
 States that is not warmed and cheered by his sunny 
 presence. Of the eighty known varieties, only one 
 is found in the Old World, one or two in South 
 America, one in the Azores and the rest in our own 
 America. 
 
 A fine characteristic of goldenrod is that it flour- 
 ishes where aristocratic flowers would perish. Gol- 
 
 97 
 
denrod is a philanthropist, visiting the poor and 
 needy. He was the originator of the social settle- 
 ment. His blossom plume itself is a whole colony. 
 Wealth may enjoy him, but it must search him out 
 — must go into the highways and byways and lay 
 siege to him. The poorer the soil and meaner the 
 surroundings, the richer and more cheerful seems 
 his life. This flower, or weed if you like, is found, 
 not in the gardens and lawns of culture, but by the 
 humble cottage, along the railroad track, by the 
 country fence, in all sorts of queer and out of the 
 way places. 
 
 Goldenrod and railroads seem to have an espe- 
 cial and unreasoning affinity. This autumn weed 
 avoids the main line of traffic, but search along some 
 little used "branch" and you will find blossoms in 
 abundance. The ugly track and road bed are often 
 transformed into a fairy land of gold. A stroll 
 through such enchanted regions is something to be 
 remembered — every foot of the way lined with 
 green and yellow, goldenrod and its pretty cousins, 
 coreopsis and rosin weed. A weed which can make 
 beautiful a railroad right of way needs no further 
 recommendation. It is indeed a public benefactor. 
 
 Its nodding, golden plumes are the forerunners 
 of autumn — a suggestion of that blaze of glory in 
 which our summer season goes out. It is a voice 
 which cries in the wilderness — a bit of nature that 
 makes us all brothers. From the fair haired girl 
 who gathers her apron full of the feathery blossoms, 
 to the stately lady in her carriage and the workman 
 whose weary way is brightened by the living sun- 
 shine, we all rejoice in goldenrod. How graceful are 
 
 98 
 
the plumes. How they contrastwith the green of 
 the meadow and the blue of the sky. See them shine 
 against the whiteness of yonder cloud. How they 
 adapt themselves to circumstances. Remove them 
 to the parlor, the mantel, the school room, they are 
 just as beautiful and seem not out of place. What 
 debt does not humanity owe the great aster family, 
 whose blossoms, beginning with the earliest dande- 
 lions, down through the goldenrod season to the 
 dandelions again who flaunt their lions' teeth and 
 golden crowns in the face of Old Winter himself, 
 leave hardly a month in the year not brightened by 
 some of the relatives. 
 
 What shall be said of the thistle, that other cousin 
 whom all mankind seems to despise? How persist- 
 ently he crowds himself in where he is not wanted. 
 How he resents interference. If the thistle were 
 rare, I'll warrant we should all be cultivating the 
 species assiduously, grumbling the while because 
 the grass would creep in and choke the prickly fel- 
 low. Late in summer he lifts his head above the pas- 
 ture fence and seems not a whit ashamed because 
 he does not make good hay. What cadius equals 
 the common bull thistle, either in foliage or in rich- 
 ness of blossom ? 
 
 "Look at me, if you like," he says, "admire me 
 if you can lay aside prejudice long enough ; but 
 hands off if you please." 
 
 Nature seems to have a greater love for her chil- 
 dren who are despised of men. In early autumn, 
 this same blossom lets loose a myriad of winged 
 fairies. They penetrate even into the city. How 
 they sail and sail as if superior to earthly attra6tion. 
 
 99 , .:c. 
 
School children pause to blow the little creatures 
 high in air ; busy men make frantic grabs at the at- 
 mosphere in vain effort to detain them They duck 
 and dodge and float, as beautiful and fleeting as 
 Autumn herself. 
 
ON KINDLING A FIRE 
 
 IN the month of harvest festivals and other cere- 
 monies in honor of the ripening year, there is 
 one important fundlion, quietly performed by every 
 householder — an annual sacrifice, as it were, to his 
 Lares and Penates — which merits a festival all its 
 own. I refer to the kindling of the annual fire which 
 is to burn throughout the season of frost, like the 
 sacred flame in the olden temple guarded by vestal 
 virgins. Vestal virgins must have been built on a 
 different plan from the average virgin of modern 
 times or it would have been necessary to rekindle 
 the fire at least thrice each week, to the utter scan- 
 dalization of the gods and ruination of heathen 
 theology. In those days of evil omens goodness 
 knows what would have happened in the event of 
 so dire a calamity. Even at the dawn of this enlight- 
 ened Twentieth century letting the fire go out is an 
 infallible sign of various things which need not be 
 mentioned. Dignified matrons sometimes insist that 
 they, and they alone, know how to handle a stove — 
 which no man cares to dispute as long as they are 
 willing to exemplify the theory. Yet it seems clear, 
 without insisting on the matter at all, that the 
 problem is one for mature manhood, a Christian 
 and a philosopher, to grapple with. Be that as it 
 may, the lighting of the annual fire is one of the 
 most important and significant events of the entire 
 year. 
 
 Not more pleasing are the first balmy days of 
 spring, when all nature calls us away from the 
 home into the woods and fields and gardens, than 
 
 lOI 
 
the days of the first fire of autumn. The delicious 
 warmth permeates the whole body until it glows 
 with delight; under its expanding influence the very 
 heart swells and we feel at peace with all the world. 
 The making of the first fire holds no terrors for the 
 householder. That which afterwards grows irksome 
 and is approached with reluctance, ofttimes pro- 
 fanity, is a matter for pleasure and congratulation. 
 No one begrudges the coal heaped on that first fire ; 
 no one objects to splitting the kindling. The whole 
 process becomes of itself a celebration in which the 
 entire household takes part. The stove has been set 
 up and blackened until it shines and smiles at the 
 thought of long, cozy evenings when it will be "the 
 whole thing," so to speak. All this is horrible 
 drudgery which it is well to delegate to other hands 
 whenever possible, but necessary before the poetry 
 and philosophy of the sacrifice can be made mani- 
 fest in the actual kindling of the blaze. How cheer- 
 less the house seems in those hours prior to the 
 great event. A chilly reception and an uncomfort- 
 able family await the home coming of the husband 
 and father and awaken in him a total disregard for 
 the almanac. What cares he for coal bills and accu- 
 mulating ashes ? He even smiles as he seizes the axe 
 and soon comes in with arms full of kindling from 
 the shed. 
 
 Surrounded by the now beaming faces of his 
 loved ones, who stint neither advice nor encourage- 
 ment, a layer of paper is placed in the fire pot; 
 small sticks of kindling wood are criss crossed on 
 top, then larger kindling. A hod of coal rattles mer- 
 rily down the magazine, each piece hurrying to be 
 
 1 02 
 
the first to feel the transforming blaze. At length 
 all is ready for the enkindling match. Here is a 
 moment unique and tremendous in its significance. 
 Civilization with all its ramifications, our complex 
 social life, grew out of such a moment. Philosophy 
 and science and family affection await in thoughtful 
 silence the striking of that match. Slowly the paper 
 ignites, the blaze quickens, with a roar of glee and 
 expectation fire surges through the well-laid sticks. 
 The coal sparkles and snaps and sends out bluish 
 flames as delicate and ethereal as imagination itself, 
 of which they are the material counterpart. The 
 stove actually takes on new expression. It gazes out 
 into the room through a score of glowing eyes, the 
 very embodiment of good cheer. 
 
 "Come one, come all," it seems to say, "gather 
 around, my children. Enjoy me while you can ; for 
 more than all else do I typify the centralizing, glori- 
 ^y^"g> J^Y'g^^^^S afi^edlion of the home." 
 
 And the various members of that family gather 
 around, rub their hands with satisfaction, perform 
 kindly acts for one another. They love God and 
 humanity and each other better because of that fire. 
 
 I know that stoves are going out of fashion. 
 Many of us use furnaces, steam or hot water, but 
 what we gain in convenience we lose in poetry, un- 
 less, indeed, we can afford that supreme pleasure, a 
 grate fire. The decadence of the stove is something 
 on which one cannot look with entire indifference, 
 although he may not regret the change. Registers 
 and radiators promote comfort but they do not ap- 
 peal to the imagination. They have no character or 
 expression. But the stove is yet the great centre 
 
 103 
 
around which family life revolves in the winter sea- 
 son. 
 
 The stove making industry is a great one. Thous- 
 ands of handsome heaters are turned out annually, 
 proud and dignified, as if conscious of their superi- 
 ority to their ancestors. If we could only follow 
 those stoves into the homes of the Nation, into the 
 centre of the home circle, what secrets would we 
 not learn, what joys witness, what heartaches ! They 
 will be present when a new soul enters the house- 
 hold and when "mortality takes on immortality." 
 Loving couples will hug close to those stoves on 
 cold winter nights, discussing the future by the fitful 
 glare while the very fire sparks in sympathy. Bridal 
 couples will stand for a moment before the stoves, 
 then go out from the dear, old home. And when 
 Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's bring 
 their era of cheer and good fellowship, how loving- 
 ly those stoves will beam on the company and dis- 
 pense comfort and hospitality. 
 
PLAYING WHIST 
 
 ONE of the most refreshing things to contem- 
 plate these troublous times is the calmness 
 and serenity with which the modern city club de- 
 votes itself to whist. What if there be wars and 
 rumors of wars ? The city club is oblivious, and 
 cares not a whit as long as it has a strong hand and 
 a good partner. 
 
 It is said that Napoleon slept on the field of 
 Waterloo; but Napoleon had not the honor of be- 
 longing to a city club. Had he been a member of 
 some famous organization, he never would have 
 slept. Far from it. He would have proposed a game 
 of Memory Duplicate to the Duke of Wellington 
 and settled the whole controversy without blood- 
 shed. More than that, he would have beaten the 
 Duke and changed the face of all Europe. For your 
 city club man, be it said, is no ordinary whist 
 player. Is he content to sit down to a quiet rubber 
 by a blazing fireplace ? Not a bit of it. That kind of 
 amusement may do for old ladies on whose hands 
 time hangs heavy, but the city club must organize 
 itself into whist battalions and engage in sectional 
 strife. The North and South arrays itself against 
 the East and West and no quarter is given or asked. 
 He is not content with a happy-go-lucky sort 
 of game, interspersed with cofi^ee and apples and 
 sociability ; he makes a business of the fun. The 
 man who wins is the best fellow and the unfortu- 
 nate who makes a misplay deserves the rope. Or- 
 dinary people can sit down to a game of whist and 
 then forget all about it. Not so with the players of 
 
 105 
 
the city club. The game lingers in the memory. 
 They run up to the club rooms the next morning 
 and look over the score. They meet on the street 
 and learnedly discuss how certain cards should have 
 been played at the contest several weeks before. 
 Their very conversation takes on a mysterious 
 whist flavor. 
 
 These city club players never have to ask what 
 is trump, like the rest of us, and they never guess at 
 a play. When they lay down a card it is after mature 
 deliberation and the act has a deep significance. It 
 sometimes happens that no one but themselves can 
 comprehend just what the significance is, but it is 
 there just the same and must be considered. 
 
 Happy city club, which looks on life in a rational 
 way ! Fortunate business men who can shake off 
 the cares and drudgery of office, store and factory, 
 and far above the clouds, so far that not even the 
 faintest sound of work day strife comes to their ears, 
 engage in these mimic battles with which nature 
 loves to restore lost energy ! So many of us regard 
 life as such an intensely serious matter — a sort of 
 perpetual funeral at which we are the chief mourn- 
 ers. Life is not a bowl of gruel to be partaken of spar- 
 ingly and condemned as unwholesome if it so hap- 
 pens that the soup be palatable and of good flavor; 
 neither is life all pie, of which each should strive for 
 the largest piece regardless of nightmare and stom- 
 ach ache. Rather is it a complete meal, which, no 
 doubt, is an important afi^air, yet not serious, so 
 long as the larder be full and the digestion unim- 
 paired. Let us have a few social condiments along 
 with the roast beef of existence ; and when it comes 
 
 1 06 
 
to dessert, so essential to a good dinner, what more 
 delightful than whist? Roast beef is all right and 
 not to be despised, but a little of life's pie, if you 
 please. 
 
 Whist is much like life. Players look upon whist, 
 In spite of the fun, as quite a serious matter after all. 
 The less a man knows about the game, the more 
 highly he values his own opinions, which is not so 
 different from some of life's phenomena. The in- 
 ventor of playing cards is the world's creditor to a 
 fabulous amount. If only we knew his name, or at 
 least his nationality, what a monument we would 
 build to his memory. But who and what he was, 
 where he lived, when he accomplished his remark- 
 able invention, are lost in the darkness of antiquity. 
 
 Many nations claim him. By some authorities he 
 is thought to have been very ancient and of eastern 
 origin. It is even said that in their primary stage 
 cards constituted some sort of symbolic and highly 
 moral game. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, 
 you who scorn the device and blush at the sight of 
 the Queen of Hearts, or the smallest suit in the 
 pack. Cards are supposed to have originated from 
 the ancient and highly respectable game of chess, 
 although when and how printed cards took the 
 place of carved figures is a matter of conjedure. 
 One authority insists that cards were invented in 
 the latter part of the fourteenth century to amuse 
 an insane king of France. Now, here is something 
 which seems reasonable. That they are specially 
 adapted for the amusement of insane people, has 
 been demonstrated time and time again, from that 
 day even unto this. At any rate, the French clergy 
 
 107 
 
took greatly to cards about that period. Whatever 
 the origin, cards have become an almost universal 
 form of amusement, an innocent one, except in the 
 abuse. We have whist conventions, national and in- 
 ternational ; whist professors, who charge a good, 
 round fee for instruction ; whist tournaments. Sev- 
 eral noted players have died while at their favorite 
 game. It is greatly to be feared that should Gabriel 
 blow his trumpet on the evening of the regular play, 
 the city whist club would insist upon finishing the 
 game before responding. 
 
THE OLD HOME 
 
 ONE of the great pleasures reserved for maturity 
 and age is a visit to the old home, the scene of 
 childhood's careless, unconscious joys. The old 
 home ! What mingled sensations of happiness and 
 pain the thought awakens in those who were not 
 deprived of nature's priceless heritage, a happy 
 childhood. Those crusty curmudgeons, who one 
 could swear were never children, are to be pitied. 
 They have missed much of the sweetness of life. 
 Yet, perhaps down deep in even their little hearts 
 lingers a tender memory, unacknowledged and con- 
 cealed in the accumulated rubbish of years. The 
 emotion with which one looks on the home of his 
 childhood has no counterpart in experience. It 
 stands alone — the tearful present gazing at the past, 
 idealized and glorified and made visible. A sacred 
 tenderness fills the heart and wells from the eyes. 
 The old place means so much more to you than to 
 anyone else, although thousands pass daily and have 
 done so for years. How little they know of what 
 they see. How little any of us know of what is pass- 
 ing before our eyes. What meaning to them has 
 yonder stone from which your feet used to dangle 
 in the old days, or the big maple which speaks to 
 you with all the suppressed eloquence of a quarter 
 century, the nooks and corners about the yard, the 
 very walls and angles of the house ? They shout 
 their message to you. None else can hear. People 
 cross the continent to see those hills which skirt the 
 village where you used to play, but they are not 
 their hills. Strangers may look and admire. To you 
 
 109 
 
the living, pulsating spirit of Nature herself is re- 
 vealed. 
 
 On approaching the old home, a thousand mem- 
 ories and images crowd and jostle together in mind 
 and heart. As the once familiar landscape unfolds 
 before your rejoicing eyes, the horizon of the past 
 broadens to your mental vision. Yonder is the great 
 ledge of rocks, eternal as the hills; in the distance, 
 the old mountain, cloud capped, which perhaps 
 overlooked your home. On that corner you com- 
 menced your school days. See! The stump of the 
 huge elm under which you used to play ! And there, 
 at last, is the old house — the same, yet how differ- 
 ent! What a mighty rush into the past as each fa- 
 miliar objed: comes within your vision ! You are a 
 child again. The same, yet how changed ! Strangers 
 dwell within those walls and you may not enter save 
 by permission. But who could withhold consent ? 
 
 A word of explanation and the door swings open. 
 With a mist before your eyes and a choking in the 
 throat you cross the threshhold and gaze in silence 
 on the dead. The old fashioned hall ! The sitting 
 room where you used to rest on mother's knee ! The 
 quaint, old mantel ! How proud the day when you 
 could stand beneath it and touch the shelf with your 
 shock of hair ! Where is that hair now I should like 
 to know ? And there, best of all and most painful, is 
 the dear, old dining room, and you note, even 
 through your tears, that the once lofty ceiling is 
 within reach of your upstretched arm. 
 
 You rush out of doors to hide your emotion and 
 stroll about the town and hillsides, recognizing and 
 calling by name people of whom you have not 
 
 I lO 
 
thought in years. There is a strange look about the 
 place. It has improved, they tell you. Perhaps it has 
 in a material way, but you resent the improvement. 
 It is not the place of your dreams. Is it an improve- 
 ment for vandals, under a plea of ownership, to 
 strip the mountain of timber until the venerable 
 peak looks like a plucked fowl ? Does it improve the 
 town to cut streets through your old play ground? 
 What right has anyone to build a high board fence 
 around the hill — your hill, because you loved it? 
 These purse-proud aristocrats would fence in the 
 very air if they could and build a wall around 
 Heaven itself 
 
 But the cemetery gate stands open and within is 
 peace and quiet and stability. A few added mounds 
 and stones to mark your sorrow does not change 
 the city of the dead. Here are your friends, and 
 here, your welcome. 
 
 It is genuine pleasure to look up the few who are 
 left. They have not forgotten, and together you 
 live over the old days and discuss the friends of long 
 ago. And where is Sadie, you ask, as a sweet vision 
 arises of a baby girl who with gurgles of delight was 
 wont to come to you from her mother's lap and 
 throw her chubby arms around your unworthy 
 neck. How her dimpled childhood is linked with 
 your past ! Why, Sadie is married. What trick is 
 this that Father Time plays on his children? Girls 
 have such an unaccountable way of growing up. But 
 it is true. Sadie herself blushing in shyness tells you 
 so and she ought to know. Such strange transfor- 
 mations are wrought by a few fleeting years. It 
 makes you feel hke a grandfather to see the child- 
 
 II I 
 
ren of the old days married and with families of 
 their own. One is never so conscious of his increas- 
 ing years as when some superb woman brushes past 
 him with ribbons flying and a rustle to her garments 
 which makes his ancient heart beat young again. 
 Why, he remembers when she was born. He used to 
 take her in his lap and rock her to sleep. Now ! In 
 her presence a strange bashfulness comes over him. 
 He wonders what to say and finally takes refuge 
 in the weather. Blessings on thee, weather, thou un- 
 conscious saviour of bashful men. Whether thou 
 dost pour down rain or scorch the thirsty earth with 
 an August sun, we could not carry on conversation 
 without thy presence. 
 
WINTER'S HERITAGE 
 
 WHO has not felt the indescribable charm of 
 sitting before a blazing fire on a cold, Sun- 
 day afternoon with a good book for company? It 
 is a selfish enjoyment, perhaps, yet none the less de- 
 licious. In such hours, the consciousness that mis- 
 ery exists somewhere out in the cold seems rather 
 to heighten the sense of personal comfort. Wough ! 
 How the wind blows, dashing an icy spray against 
 the window panes. Never mind ; it is warm and 
 cozy within. Stir the fire until the sparks go roar- 
 ing up the chimney, like the hopes and ambitions 
 of youth. Their cheery warmth enters the heart, 
 filling it with sweet content, almost ecstacy. This 
 enjoyment of one's fireside is the most precious her- 
 itage of winter. As spring calls us into the fields 
 and woods, where nature, awakened from her long 
 slumber, is all smiles and gladness ; so winter drives 
 us, nothing loath, to the fireside, the society of 
 friends, the delightful companionship of books. 
 
 This is an enjoyment that cannot be monopol- 
 ized by wealth. It comes to all healthy natures who 
 have homes to enjoy. We cannot draw the line and 
 say, on this side is happiness; on the other, mis- 
 ery — that certain conditions will give contentment 
 and others, wretchedness. For happiness is not alto- 
 gether an abstract thing; it is relative in its nature. 
 The room is equally warm in summer, but we do 
 not feel the same delicious sense of comfort. Hap- 
 piness is often the effed: of contrast. The discomfort 
 which we know exists out in the wind and snow 
 makes us responsive to the influence of the fire. The 
 
 113 
 
very contrast fills our hearts with content, and out 
 of content comes happiness. 
 
 We see the poetry of things indoors that in spring 
 we look for in woods and fields. The singing of the 
 tea kettle on the fire may seem discordant in sum- 
 mer ; but now, listen to its music, which harmonizes 
 with every mood. If we are merry, the kettle brims 
 over with laughter. It gurgles and chuckles and 
 holds its steaming spout aloft with a jaunty air, as 
 if to say, "Here is enjoyment for you — loving 
 hearts and a warm fireside. Let winter do his worst, 
 he can only make us feel our comfort the more 
 deeply." If we are sad in spite of all the cheer, there 
 are tears and tenderness in the quiet song, which 
 soothe our wounded spirit until we smile. Then the 
 saucy fellow breaks forth in music which there is 
 no withstanding, for he sings of home and love — 
 the great fountain heads of human happiness. As 
 beauty is said to lie in the eye of the beholder, so 
 happiness is not so much in externals as in mind and 
 heart. Influenced by outward conditions, it reads 
 on them, and they grow more beautiful and har- 
 monious. Yet, as far as outward conditions can cause 
 happiness, a cozy fireside on a winter day is ideal. 
 
 To get the best effed: we should have the visible 
 presence of fire. Radiators and registers are all right 
 in their way. They drive out the cold and minister 
 to our material comfort, but they only suggest fire ; 
 they are no more fire than is a letter from a dear 
 friend that friend himself Registers and radiators do 
 not kindle the imagination. There is strong resem- 
 blance between flame, visible manifestation of fire, 
 and imagination, invisible manifestation of intelled;. 
 
 114 
 
What the one is in the world of mind, the other 
 seems in the world of matter. It is not surprising 
 that when the flame of intellect burned low man 
 worshipped visible flame. Kindled by some stray 
 spark of thought, imagination leaps up and seizes 
 upon dry facSts and experiences with which the men- 
 tal store house is filled. Lo, they become new crea- 
 tions. So flame takes matter in its ethereal embrace, 
 until it burns and glows and ministers to our com- 
 fort, to life itself. 
 
 The snap of the burning coal, the mufiled roar 
 and fitful glare of the flame, set the fancy free and 
 turn back the years. The book sinks unheeded in 
 the lap and we revel in the fields of memory. With 
 what relief we turn from the clouds and storms of the 
 present and bask in the sunshine of the long ago ! 
 The world may owe no man a living, but it certain- 
 ly owes to each and every one a happy childhood. 
 A sad thing it is that the debt so often goes unpaid. 
 The idle moments are not wasted when we thus 
 wander through the invisible realms of experience, 
 culling here a thought, there an inspiration ; again, 
 some sweet forget-me-not, planted by dear hands 
 long folded in eternal rest and watered by our tears ; 
 or in the visible world of nature, we pluck the fair 
 flowers of earth and draw inspiration from field and 
 forest. 
 
 So, we sit by our fireside and read and think and 
 drink deep draughts from the sparkling fountains 
 of memory, do brave deeds and build our castles of 
 air, unmindful of time. What a rare old magician 
 Time is ! How diff^erent from the remorseless tyrant 
 that he is usually pictured. His tender touch ideal- 
 
 115 
 
izes our joys, until they glow with ever increasing 
 brightness unto perfediion, as bluffs along a stream 
 take on new beauty when seen from opposite banks. 
 In his magic crucible, pain is forgotten ; our sorrows 
 become sweet memories which live with us through 
 the years, softening our lives, enlarging our hearts, 
 bringing us more closely in touch with God and 
 man. 
 
ON GROWING OLD 
 
 THE general passenger agent of a great railway 
 system recently issued me a ticket over his 
 lines, in which was punched, after the manner of 
 general passenger agents who seem suspicious of 
 their kind, my apparent age, sex, size and color of 
 my hair. Now, I maintain that it is bad enough to 
 mutilate so good a thing as a railway pass in this 
 diabolical, rogues' gallery sort of fashion. Yet, I 
 could have forgiven even that, for honest people 
 can afford to laugh at suspicion and with all its 
 shortcomings the individual conscience is the final 
 test of one's acts. I could have forgiven such a con- 
 fession of lost faith in human nature, had I not in 
 an evil moment looked at the description thus 
 punched in the offending card, because of which may 
 the general passenger agent himself be punched, 
 not four, but eight times ! For, instead of reading 
 that the holder of the pass was of commanding pres- 
 ence, with long chestnut hair and a mien both youth- 
 ful and innocent, I beheld only four short words — 
 four baldheaded, unfeeling words, full of frost and 
 vinegar: namely, "male", "short", "middle aged", 
 "gray . 
 
 I don't know when I have received so great a 
 shock. There was another, not long ago, the mem- 
 ory of which is more vivid than the events of yes- 
 terday, when a youngster at school screened himself 
 from the missiles of a companion behind my proud 
 frame. "Huh! "jeered the belligerent, little rascal, 
 "you have to hide behind a big boy." Ah, the sweet- 
 ness of those words ! A "big boy ! " I could have 
 
 117 
 
smiled had he hit me. It was a great shock, but how 
 different ! I remember, also, only a little while be- 
 fore, of receiving that tremendous shock, from the 
 delights of which girls are forever excluded, putting 
 on the first trousers and strutting around for the 
 admiration of all creation. But that again was differ- 
 ent. I take no exceptions to the first descriptive 
 word used by the general passenger agent, for I have 
 always understood that to be the case and, indeed, 
 have never denied it. But, "short!" O, infamous 
 agent ! If I were not short would I be seeking rail- 
 road passes ? But why proclaim it to an unsympa- 
 thetic world .f* Why call the attention of cold blood- 
 ed railway conductors to so distressing a state of af- 
 fairs ? Worse yet, "middle aged ! " And worst of all, 
 how can I frame the word ? "Gray! " O, these soul- 
 less corporations, soulless because of their perpetual 
 youth ! And O, that grim joker. Time ! I am almost 
 certain the Old Fellow stands at my elbow as I 
 write, grinning and chuckling and feeling the edge 
 of his scythe ! What have I to do with time, I whose 
 soul is steeped in eternity ,? 
 
 Life is full of these rude awakenings. Time is a 
 cunning workman and no man can detect his joints. 
 No one can say that here ends youth, there begins 
 maturity and over yonder is old age. We are here, 
 and before we know it, by some mysterious process 
 we have become big boys and girls and forty seems 
 far off. We revel in youth and seemingly could live 
 torever, and lo, middle age is upon us. Now, indeed, 
 we begin to realize that life "is the stuff dreams are 
 made of." But, after all, we are still that boy and 
 girl. Age has simply shifted its starting point. Not 
 
 ii8 
 
forty, but eighty, is now old. And almost before we 
 can adjust ourselves to the new conditions and real- 
 ize that youth is gone, that middle age with its 
 whitening hair, its bald spot and other parapherna- 
 lia, is upon us, I imagine that great passenger agent, 
 Time, will punch out "old" and pass us into the 
 New Jerusalem. 
 
 It is startling to watch the years slip by although 
 we seldom note their passage except in the recur- 
 rence of one of those anniversaries known as birth- 
 days — those days in which we are born again, so to 
 speak, into fuller life; to which children look for- 
 ward with such pathetic eagerness ; on which matur- 
 ity catches its breath with a little gasp, makes a hasty 
 survey up and down the hill of life, looks into the 
 glass thoughtfully, perhaps takes advantage of that 
 diabolical arrangement of two mirrors, wherein one 
 can view the back of his head — something plainly 
 never intended for him to see. The back of the head ! 
 O, wretched sight, to make angels weep ! Is that the 
 back of my head ? Away with looking glasses and 
 other cheats of time and let us grow old in peace ! 
 
 Still, it is a good thing to look into the glass oc- 
 casionally, not vainly but in a philosophical spirit, 
 that we may see the present before us and judge of 
 the future. Better yet is it to look into that other 
 glass, mirror, not of the present but the past — the 
 family album. It is not strange that we sometimes 
 shrink from the family album as containing the 
 glorious promise of what we are the imperfed; real- 
 ization. Carelessly we finger the pages, not thinking 
 that we are turning back the years of our life, until 
 with something like a shock we suddenly see the 
 
 119 
 
face of our own youth looking up at us. Wistfully 
 we smile down at that hopeful, eager, smiling face, 
 but our smile is tinged with sadness. That boy died 
 long ago and over his dead body a man arose — a 
 man, who, as he looks, longs to gather that boy in- 
 to his arms tenderly, to shield him, counsel him. 
 
 Turn back the years ! With every page a year, 
 with every year a tear ! The boy has disappeared and 
 from the depths of the album — dare you look ? — 
 stares the sweet face of an innocent child, a familiar 
 face and yet how strange. Bewildered and shrinking 
 in realization of your own unworthiness, you let the 
 album fall unheeded in your lap as you live again 
 your pitifully short childhood. 
 
 Where are these birthdays? Where is our child- 
 hood ? Where is that great Past with its thousands 
 of voices crying out through the years? Suspended 
 in memory and tradition ; crystallized in literature ; 
 embodied in character. We, then, are the Past. In us 
 it lives and walks and breathes and becomes the 
 Present. And so without knowing it the babe grows 
 into boyhood and the boy without knowing it takes 
 on the form and semblance of manhood. Yet, he is 
 a boy still. One of the most difficult things in life is 
 for a boy to realize that he is a boy no longer, but a 
 man, and for a girl to see that her youth has slipped 
 away and that the responsibilities of womanhood 
 are upon her. That boy feels himself the one excep- 
 tion in this universe of law. Time can take no liber- 
 ties with him. The precise moment when the boy 
 becomes a man can never be told, and happy is he 
 who, not too conscious of the change and regarding 
 life not too seriously, remains like Lowell, an "in- 
 
 110 
 
corrigible boy," to the end of his days. 
 
 Somehow our individual birthdays are different 
 from other holidays, especially as we seldom make 
 of them holidays, but come to gaze upon them re- 
 proachfully and try to make light of them. It is not 
 for us to interrupt the serious drudgery of life for 
 so little a thing as a birthday. Yet, how infinitely 
 more important is my birthday and yours than 
 Washington's ! For had Washington not been, 
 someone else would have been raised up to be the 
 father of his country. But, had we not been — ah, 
 had we not been ! — perhaps the world would have 
 jogged along after a fashion, but the centre of the 
 universe would have shifted ; the perspective of lite 
 would have changed. We recognize the importance 
 of birthdays in our observances — Christmas, the 
 birth of Christ; Independence Day, the birth of the 
 Nation ; the birthdays of Washington and Lincoln. 
 What are our wedding anniversaries but celebra- 
 tions of birthdays when we took on the life of a 
 new and sacred experience ? In short, is not what we 
 call life, one significant, astounding birth, from that 
 remarkable and interesting phenomenon which we 
 call baby, up through changing experiences, until 
 at last from the mysteries and travail of an earthly 
 existence, through death, we are fully born and 
 awaken to the glories of immortality ? 
 
 "Middle aged ! " "Gray !" Well, what of it ? Yet, 
 this aversion to growing old is common to all. It is 
 difficult to get away from the thought. Lamb in one 
 of his essays rails at old age and death. Oliver Wen- 
 dell Holmes in "Over the Tea Cups," that literary 
 child of his old age, dwells much on these things, 
 
 121 
 
sweetly, it is true, but the thought is with him. And 
 Lamb is gone, Holmes is gone, and with them 
 countless millions who have left not even a memory. 
 
 O, youth and childhood, we yearningly cry ; O, 
 departed days ; O, the careless, happy years of long 
 ago, with the sweet saints who peopled them and the 
 sacred voices which still echo through the corridors 
 of memory ! God help us, are they gone ? And yet, 
 though we see with infinite yearning and compassion 
 that childhood reaching up to us through the years, 
 and though we strive and strive again to take hold 
 of the little hand, not one of us, not one, would go 
 back again if he could. For it is life we are after, not 
 living, and life does not consist in perpetual youth 
 or even in middle age. These are but parts of life. 
 
 Years bring experience, and experience, wisdom, 
 and wisdom is eternal. In the realms of wisdom and 
 love there is no growing old. Hair will whiten ; the 
 jfingers of Time will write the soul in the once 
 smooth features of ourselves and dear ones, and 
 science and superstition will search the globe for the 
 fountain of perpetual youth. These things must 
 come to pass. Yet, this fountain will be found, if 
 found at all, by introspection. Why search the uni- 
 verse when it is ours for the asking? In wisdom 
 and its soul harmony called charader, in knowing 
 the meaning and purpose of life and loving the true 
 and the beautiful in all things, there may be found 
 youth which is eternal. 
 
Here ends the book "The Bashful Man and 
 Others," as written by Charles Pierce Burton, and 
 published by Langworthy & Stevens at The Blue 
 Sky Press, 4732 Kenwood Avenue, Chicago. Com- 
 pleted in Odober, 1902. Of this edition five hun- 
 dred copies have been printed, this being number2n )(( 
 
 r 
 
.v^^ 10 1902 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 015 988 256 1 '^