t •© •t *** Book.LL.-(e.l535s Author . Title Imprint. 18— 4737a-l OPO '4' v'>' A .^« - -;r\'^''*.'>i;^p. ;#»■ DdCK:ii3 /o o SideiPdijs and Backipard Musa Dtrnn H^axahachie, Texas Enterprise Publishing Compami UPaxhachie. Texas 2 H S M,^ rtlrs. Musa Dunn KPaxahacliie, Texas too \ k You know the kind Of an Irish mind — Merry heart, happy, head — Of which 'tis said It "works sideways and b'ackward." Contents Page Nothing but Books 5 Poesy Nipped in the Bud 9 Sam Jones vs. Satan 12 Prosaic and Poetical 14 Picnics 16 A Little of Everything and Not Much of Anything 19 Fame Passed Me by 22 A Sheaf of Dreams 2 6 Under the mistletoe 29 Mothing but Books ' When I was a few years younger than I am now my besetting sin was a love of books. I am much afflicted in that way yet, never hav- ing recovered from the first attack. But pre- vious to my inoculation, and quite early in my career, my erratic course gave my mother some very serious apprehensions, and as she looked with an eye of grave disapproval on my evident inclination to make a Thomas-boy of myself, she called me into her presence one day and gave it as her most mournful opinion that I didn't know a book from a hole in the ground, was good for nothing under the sun but to climb trees, wade water, and throw rocks at the boys, and sorely grieved and moved was she that a child of hers should grow up in such complete and utter idiocy. I was somewhat startled at the prospect myself, and when I had perforce given her lecture all the respectful at- tention it demanded, I finished extracting the cockleburs from my flaxen locks, stuck my sweet-gum on the round of a chair, retired to the barn loft and laid myself out for some very calm and serious consideration. It was all true, just as she said ; I was good for nothing whatever, that I could think of. I didn't know how to sew, didn't want to learn, I couldn't knit, wouldn't cook, ran wild in the woods, whistled from morning to night, loved horses and dogs, wasn't afraid of ghosts, had warts on my hands, freckles on my nose, sun-burn on my hair, stone bruises on my heels, and there wasn't a boy in all that neighborhood for miles and miles that I hadn't crossed tooth and toe- nail with, and come out more or less victorious. As the enumeration grew larger I greAv small- er, in my own estimation ; I had a birds-eye view of the situation ; I realized my lost and undone condition, and by the time I had wash- ed my complexion unusually clean with a few — Page Five briney tears, mopping up the moisture with the sleeve of a soiled apron, I resolved to pause in my wicked career, alter my course, begin again, turn over a new leaf, and that leaf should be in any book my mother selected. Hastily, lest I get out of the notion and read not at all, she placed in my hands "Beulah," and with a sigh for the green fields, the flowery dells, the shadowy woods, the dimpling streams wiiere the wild rose leaves whirled softly around in a little eddy under the mossy bank, I bent my brov/s over the book and went at it with the determination to read if it killed me. I survived wonderfully however, and as my imagination took quick hold upon the pic- tured scenes, I was soon well acquainted with ]>eulah, her baby sister, and the other little idiots. With breathless interest I followed their fortunes and misfortunes, heart swelling over the lines cast to them in unpleasant places, and when at last Beulah ran away from the poor house where she had been placed, and found the little sister she loved dead as a door nail in a small flov\^er wreathed casket, my emotions burst bounds, the rivers of woe over- flowed, I prostrated my stricken form in the dust and refused to be comforted. In vain my iiiother explained, coaxed, plead, threatened, reasoned, the storm continued with unabated force until she took the book out of sight, lock- ed it away be3^ond reach, and many and many a long year passed over my devoted head before I found Beulah again, and learned that she lived on in spite of her broken heart, grew up to womanhood, fell in love as though no- thing had happened, and got married just as any other ordinary individual Avould have done. But that was the beginning of a new life to me — the small wedge that opened up a wonderful world of dreams — and I ran wild sure enough after that, but I never ran unaccompanied by a book. Nobody said me nay, nobody gave any particular attention to me, I was left to follow the bent of my own sweet will, and bent it was too, for I read everything in sight, from a ragged pamphlet of Shakespeare's plays, on up to an elegantly bound copy of "One Eyed Page Six — Dick, the Scout", I made my throne on a mossy log in tlie densest part of the woods, and there I recited poetry to the buttcrfHes, legends to the birds, travels to the bees, fairy tales to the flowers, history to the horse, science to the dogs, fact, fancy, and fun ran riot in my head, rainbow tangles of romance in the brain, and from such a varied, mixed and miscellaneous mass of literature, naturally and as a matter of course, I gathered a small smat- tering of many things, and an absolute knowl- edge of nothing. And so today when the world discusses books I am silent, in the presence of a learned essay I am speechless ; the temerity of a criticism fills me with wonder and aston- ishment; the sight of a review brings me a sense of utter helplessness, and when on literary occasions some well m.eaning, bu*: mistaken person requests me to give a talk on books, I fain would hold my peace, and say nothing whatever, because nothing whatever is exactly what I have to say, and peace seems about the only thing tangible to hold on to. Not but what my range of reading is wide, deep and devious; I've wandered through the unabridged dictionary often, up and down the crooked trail of the Chinese alphabet many times, labored patiently with the rare, and not very clear, volumes of antiquity, and if I should be transplanted to Mars I am sure I would attempt a translation of their language, and investigate their literature also. Why, I've even tackled Shakespeare now and then, when I had nothing better to do, but I never could make out to save my life, whether he wrote Bacon, or Bacon wrote him. Likewise have I waded through Scott's productions, introduced myself to Thackery's creations, hung over Ad- dison's works, dipped into Dryden's thoughts, stumbled along Hugo's heights, followed By- ron's flights, pondered over Plato's philosophy, staggered after Spencer, Spinoza, Schopenaur, and the rest of them, and 'pon my word, I stav awake yet sometimes at night trying to catch on to what they are all driving at. But when the occasion offers, the demand is made, and I attempt to elaborate these things, to review — Pase Seven a finished thought, to oii&r a treatise on ideas so large with ideas so small, a new edition, so to speak, of grand truths already told in lan- guage a mile and a half beyond my compre- hensions, — the presumption gives me pause, and I can but take refuge in a stony calm, assume an air of haughty reserve, plead a headache, a toothache, an ulcerated sore throat, a stroke of paralysis, anything to avoid giving voice to the waste places of my brain, and all the time deep down in my soul I am longing inexpressibly, if vainly and hopelessly, for the safe and sane precincts of a deaf and dumb asylum. Page EisM- Poetrij Hipped in tKe Bud My very worst friend cannot accuse me of being a literary light of any pre-eminence. I have a mournful forboding that my name will fade away with the present generation. I am almost certain that I will drop down into my grave "unwept, unhonored and unsung." But there was a time in my sweet young life when no such idea ever penetrated the place where my brain ought to have been, and I was as happy as a wild sunflower in the firm belief that the earth, and the fullness thereof, were cut out and put together for my own especial benefit. I lived in Austin, and I wrote a poem ! It was not about the spring, the flowers, the singing birds, the skipping lambs, the dead ashes of hope, or anything in particular that I remember, but in my estimation it was an exceedingly rare gem, even in lines, smooth in measure, lovely in rhymes, and I often retired to a congratulatory post behind the door to pat my head, and tell myself then — as I tell myself now — Shakespeare in all his glory never array- ed one of his fancies like unto that. The day came however when I was not satisfied with my own admiration, I wanted the world to do that way too, and I resolved to place this first fruit of a powerful young intellect in the columes of the leading paper published in the capital city. Never the shadow of a doubt crossed the intention, hope furnished the wings for my mission, I stepped along the streets as if I owned them, I walked over the earth as if I made it, I looked at the faces I met as if I pitied them, but by and by as I neared my destination my assurance began to weaken, my confidence began to waver, some lumps got into my throat which I could not swallow, and when I had reached the bottom drop of my courage, ascended the long stairway, and made Page Nine my feeble debut in a large room where ten thousand type setters were working at ten thousand tables, I would willingly, gladly, thankfully let go all hold, and tumbled out of the situation faster than I tumbled in, only twice ten thousand eyes were turned upon my shrinking individuality, and the gentleman nearest me stepped forward and politely asked what he could do for me. La, at the things he might have done for me ! Knocked me down the stairs, called the police, given me rat poison — anything but stand there and wait for me to speak, for straightway I forgot all I knew, forgot what I meant to say, forgot my name, my nationality, the date of my birth, longed for the date of my death, and in a voice he had to take a microscope to hear I told him I wanted a reward offered, an advertise- ment inserted, or a poem printed — I didn't care much which if he didn't. I think the man smiled — I am not prepared to state accurately, but I think he did, and winked maybe at the other fools in the room, but he summoned a boy, the hatefullest looking boy I ever saw in my life, and told him to "conduct the lady to the editor's private office down the street !" If there was anything on earth I didn't want to see by this time it was the editor's private office down the street. I would rather have been ushered into the lunatic asylum. But I went, slowly and reluctantly 'tis true, but I went, for I couldn't do otherwise. Bitterly I regretted the step I had taken, the steps I was taking; anxiously I looked about for some means of escape, vainly I essayed to dodge down an alley, earnestly I sought to compass the boy's destruction — he paused not, neither relaxed his vigilance until he landed me in the presence of the stately white haired editor, whereupon I immediately evidenced a strong liking for that boy's society and would gladly have followed him to the end of the world but that he slammed the door on my classic nose, and left me to face my fate alone. The poem was in my pocket — the poem stayed in my pocket. I sat sullenly on the edge of the chair, and sickened with strange disgust every time Page Ten — I thought of even lines and musical rhymes. The editor was all that was kind and courteous and pleasant, but he never succeeded in melt- ing the light in my eyes, in softening the re- ticence of my noble brows, in scattering the haughtiness of my mood, or in any way win- ning the childlike confidence of my normal state, further than that I told him I had called in the interest of a friend long since dead, who wanted him to print her last will and testa- ment long since lost, and then I made my exit. I fled, I flew, I hit the ground only in high places, skimmed the surface of the home stretch, fell in the window, crawled far back under the bed, and had my bread and water brought to me for many days before I regained sufficient assurance to venture out in the glar- ing light of the world again. The cremation of the poem took place as soon as I was able to attend to the obsequies. —Page Eleven Sam Jones us. Satan I was sitting on the lower step of the front porch one morning busily reading the Dutch almanac sent by an admiring friend, one sandal slipped off and my toes buried surreptitiously in the cool green grass, deaf for once to the world around, to the sounds of life, to the bird songs overhead, to the chirp of the cricket near the fence, to the young hen going into hysterics over a newly laid egg, when some one who thinks a very great deal more of me than I do of him came along the walk, stopped at the gate, threw a few "sheep's eyes" over at me and said "suppose you and I go up to Dallas tomorrow and hear Sam Jones preach." 'Twas the first chance I'd had and I didn't want to appear too eager, so I diligently spelled out a few words m.ore, turned another leaf, then closed the book, thrust my toes back into place, arose to my dignified feet, made the gentleman a sweeping bow and ansAvered. "with the great- est pleasure in life my dear sir." And that's how I came to find myself in the city on the never navigated river, in an immense building of brick and saw-dust, jammed in a crowd of ten thousand "lost and ruined souls," from the four quarters of the state — the "old bald headed rips" on the right, the red nosed fraternity on. the left, the "flop eared hounds" all around, the self sufficient infidels, the sleepy church members, the ball room devotees, the fashionable set, the prodigal son, the unprodi- gal sire, the Sunday sinner, the week day trans- gressor, the sheep, the goats all mixed up together so that I didn't know myself from the worst or best in the lot, and as I had always declared I didn't believe in the rough and ready Gospel Sam Jones slung out from the pulpit I was quite ready to turn up my Waxahachie nose at everything he said, but when he looked me straight in the eyes and exclaimed, "you're Page Twelve — a nice old thing, sis, but you've got no mind," I couldn't do a thing but prove the assertion by making faces at him with all the mouth I had. He seemed to enjoy the situation too, and smiled so sweetly that I lost myself in watch- ing the play of the sallow face, the curves of the expressive mouth, looking unutterable things into eyes that looked them all back at me again, and when he took up his "mother's Bible," rolled up his sleeves and plunged into business with an appropriate text I forgot to shut my mouth for an Iiour, let my breath take care of itself, the past the present the future glowed in living light, the world the flesh and the other fellow rushed by in panoramic view, my soul dwindled into a thing too small to save, and when he took his seat again and the choir burst into the declaration that "Old time religion was good enough for them," I relaxed my toes, closed my lips with a salty sigh, pick- ed my handkerchief up from the dust, mopped the last remnant of powder from my face, looked around for the "mourner's bench," and felt it was ten thousand times too good for me. Then the usual propositions came to the front — those who were Christians, those who weren't, those who wanted to be, those who didn't, those who couldn't, to stand on their feet or heads or hands (I've forgotten now which), and I acceeded to them all, never miss- ed one, stood up sat down meandered around, shook hands with the crowd, great drops of emotion be-dewed my brow, my hat stuck on one side, but I faltered not, neither did I faint, for I wanted to feel I was performing my re- ligious duty and doing whatever little old soul-searching Sam Jones told me to, and if that days meeting wasn't a great affair, a stu- pendous occasion and a howling success no- body in sound of his voice can put the blame on the lady who had fallen from grace, climbed back again, and made up her mind to become an evangelist ?nd go forth to sa>'^ the world. — Page Tliirteen Prosaic and Poetical Every time I clean house I am consumed with a great and overwhehning desire to take out a big fire insurance policy and become chief mourner at an immense conflagration. I couldn't tell to save my life v^^here all the books, papers and magazines come from, and as for the dust — if I could just get it in shape and put a barbed wire fence around it, I'd make an independent fortune selling it out for black land farms. I am a very sweet tempered individual (that is somebody told me I was once, a hundred years ago, just after I made a profession of religion I didn't have), but when I've got to tie my head up in a rag, plug both nostrils with cotton, and swallow an acre of the real estate that has accumulated in my house during the summer, my large and interesting family had better flee to the woods and stay there until the atmosphere clears a little. What wonder? I've got blisters on my hands as big as pancakes, and all the soothing salve thereupon up to date has been the unfeeling remark: "if you'd get a move on you and use the broom oftener your hands would be tougher." I never wanted to use the broom as bad in my life as I did right then, but I • 'i 'n'*- wM.t to sweep with it thougii — nothing! I use buttermilk applications every time I think of it, and wear old kid gloves in my dreams just for the sole purpose of keeping my hands white and soft and squeezeable — though if any- body in reach has ever discovered they were so they never let on to me about it. Some folks are so unappreciative, and wouldn't know a soft white hand from a cat's paw — there are times when I hate them. But as a general thing, and under more pleasant circumstances, it is exactly the other way with me for I've been in love with something or somebody ever since I can remember. Life without love isn't Page Fourteen — worth living at all — I've never tried it and never intend to. I've traveled around a great deal in this big and beautiful vrorld. I'd travel a lot more than I do if I had a newspaper pass, were a stock holder in the interurban, or even had the misfortune to own a Ford car, but I've nver become so lost to human feeling that I couldn't fall in love if anybody wanted me to. I've been to Dallas several times, to Austin twice, started to the country club once and had to turn back, to a thousand picnics on the creek, even to more political speakings than I wanted to attend, and I never failed to find from one to a million people in such places who were so kind and good and altogether lovely that I couldn't keep from falling in love with them to save my life. If you've never tried it you don't know how really and truly nice it is to be in love. It will brighten your life, lighten your toil, sweeten your dreams, deepen your soul, quicken your pulse, warm your blood, keep you awake all night, and give you something to think about from sun up to sun down and from sun down back to sun up again. Go forth and fall in love early and often, truly and deeply, hopefully and happily, and while you are about it don't forget my i>hare. -Page Fiftten Picnics When I become too old and disgruntled to enjoy myself to death at a picnic it behooves some loving friend to give me a small sugar- coated dose of rat poison, and let me down — or up — g'ently to my next stage of existence. If you've never tried it, you don't know how much fun and frolic there is in an average picnic, nor how much pure and unadulterated joy and relief you'll feel when the day is done and the fun all over. There be many and various kinds of pic- nics, too — barbecues, fish fries, oyster roasts, breakfast parties. Mother Hubbard affairs, camp meeting revivals, Chautauqua lectures and political speakings, and not one, so far as my observation and experience go, is cut out and put together for meditation and prayer. Far from it; for, if you stop to meditate and pray, you are gone — and not to a picnic, either. The most hilarious, however, are the political speakings and the most varied and doubtful are the Mother Hubbard outings. The former open with prayer, proceed with maledictions, and wind up with fist fights, swelled noses and black eyes. The latter open with no form whatever, proceed with still less and end in whatever way comes handy. I went to a Mother Hubbard picnic once, just once — strickly a woman's picnic — and I never have been able to make up my mind about the fun and frolic of it. We drove out six miles from town to a shady grove and a spring big enough to hold a dozen water- melons. There we ran races, jumped sticks, played leap frog, climbed trees, fell in the creek, chased butterflies, picked ticks, and all with one accord agreed not even to think of a man the whole day long. It was a long day, too, the longest I ever spent in my life. I don't know whether the others stuck to the agree- Page Sixteen — ment or not, but the compact was broken by common consent when we came to harness the horses to drive home in the evening. We had staked them out to graze, but the majority had souglit fresher fields, taking the stakes with them. There were a great many more straps and strings, buckles and things, than we had any need for; but we managed to get them looped and twisted and knotted about the horses pretty well until we came to one sturdy old beast who held his head so high we couldn't get the bit in his mouth with a forty foot pole. In vain we begged and plead, and threatened and reasoned, and patted and petted, and whistled and "whoa-ed !'' He "whoa-ed" all right enough — in fact, he wasn't doing any- thing but "whoaing;" but he did it with a look of lofty contempt, and absolutely refused to come down and take the bit. We tried him with shelled oats and cake and pie and bread, held in the lap of a skirt; he lowered his head long enough to sample the lot, making his selections include the skirt, but he returned to the upper strata of atmosphere to masticate them. We exhausted the delicacies, likewise our patience. Then we got one end of a rope tied about his lengthy old neck, fastened the other end securely to the under side of a wheel, and when the entire crowd piled into the sur- rey to hold it down one of us mounted the dash board in front, wound a wisp of hay around the bit and insinuatingly offered him that. He nibbled the hay off and declined to swallow the bit, but we swung on to his nose and ears and bangs, sawed the bit along his teeth, his neck stretched out like a rubber string, and suddenly the carriage heaved up on end, piercing screams rent the air and for a few awful seconds the horse, the harness, the cushions, the baskets, the mixed pickles, and the women were tangled up in such wild and inextricable confusion that the wayfarer, though a sage, could not have told one from another. I don't know how we ever did pull ourselves out and get apart again; but when we did we found the horse was in a comatose state of some kind up among the trees, and — Pase Seventeen we decided that his neck was dislocated, his jaws locked, or something. , While the majority of us sat down and wept bitterly, two others walked a mile and a half across a field of black dirt and got a man to come and diagnose the case. When he came we all swarmed around in admiration and awe to see what he would do ; but he wasn't five minutes getting all those things into shape and that old horse took the bit like it had been a lump of sugar. We gathered the remains of our Mother Hubbards about us and invited the man to see us safely home, but he declined the honor and eaid he thought we'd get along all right if we'd just give the horse his head and let him go. As if we hadn't been giving him his head and letting him go for hours ! Page Eighteen — A Little of Euerij thing All my life, more or less, when I was not askmg questions myself I have had an over- powering desire to investigate those other people were asking. And you needn't tell me "Opportunity knocks at the door but once" such things are everlastingly bombarding at i^ine — but in an hour when I thought not and didn't very much want to think, a gentleman of an inquiring turn of mind asked me softly and gently, "Can we ever really love but once?" I was rather startled at first, blushed divinely all over my neck and nose, felt the fluttering of my heart in my throat, but when I remembered he was a married man, and didn't amount to much anyway, of course I understood there could not be anything per- sonal in the question, and so I calmed my emotions, subdued my blushes, quieted the heart throbs, collected my scattered wits, mounted the witness stand, and proceeded to "tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth" about the delicate subject— as far as I knew. Speaking from a highly varied experience, a keen and alarmingly lengthy ob- servatictn, I am bound to say we really can love not once only, or twice merely, but three, four, or a dozen times if need be, as early, as often, as much, as deeply, as fervently as the occasion permits, or the nature of the case demands. Beginning at an early age I fell in love ; I stay- ed there I think a week, maybe longer, and no sooner had I sailed out of the situation than I turned square about, without loss of time, and tumbled in again deeper than ever, and today I live to say I have continued so to do up to the present age, and not a weeks rest have I had, or do I want either. I wouldn't know myself at all out of love, I'd go around worshipping at the shrine of old father Time if I couldn't do any better (but I can do a little — Page Nineteen better), and when I turn my back on the rich- ness, the fulhiess, the exquisite tenderness of the grand passion and retire on the thought of the "lias been," you may know I am out of the business altogether and utterly disabled for any further feeling in that direction. And there is another question which has been propounded to me often : "Why does God permit sin in the world?" As if I knew, or would presume to try to know the reasons God has for doing anything! What concerns me more is why people go around asking questions they cannot answer themselves, and know no- body else can, and what concerns me most of all is why we ourselves permit sin in the heart? When Bell made the telephone and set men and women (mostl)^ women) to running it, you v/ouldn't expect him to monkey about taking kinks out of the lines, "shooing" birds off the wires, picking gnats and dust out of the tubes, and keeping fools from the sounding boards, v.'ould you? And so when God made the world 'He leased it to man to operate, and if they sow tares, cultivate sin, cherish iniquity, and play the mischief generally, God isn't going to in- terfere with their personal liberty to any serious extent. But when the end comes, the harvest is past, the returns all in, the final ac- count taken, the papers filed and the case call- ed to court there'll be no appeal, no new trial granted, no suspended sentence, and some of us are going to get hurt and have the cost to pay, and may the Lord have mercy on our souls ! And here's another for idle minds to ques- tion and simple souls to answer — if thev can — "How may we secure happiness?" By the way, and arising to a question of personal priv- ilege, what is happiness anyhow? Does it not just as well come under the Bible definition of faith — "the substance of things hoped for the evidence of things not seen?" I notice Mr. Webster defines happiness as "felicity, blessed- ness, bliss, joyful satisfaction" and so on, but with all due deference to Mr. Webster, and his great amount of information on a variety of subjects, if I were going to make a diction- Page Twenty — ary I'd say Happiness is like Love or Religion — when you get so you can explain it then you haven't got it, and when you've got it then you can't explain it to save your life. A grave and dignified friend of mine to whom I appealed for light on the subjects, and who doesn't know half as much about them as I do, said I never looked so well as when I was attending to my own business, and as I am at all times and in all ways desirious of looking well I abandoned the track of information, retired on my income, and am glad and thankful beyond measure that a v/ant of native wisdom and erudite knowl- edge is not going to keep me out of Heaven, for if I ever get there I expect to know every- thing without asking questions — though I con- fess to a pious hope that I will be allowed to go on asking questions. — Page Twenty-one Fanae Passsd Me 5ij In all my rather varied career nobody at all has ever called me beautiful — I've often wondered why — and on this hot summer day when I was trying to wash the outside of windows on the south porch my most ardent admirer could not have pronounced me even pretty. My curly top knot was tied up with a string, the cat had left a long meandering scratch across the left side of my countenance, the big kitchen apron made an elegant trail for the back of my attire, for the cow had tackled the previous week's wash and riddled the rear of my skirt into doll rags. First she ripped all the gathers off of the belt, then ran her horns north for about ten feet, thence south east at an angle of forty-five degrees, thence due west back to the point of beginning, and when clothed in the remnants and mounted on the step ladder with the broom, a bar of soap, a pail of suds, a box of "bon ami," a lot of paper, a bushel of rags, and no very great in- clination to care whether the windows were polished or not, I could not have presented a very attractive appearance. I was getting along pretty well however when the gate latch clicked, the cat ran hastily off the porch, the chickens flew cackling under the house, and I crawfished backward down the ladder just in time to face a dapper looking man who half did, and half didn't, take off his hat, eyed me askance and inquired in a tone strangely mixed with doubt : "Are you the lady of the house?" I mopped the moisture off my lovely face and said, "Do I look like her?" "Well," he stammered, "you know she is a stranger to me, and really I can't say — " "Well, really I can," I interrupted, "and to all intents and purposes she stands before you — what wilt thou?" Page Twenty-two — To all intents and purposes he wilted, took off his hat, hung it on the step ladder, sat down on the pansy box, cleared up his throat and said he was representing one of the largest and most popular publishing houses in the world, was using a bit of his valuable time in collecting data for an elegant history of our town and county, and some of the most wealthy and accomplished citizens had sent him to in- terview me for the purpose of ascertaining facts that would immortalize my name and fame, and hand my honor and glory down to all future generations to come. I nearly faint- ed with emotions of the hour, a glow of pride deepened the red of my neck and nose, I sub- sided gracefully on the upturned pail of suds, slyly pushed the bar of soap out of sight Avith my foot, slipped the dirty rag in the pocket of my apron, gave him a fine profile of my face (with the scratch on the off side), and after assuring me he was neither going to take my picture or pull my tooth, he produced pencil and note book and began : "What is your name and address?" I had supposed he knew but I told him. and then he continued : "The name of your native state?" "Tennessee." "The date of your birth?" "I don't remember." "Where were you educated?" "Nowhere in particular." "What is your height?" "Four feet ten." "What is your weight?" "A hundred and twenty-five in winter and slightly more than that in summer." "What is the color of your eyes?" "Green." "The color of your hair?" "Red." "Are you married, and if not, do you want to marry?" "Yes sir." "What is your daily avocation?" "Nothing." "Who is your favorite poet?" — ^Page Twenty-three "Mother Goose." "The name of your choice in fiction?" "One Eyed Dick, the Scout." "What is your pet abomination?" "Agents." "What is your prevailing ambition ?" "To be called beautiful." "Have you ever written anything, and if so when, where and how in the name of com- mon sense was it published?" "I don't know, but I think so." As he closed his book with a snap, arose from the pansy box, put on his hat, and shoved the pencil behind his ear, he said: "Now the history will be a most costly and elegant affair altogether, no expense spared, and as we are going to issue only a limited number to a favored few I have your name down as a subscriber — delivered next month — twenty dollars per copy." And as he went out of the gate I leaned heavily on the handle of the broom and called him in a feeble voice — "can you give me an after idea of where I'll get the mone)^?" He didn't answer, maybe didn't hear. I sat down again on the bar of soap, wiggled my toe me- chaically in and out of the hole in my slipper, picked the rough edges off the scar on the off side of my face, until the twelve o'clock whistle sounded from the mill below the spring, was echoed from the hill beyond, re- peated by the ice factory in town, caught up by the electric light house near by, and my loving family flocked home to the dinner that wasn't prepared, and said I had a sun stroke, or something, and they "told me so" when I made up my mind to polish those windows. I hadn't made it up, or cared to make it up, and the windows were not polished. All the same the days and weeks went sailing by as usual, the months have healed the crimson scratch on my countenance, the history of our town and county , has long since made its debut before an admiring world, but they forgot to deliver my copy (I wasn't at home anyway), and when I saw an elegantly bound, handsomely printed edition over at Ann's (she takes everything Page Twenty-four — the agents bring) I was so excited I could scarcely breathe, skipped through the pages like mad, ran up and down the index with a finger that trembled like a leaf, mine eyes al- most popped out of my head, but in all the length and breadth, height and depth, from be- ginning to end not a single solitary hint was given of my name and fame. I was greatly surprised, and much and most awfully disap- pointed. > — Page Twenty-five A Sheaf of Dreams Thanksgiving Day this year was a day for dreaming and not for fasting, and I would so much rather dream than feast anytime. People who like to feast never take much in- terest in me on festive occasions, for I have al- ways been possessed of a great desire to locate that land said to be flowing with milk and honey. I should not be very particular about the honey either, if only I procured the milk, gallons of it, pure, sweet and rich, with the cream still on it. Goethe says we "ought always to acquaint ourselves with the beautiful," but I've never yet had the chance to get even an introduc- tion to that kind of thing in a kitchen. If I \Yere an architect I'd cut all kitchens out of the houses I arrange. Those who take to the idea may talk all day about the beauty and conven- iences of the cooking department — the handy pantry shelves, the screens for pots and pans, the shining lids, the glistening cups, the cre- tonne covered boxes and bins, the geranium dying on the window sill, the cushioned rocker for a moment's rest, the magazine for a sec- ond's thought, but I'd step gladly out of my cook apron anytime, vacate the sacred pre- cinct, and run over to the library to read that same magazine. I never had a cook but once in life, and then I was so sorry for her that I did all the work myself, while she sat on the front porch, clothed royally in the belief that she owned the entire place. I wouldn't have minded that so much if only she had consented to pay the taxes. I am a pretty fair cook, though, when I want to be, but the trouble is I've never yet wanted to be. Aubrey has been across the great ocean once, and all over the rest of the world several times, and he says never anywhere has he found such delicious cornbread as I make here at home, and he re- Page Twenty-six — fuses to eat the stuff offered him elsewhere. I can turn out other delectable feats also — the lightest biscuit, the finest coffee, the most famous teacakes — but I'll have to admit it is altogether accidental, for I never measure any- thing that goes into them, and am thinking of something else all the time. And the fact remains, if I am consulted about my next stage of existence, and find I've got to come back to this world and be a woman-cook, I shall elect to sleep over another cycle of years, and take the chances of returning as a man. From a rather close observation I am inclined to think a man has excellent reasons for being glad he is not a woman. He has so many ad- vantages over a poor little custom bound woman in her hobbled skirt, high heeled shoes, and ten-acre hat. He does not have to stop to change his clothes when he goes, down town on business ; he has pockets in which to placo his hands when he can't think what else to clo with them; he can swagger around, give voice to his opinion (if he has any), act umpire at a baseball game, smoke fragrant cigars (unless he happens to be a Methodist preacher), and barring the fact that he is forced to pay poll tax, ought to know how to vote, and must sometime try to fill office, it seems to me he has rather a fine time of it. But life is not de- void of interest, nevertheless, and I've discov- ered many ways of returning thanks beside that of making feasts, stuffing on things mate- rial, and suffering from headache afterward. And on this golden November day I jellied the cranberries early, placed the turkey on its knees to roast in the oven (in life it was known as a chicken), added a little pepper, salt, a bit of sage, a pound or two of butter, and leavmg things to take care of themselves I went out on the south porch, sat down on the step in the mellow glow of the sunshine, let the red and yellow leaves drift softly down upon my red and yellow head, and was sincerely, and most wonderfully thankful for something— I didn't know exactly what. I never spoil thmgs spiritual, or temporal, by seeking to analvze their make-up, and that's why I get satisfac- — Page Twenty-seven tion out of everything, from a case of canned goods on up to a smiling "good morning." There are three blessings the human heart is heir to that we've got to take on trust and w^ithout question — love, happiness, and reli- gion though the three are very likely to be one. Admit them to the head, and subject them to the cold, calm light of logic, and they vanish as the mists before the sun. I know, for I've had them all — or thought I had — many and many a time. And among the ten thou- sand other things I have to be thankful for is the well known fact that I am not wise enough, and do not want to be wise enough, to analyze anything. If I get a pound of butter I con- sider it a pound of butter, and never wonder if there is coloring matter in it; if I buy a bit of meat (which I never do, because I can't af- ford it), I make no investigation, and smell no formaldahyde ; if I am happy I am just all happy, and happy enough to want others to be happy also ; if love be given me I plant it in the heart soil, give it great tenderness, all faith and loyalty, and laugh to see it blossom. If I get religion, or religion gets me, I accept it without a question, attempt no explanatini, offer no criticism, and flood all souls w'th its sunlight. And desiring out of the fullness of my own blessings to do something for some- body on this, and all other days of the year, and not knowing exactly how to go about it, and rather shy on the means of accomplish- ment, I am glad and thankful be^^ond measure that : "Just being happy helps other souls along. Whose burdens may be heavy while they're not strong; And your own skies will lighten If other skies you brighten By just being happy, with a heart full of song." Page Twenty-eight — Under the mistlsto3 There is a big, beautiful bunch of mistle- toe growing naturally on a tree over our front gate, and though I have lingered there early, often, and expectantly, on warm moonlit sum- mer evenings, nobody ever took advantage of the fact that I know of. But always about the first of December, when I rush in and out of that gate at an unlawful, automobile speed, the soft, sweet kiss of the spirit of Christmas de- scends upon me. soul and body, my heart grows light, my head grows lighter, my purse grows lightest of all, and I cannot sleep at night for wondering what upon earth dear old Santa Claus is goi'ng to bring me this time. He has already brought me everything I wanted— last year, the year before that,_and all the vears preceeding — also many things I didn't know I wanted until the gay and fes- tive little packages arrived, and than, just as soon as the charming gift was revealed to my yight — anything, anything, from a tin toy whis- tle on up'^to a ten thousand dollar ring, vdth a green diamond set in it— I shed great tears ct unutterable joy, because I knew away down in the depths of my own soul this was the one thing more I had been longing for from the foundation of the world. Every year I think I will be calmer the next time, a little more dignified perhaps, and wise in the use of sound iudgment, but every year I am a bit worse, or better, than before, and I am most humbly thankful that it doesn't take sense, dignity and sound judgment to make one happy— if i~ did, where would I be? Hail blessed season of the year, the time of love, the time of joy. the time of "Peace on earth," whether we have it or not; the time of "Good will to men, women and children— especially the women and children. It is a blessing within itself that I am one of the women and children. For - — Page Twenty-nine weeks and weeks in advance of the happy day I go tip-toeing about this house of mine, rust- ling around in hidden corners, a mysteriDUS look upon my face, a knowing squint in my eyes, a hushed expectancy in every move I make, and safely stowed away behind desks, doors, chairs, under the beds, in closets and drawers, are dozens of beautiful bundles that represent more thought, joy and anticipation than the mind of man ever dreamed of, but a woman knows all about it, A man's idea of a present means a box of candy, or a gener- ous check on the bank, but a woman loves to spend days and days selecting slippers for her brother, fancy aprons for her sisters, pictures for her friends, little ribbon-wrapped things for her lover, and lace curtains, art squares, hand-painted china, silverware and sewing machines for her husband. A dozen times a day I spread out the charming selections I've made for my dear five thousand friends, in- spect, label and decorate them with gay lit- tle bells, pictures, holly-berries and ribbons, and then I tie them all up securely in boxes and bundles, ready for delivery by hand, mail or express. The next day I untie them hilari- ously, just for the dear delight of seeing if they are all there; go through the same per- formance again perhaps later, and maybe once more, even after that, and at last when they have gone their several ways to those destined to receive them, I would feel a bit lost and lonely, only the great day of returns looms near, and its magnificent possibilities are ex- hilarating. In the dark hours of the night when I am sound asleep, listening, T can heat the rustle of Santa Claus' wing; the soot show- ers down from the chimney over-head, my hosiery is explored at the dawn of each day, the house is left open so that anybody can get in, I run out to greet every man, woman and child with a mysterious bundle under their arms, meet the postman half way down the street, go perfectly wild at sight of the ex- press wagon drawn up under the mistletoe at the gate, and wren the rug peddler comes along with his red and green goods trailing Page Thirty — down to the ground, I fall all over myself and the stair railing lest he be "an angel nnaware," and I miss something by letting him pass i.i}'- on tlie other side. No chances will I lose, no golden opportunity will I miss, no stranger within my gate will I slight, no wayfarer will I pass, for that there is a really-truly, grand and gracious old Santa Claus roaming about this beautiful world, ready and willing to fill with happiness every heart open to receive him, is a joyful belief never outgrown by this trusting soul of mine. And blessed is the soul that trusteth, for it wouldn't know disappointment if encountered in the middle of the highway. — Page Thirty-one IPinter IDonders January sailed into my bit of a world on the soft sweet breath of a summer day, tinted and mellowed by the glow of a golden sun, and I couldn't do a thing on earth but wander about the lawn, sniff at the ambient air, dream hap- pily on the steps of the porch, swing idly on the bars of the gate, or meander around help- ing the crippled hen to build a nest under the honeysuckle vines. She could have had no very serious intentions, however, for no sooner did I wander away from the nest than she hopped off without even a cackle, and began to scratch in the grass for a little fat worm. But when the tide turned, the clouds hung low, the wind sighed among the trees, the sun went out of sight for days, and faint flurries of snow drifted across the hills, I forsook all out-doors snuggled down by a bright grate fire, and in a valient effort "to forget that my birthday comes in this month I plunged into those fa- vorite old scientific studies of mine — age worn problems of which I never tire — "The Seven Wonders of the World," "The Mystery of the Saharah Desert," the eternal question of "Who Struck Billy Patterson," the great problem of "Ann's Age" (or any other woman's age), and the famous "Riddle of the Egyptian Sphinx." I've been working at them all my life, and I've never solved one of them yet. I should be sadly out of something to do if I did, and im- measurably surprised. But those who know me well — if any such there be — declare I never gave up a problem, or anything else, I set my head to in all the days of my life. I can see no good reason for doing such a thing. What is the use of setting your head to anything if you are going to weaken and drop off, like a green little peach the frost has been playing with? If I had given away before every frost that nipped at me in life I should long since have Pace Thirty-two — - been numbered with the things that might have been, but were not. I believe if you secure an idea and hold on to it long enough, fulfillment is sure to come, and I cling on tenaciously to the few I get until they must materialize in one form, or another — generally another. And never in the least have I weakened on the Egyptian Sphinx, and early in life I made up what I call my mind to go on staying on earth until the mystery of the thing was solved. I had expected it to last as long as I did, however, and was there- fore somewhat startled a few days ago when I picked up a newspaper and saw the headline staring me in the face: "Solved at last — the Riddle of the Sphinx!" I almost fainted, my blood ran chill, mine eyes "bugged out," I tried not to read further, but of course I did. The more I read, however, the less I knew, and as the tension relaxed, and my pulse became nor- mal again, I found myself all tangled up in the following information: some learned Professor of something was sent out by a Boston Uni- versity on an expedition to Egypt, and as he had to make a decent stagger at earning his salary from the Museum of Fine Arts, he came back and announced that the Diorite statue of Crephrene is now in the Cairo Museum, that Chephrene lorded it over Egypt about 2850 B. C, was the builder of the pyramid that bears his name, and the aforesaid learned Professor discovered, or thought he discovered, what he considered, or imagined he considered, a most remarkable likeness between the statue and the sphinx; and that therefore now be it resolved, that as the one was intended for the other, and the other intended for the one, the great riddle of the ages is solved for all time to come! But he didn't give an atom of proof thereof, just expected us to take his Boston word for it, and so little faith have I in the so-called solution, and so little trust in the high toned Boston information, that I go on peg- ging away at the problems as though nothing whatever had happened? Even if the fancied resemblance should be proven to exist I can- not see that it elucidates anything. Somehow, • — Page Thirty-three sometime, somewhere, I have fallen heir to the idea, received the impression, caught on to the suggestion that the great riddle of the Sphinx lay hidden fathoms deep in the expression o£ the stony eyes, with their strange, still, far- away, eternally brooding look into the very heart of the mysterious desert, and when in the course of time, tide, and sheer tenacity, I shall attain to the hypnotic power of throwing my subconscious soul into the great stone-still brain, reading those petrified thoughts, gazing out through mystical eyes, then — and not until the Sphinx knew, understand the awful, unut- terable secret of it all, and electrify the world of mankind several volts more than the Boston Professor did. For when I secured the key to the mystery it will cease to be a mystery; nothing but a Sphinx could keep a secret all these ages of time ! But for the present I shall go meandering serenely on my way, perusing my studies as of old, resting where the occa- sion requires, playing when the nature of the <:ase permits, looking after the antics of the crippled hen, nailing up the palings on the fence, patching the leak in the veranda roof, figuring on a new coat of paint for the house, pnd all the time, softly, sweetly, happily, hope- fully, I am wondering in the depths of my own soul if anybody at all is going to surprise me with a birthday gift! Page Thirty-four— I /