■ ■ • class rH^ i Book. , t\ 75 GopigfitTN? COFntlCHT DEPOSIT. SELECTED READINGS Uniform with this Volume THE ART OF SPEECH AND DE- PORTMENT. By Anna Morgan. 12mo. $1.50 net. A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers SELECTED READINGS DESIGNED TO IMPART TO THE STUDENT AN APPRECIATION OF LITERATURE IN ITS WIDER SENSE COMPILED BY ANNA MORGAN AUTHOR OF "THE ART OF SPEECH and deportment'" AND "AN HOUR WITH DELSARTe" CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1909 Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1909 Published May, 1909 LIBRARY of CONGRESS Two OoDies deceived JUN 1 lUltt* Copyritfnt Entry CLASS(J A AXaf do* ^ ^ a o 1 6 COPY ST. THE UNIVERSITY PEE8S, CAMBEIDGE, U.S.A. 3|n$cribeD TO jlatian, % Ua, an* Jesaie AND TO MY MANY OTHER ACTUAL AND WOULD- PUPILS WHO ABE INTERESTED IN THE ART OF READING WELL CONTENTS Page Index to Titles xiii Index to Authors xix I — PROSE SELECTIONS The Drama Richard Watson Gilder 25 Pasquale's Picture Henry B. Fuller 26 Their Dear Little Ghost f EliaW. Peattie 32 Mrs. Ripley's Trip ,,.,,. Hamlin Garland 37 A Red-haired Cupid Henry Wallace Phillips 42 The Making of a Comedienne . . . Clara E. Laughlin 50 A Social Promoter V/Ubur D. Nesbit 58 A Tale of Old Madrid F. Marion Crawford 63 The Gift of the Magi ...'.' 0. Henry 67 The Courtin' of T'nowhead's Bell J.M. Barrie 72 The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows . . Rudyard Kipling 77 How Much Land Does a Man Require ? . . . Leo Tolstoi 80 Her First Appearance Richard Harding Davis 85 A Passion in the Desert Honore de Balzac 90 Frederick of the Alberighi and his Falcon Boccaccio 94 DomiNt's Triumph Robert Hichens 97 The Man without a Country . . . Edward Everett Hale 101 Two Letters and Two Telegrams .... Clyde Fitch 113 A Lover of Music . Henry Van Dyke 115 Fleas will be Fleas Ellis Parker Butler 119 Uncle Remus on an Electric Car . Joel Chandler Harris 125 A Speech of Lincoln's 128 Selections from the Bible 130 II — MONOLOGUES Her Husband's Dinner Party . . Marjorie Benton Cooke 137 Her First Call on the Butcher . . . May Isabel Fisk 141 Buying her Husband a Christmas Present Ruth McEncry Stuart 143 Abbie's Accounts . . Tudor Jenks 146 'Twixt Cup and Lip .-■■ Anonymous 149 Wives in a Social Game Anonymous 151 Viii CONTENTS III — POETRY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE Page Hamlet's Instruction to the Players 157 Hamlet's Declaration op Friendship 158 Othello's Apology 158 Mercutio's Description op Queen Mab 160 The Seven Ages r 161 The Motley Fool 162 Benedick's Soliloquy . . 163 Lite's Revels 163 Juliet's Wooing op the Night 164 The Potion Scene 168 ROBERT BROWNING Up at a Villa — Down in the City 170 summum bonum 173 A Tale 173 One Way op Love 176 Youth and Art 177 Confessions 179 Time's Revenges 180 Porphyrin's Lover 182 My Last Duchess 183 RUDYARD KIPLING Gentlemen-Rankers 185 Chant-Pagan 186 My Rival 188 Boots 190 EUGENE FIELD The Dream-Ship 191 The Limitations op Youth 192 Long Ago 193 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY The Old Man and Jim 194 Out to Old Aunt Mary's 196 The Life Lesson 197 CONTENTS ix BEN KING Page Jane Jones 198 She Does Not Hear 199 If I Can Be by Her 199 But Then 200 PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR Accountability 201 When Malindy Sings 202 Angelina 204 In the Mornin' 205 Encouragement . . 207 A Coquette Conquered 208 The Tiger Lily ........... Joaquin Miller 209 The Bravest Battle Joaquin Miller 211 The Fool's Prayer Edward Rowland SUl 212 Opportunity Edward Rowland SUl 213 Opportunity John James Ingalls 214 " Sweet-Thing " Jane John Vance Cheney 214 The Happiest Heart John Vance Cheney 215 El Camino Real John S. M'Groarty 215 A Theme Richard Watson Gilder 216 The Two Mysteries Mary Mapes Dodge 216 The Cheer op Those who Speak English Wallace Rice 217 Nasturchums Wilbur D. Nesbit 219 With a Posy from Shottery .... Wilbur D. Nesbit 220 The Man with the Hoe Edwin Markham 221 De Habitant William Henry Drummond 223 My Ships Ella Wheeler Wilcox 225 Carcassonne Trans, by M . E. W. Sherwood 226 "One, Two, Three" H. C. Bunner 228 Provencal Lovers Edmund Clarence Stedman 229 My Angel and I Blanche Fearing 230 The Shadow Child Harriet Monroe 232 The Whole Creation Groaneth .... S. Weir Mitchell 233 The Lute Player William Watson 234 The Day is Done Henry W. Longfellow 235 Marguerite John G. Whittier 236 Bill and Joe Oliver Wendell Holmes 238 Auf Wiedersehen James Russell Lowell 240 X CONTENTS Page Identity Thomas Bailey Aldrich 241 Ulysses Alfred Tennyson 241 The First Quarrel Alfred Tennyson 243 The Daffodils William Wordsworth 246 Abou Ben Adhem . . Leigh Hunt 247 Cupid Swallowed ;_* Leigh Hunt 247 O Captain ! My Captain ! Walt Whitman 248 A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever . . . John Keats 249 Good-night Percy Bysshe Shelley 249 Verses on a Cat ........ ? Percy Bysshe Shelley 250 Drink to me Only with Thine Eyes Trans, by Ben Jonson 251 The Cotter's Saturday Night ...... Robert Burns 251 The Child Musician .,,.....,, Austin Dobson 253 Somewhere ........... Helen Hinsdale Rich 254 On a Gray Birthday ......,,.. John Marshall 254 America Samuel F. Smith 255 The Star-spangled Banner ...... Francis Scott Key 256 Home, Sweet Home John Howard Payne 257 Self-dependence Matthew Arnold 258 To Shakespeare's Love Edward J. McPhelim 259 Cleopatra , . . W.W. Story 259 The Ballad of Reading Gaol ...... Oscar Wilde 263 IV— VERSE r Old Chums Alice Cary 271 The Old Coat George Baker 272 The Dead Pussy Cat . Anonymous 273 Gran'ma Al'us Does A. H. Poe 274 Talkin' 'bout Trouble . Carrie Jacobs-Bond 275 The Unexpected Will J. Lampton 277 Out of Arcadia ; . . . Harry Romaine 277 Mammy's Lullaby Strickland W. Gillilan 278 Kitty of Coleraine Charles Dawson Shanly 279 The Little Church round the Corner . A. E. Lancaster 280 Anne Hathaway Anonymous 281 The Gate Bessie Cahn 282 " Specially Jim " Bessie Morgan 282 A Similar Case . Anonymous 283 The Usual Way . Anonymous 284 The Faithful Lovers Anonymous 285 Platonic William B. Terrett 286 Life Thomas Shelley Sutton 288 CONTENTS XI Page She Liked him Rale Weel Andrew Wauless 288 The Hindoo's Paradise .......... Anonymous 289 A Dear Little Goose .......... Anonymous 290 Mattie's Wants and Wishes ....... Grace Gordon 291 V— SELECTIONS The Catechist Anonymous 295 A Boy's Composition on Columbus .... Anonymous 295 Madame Eef Anonymous 298 An Italian's Views on the Labor Question . . Joe Kerr 297 The Meeting of the Clabberhuses . . Sam Walter Foss 298 A Club Meeting of Solomon's Wives . . Wallace Irwin 300 When the Minister Comes to Tea Joseph Crosby Lincoln 301 Aunt 'Mandy Joseph Crosby Lincoln 302 A Study in Nerves Anonymous 303 Love in a Balloon Litchfield Moseley 305 In the Pantry Mabel Dixon 311 VI — SCENES AND DIALOGUES Napoleon and a Strange Lady (From "The Man of Destiny") G. Bernard Shaw 315 Nature and Philosophy Anthony Hope 329 Yes and No Arlo Bates 333 Parried Tudor Jenks 337 At the Door Tudor Jenks 341 At the Ferry Anonymous 344 Come Here ! Anonymous 346 Secrets of the Heart Austin Dobson 348 Tu Quoque Austin Dobson 350 Scene from "Paola and Francesca" . . . Stephen Phillips 351 Brutus and Cassius (From "Julius Caesar"). . Shakespeare 357 Scene from "As You Like It" Shakespeare 360 Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford (From "The Merry Wives of Windsor") Shakespeare 362 Scene from "Two Gentlemen of Verona" . . Shakespeare 384 Dialogue from "Twelfth Night" Shakespeare 388 Scene from "Coriolanus" Shakespeare 371 Scene from " King John " Shakespeare 374 Dialogue from "The Merchant of Venice". . Shakespeare 377 Sairey Gamp and Betsey Prig (From "Martin Chuzzlewit") Charles Dickens 382 Little Em'ly (From "David Copperfield") Charles Dickens 386 Xll CONTENTS Page Dialogue from "David Copperfield" . . . Charles Dickens 389 Dialogue from "Nicholas Nickleby" . . . Charles Dickens 393 Dialogue from "The Pickwick Papers" . . Charles Dickens 400 Scene from "The Mighty Dollar" . . . Benjamin E. Woolf 406 Sir Peter and Lady Teazle (From "The School for Scandal ") Richard Brinsley Sheridan 409 Scene from "The Rivals". . . . Richard Brinsley Sheridan 412 Dialogue from 1'The Critic op the School for Wives" Moliere 415 Selections from "The Last Da ys of Pompeii " Bulwer-Lytton 419 INDEX TO TITLES PAGE Abbie's Accounts. Tudor Jenks 146 Abou Ben Adhem. Leigh Hunt 247 Accountability. Paul Lau- rence Dunbar 201 America. Samuel F. Smith 255 Angel and I, My. Blanche Fearing 230 Angelina. Paul Laurence Dunbar 204 Anne Hathaway. Anony- mous 281 Arcadia, Out of. Harry Romaine 277 "As You Like It," Selection from (The Seven Ages). Shakespeare 161 "As You Like It," Selection from (The Motley Fool). Shakespeare 162 "As You Like It," Selection from (Act IV, Scene 1) Shakespeare 360 Auf Wiedersehen. James Russell Lowell 240 Aunt 'Mandy. Joseph Crosby Lincoln ..... 302 Ballad of Reading Gaol, The. Oscar Wilde ... 263 Benedick's Soliloquy on Love. Shakespeare ... 163 Bible, Selections from the . 130 Bill and Joe. Oliver Wen- dell Holmes 238 Boots. Rudyard Kipling . 190 Bravest Battle, The. Joa- quin Miller 211 Brutus and Cassius, Dia- logue between. Shake- speare 357 But Then. Ben King . . 200 PAGE Buying her Husband a Christmas Present. Ruth McEnery Stuart .... 143 Camino Real, El. John S. M'Groarty 215 Captain 1 My Captain! O. Walt Whitman 248 Carcassonne. M. E. W. Sherwood (Trans.) ... 226 Catechist, The. Anonymous 295 Chant-Pagan. Rudyard Kipling 186 Cheer of Those Who Speak English, The. Wallace Rice 217 Child Musician, The. Aus- tin Dobson 253 Cleopatra. W. W. Story . 259 Club Meeting of Solomon's Wives, A. Wallace Irwin 300 Columbus, A Boy's Compo- sition on. Anonymous . 295 "Come Here!" Anonymous 346 Confessions. Robert Brown- ing 179 Coquette Conquered, A. Paul Laurence Dunbar . 208 "Coriolanus," Selection from (Act I, Scene 3). Shake- speare 371 Cotter's Saturday Night, The. Robert Burns ... 251 Courtin' of T'nowhead's Bell, The. J. M. Barrie . 72 "Critic of the School for Wives, The," Dialogue from. Molihre 415 Cup and Lip, 'Twixt. Anonymous . 149 Cupid Swallowed. Leigh Hunt 247 XIV INDEX TO TITLES Daffodils, The. William Wordsworth 246 "David Copperfield," Selec- tion from (Little Em'ly). Charles Dickens .... 386 "David Copperfield," Selec- tion from (Miss Betsey, David, Mr. Dick, and the Murdstones). Charles Dickens 389 Day is Done, The. Henry W. Longfellow 235 Dead Pussy Cat, The. Anonymous 273 Dear Little Ghost, Their. EliaW. Peattie .... .32 Dear Little Goose, A. Anon- ymous 290 Domini's Triumph. Robert Hichens 97 Door, At the. Tudor Jenks 341 Drama, The. Richard Wat- son Gilder 25 Dream-ship, The. Eugene Field 191 Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes. Ben Jonson (Trans.) 251 Encouragement. Paul Laurence Dunbar .... 207 Faithful Lovers, The. Anonymous 285 "Felicity," Selection from (The Making of a Comedi- enne). Clara E. Laughlin 50 Ferry, At the. Anonymous 344 First Appearance, Her. Richard Harding Davis . 86 First Call on the Butcher, Her. May Isabel Fisk . 141 First Quarrel, The. Alfred Tennyson 243 Fleas will be Fleas. Ellis Parker Butler 119 Fool's Prayer, The. Edward Rowland Sill 212 Frederick of the Alberighi and Ms Falcon. Boccaccio 94 Gamp, Sairey, and Betsey Prig, Dialogue between. Charles Dickens .... 382 PAGE "Garden of Allah, The," Selection from (Domini's Triumph). Robert Hich- ens 97 Gate of the Hundred Sor- rows, The. Rudyard Kip- ling 77 Gate, The. Bessie Cahn . . 282 Gentlemen-Rankers. Rud- yard Kipling 185 Gift of the Magi, The. 0. Henry ........ 67 Good-night. Percy Bysshe Shelley . 249 Gran 'ma APus Does. A. H. Poe 274 Gray Birthday, On a. John Marshall 254 Habitant, De. William Henry Drummond . . . 223 Hamlet's Declaration of Friendship. Shakespeare 158 Hamlet's Instruction to the Players. Shakespeare . . 157 Happiest Heart, The. John Vance Cheney 215 Hindoo's Paradise, The. Anonymous ...... 289 Home, Sweet Home. John Howard Payne 257 How Much Land does a Man Require? Leo Tolstoi . . 80 Husband's Dinner Party, Her. Majorie Benton Cooke 137 Identity. Thomas Bailey Aldrich . 241 If I can be by Her. Ben King 199 Italian's Views on the Labor Question, An. Joe Kerr . 297 Jane Jones. Ben King . . 198 Juliet's Wooing of the Night. Shakespeare 164 "Julius Caesar," Selection from (Dialogue between Brutus and Cassius) Shakespeare 357 "King John," Selection from (Act IV, Scene 1). Shakespeare 374 INDEX TO TITLES XV Kitty of Coleraine. C. D. Shanty 279 "Last Days of Pompeii, The," Selections from. Bulwer Lytton . . . . . 419 Last Duchess, My. Robert Browning 183 Life. Thomas Shelley Sut- ton 288 Life Lesson, The. James Whitcomb Riley 197 Life's Revels. Shakespeare . 163 Limitations of Youth, The. Eugene Field 192 Lincoln's, A Speech of. . . 128 Little Church around the .Corner, The. A. E. Lan- caster 280 Little Em'ly. Charles Dick- ens 386 Long Ago. Eugene Field . 193 Love in a Balloon. Litch- field Moseley 305 Lover of Music, A. Henry Van Dyke 115 ate Player, The. William Watson 234 Madame Eef. Anonymous 296 "Main Travelled Roads," Selection from (Mrs. Rip- ley's Trip). Hamlin Gar- land 37 Making of a Comedienne, The. Clara E. Laughlin 50 Mammy's Lullaby. S. W. Gillilan 278 "Man of Destiny, The," Selection from (Dialogue between Napoleon and a Strange Lady). G. Ber- nard Shaw 315 Man with the Hoe, The. Edwin Markham .... 221 Man without a Country, The. Edward Everett Hale . . 104 Marguerite. John G. Whit- tier "Martin Chuzzlewit," Selec- tion from (Dialogue be- 236 tween Sairey Gamp and Betsey Prig). Charles Dickens 382 Mattie's Wants and Wishes. Grace Gordon Meeting of the Clabber- huses, The. Sam Walter PAGE 291 298 377 160 "Merchant of Venice, The," Selections from. Shake- speare Mercutio's Description of Queen Mab. Shakespeare "Merry Wives of Windsor, The," Selection from (Dia- logue between Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford). Shake- speare . 362 "Mighty Dollar, The," Scene from. Benjamin E. Woolf 406 Minister Comes to Tea, When the. Joseph Crosby Lincoln 301 "Moriah's Mourning," Selec- tion from (Buying her Husband a Christmas Present). Ruth McEnery Stuart 143 Mornin', In the. Paul Lau- rence Dunbar 205 Motley Fool, The. Shake- speare . 182 "Much Ado about Nothing," Selection from (Benedick's Soliloquy on Love). Shakespeare 163 Napoleon and a Strange Lady, Dialogue between. G. Bernard Shaw .... 315 Nasturchums. Wilbur D. Nesbit 219 Nature and Philosophy. An- thony Hope 329 "Nicholas Nickleby," Selec- tion from (Mrs. Nickleby, . Kate, and the Mad Neigh- bor). Charles Dickens . 393 Old Aunt Mary's, Out to. James Whitcomb Riley . 196 Old Chums. Alice Gary . . 271 Old Coat, The. George Baker 272 Old Man and Jim, The. James Whitcomb Riley . 194 XVI INDEX TO PAGE TITLES "One, Two, Three." H. C. Bunner 228 One Way of Love. Robert Browning 176 Opportunity. John J. In- galls 214 Opportunity. Edward Bow- land sm 213 "Othello," Selection from (Othello's Apology). Shakespeare 158 Page and Mrs. Ford, Mrs., Dialogue between. Shake- speare 362 "Palace of the King, In the," Selection from (A Tale of Old Madrid). F. Marion Crawford .... 63 Pantry, In the. Mabel Dixon 311 "Paola and Francesca," Scene from. Stephen Phillips 351 Parried. Tudor Jenks . . 337 Pasquale's Picture. Henry B. Fuller 26 Passion in the Desert, A. Honore de Balzac .... 90 "Pickwick Papers, The," Selection from (Sam and Tony Weller). Charles Dickens 400 Platonic. William B. Ter- rett . _ 286 Porphyria's Lover. Robert Browning 182 Posy from Shottery, With a. Wilbur D. Nesbit .... 220 Potion Scene, The. Shake- speare 168 Provencal Lovers, The. Ed- mund Clarence Stedman . 229 Red-haired Cupid, A. Henry Wallace Phillips . 42 Ripley's, Mrs., Trip. Ham- lin Garland 37 Rival, My. Rudy ard Kipling 188 "Rivals, The," Scene from. Richard Brinsley Sheridan 412 "Romeo and Juliet," Selec- tion from (Mercutio's De- scription of Queen Mab). Sfiakespeare 160 "Romeo and Juliet," Selec- tion from (Juliet's Wooing of the Night). Shakespeare 164 "Romeo and Juliet," Selec- tion from (The Potion Scene). Shakespeare . . 168 "Ruling Passion, The," Se- lection from (A Lover of Music). Henry Van Dyke 115 "School for Scandal, The," Selection from (Sir Peter and Lady Teazle). Rich- ard Brinsley Sheridan . . 409 Secrets of the Heart. Austin Dobson 348 Self-dependence. Matthew Arnold 258 Seven Ages, The. Shake- speare 161 Shadow Child, The. Harriet Monroe 232 Shakespeare's Love, To. Edward J. McPhelim . . 259 She does not Hear. Ben King 199 She Liked Him Rale Weel. Andrew Wauless .... 288 Ships, My. Ella Wheeler Wilcox 225 Similar Case, . A. Anony- mous 283 Sir Peter and Lady Teazle. Richard Brinsley Sheridan 409 Social Promoter, A. Wilbur D. Nesbit 58 Somewhere. Helen Hinsdale Rich . 254 Spatially Jim. Bessie Mor- gan 282 Star-spangled Banner, The. Francis Scott Key .... 256 Study in Nerves, A. Anony- mous 303 Summum Bonum. Robert Browning 173 Sweet-Thing Jane. John Vance Cheney 214 Tale, A. Robert Browning 173 Tale of Old Madrid, A. F. Marion Crawford .... 63 INDEX TO TITLES XVll PAGE Talkin' 'bout Trouble. Car- rie Jacobs-Bond .... 275 V Tempest, The," Selection from (Life's Revels). Shakespeare 163 Theme, A. Richard Watson Gilder 216 Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever, A. John Keats . 249 Tiger Lily, The. Joaquin Miller 209 Time's Revenges. Robert Browning 180 Tu Quoque. Austin Dobson 350 f Twelfth Night," Selection from (Act I, Scene 5). Shakespeare 368 "Two Gentlemen of Ver- ona," Selection from (Act I, Scene 2). Shakespeare 364 Two Letters and Two Tele- grams. Clyde Fitch . . 113 Two Mysteries, The. Mary M apes Dodge 216 PAGE Ulysses. Alfred Tennyson 241 Uncle Remus on an Electric Car. Joel Chandler Harris 125 Unexpected, The. Will J, Lampton 277 Up at a Villa — Down in the City. Robert Browning . 170 Usual Way, The. Anony- 284 Verses on a Cat. Percy SheUey 250 When Malindy Sings. Paul Lawrence Dunbar .... 202 Whole Creation Groaneth, The. S.WeirMitcheU . . 233 Wives in a Social Game. Anonymous 151 Yes and No. Arlo Bates . . 333 Youth and Art. Robert Browning 177 INDEX TO AUTHORS Aldrich) Thomas Bailey Identity 241 Anonymous 'Twixt Cup and Lip . . 149 Wives in. a Social Game . 151 The Dead Pussy Cat . . 273 Anne Hathaway .... 281 A Similar Case 283 The Usual Way .... 284 The Faithful Lovers . . 285 The Hindoo's Paradise . 289 A Dear Little Goose . . 290 TheCatechist ..... 295 A Boy's Composition on Columbus 295 Madame Eef 296 A Study in Nerves ... 303 At the Ferry 344 "Come Here!" 346 Arnold, Matthew Self-dependence .... 258 Baker, George The Old Coat ..... 272 Balzac, Honors' de A Passion in the Desert . 90 Barrie, J. M. The Courtin' of T'now- head's Bell ..... 72 Bates, Arlo Yes and No 333 Boccaccio Frederick of the Alberighi and his Falcon .... 94 Browning, Robert Up at a Villa — Down in the City 170 Summum Bonum .... 173 A Tale 173 One Way of Love ... 176 Youth and Art 177 Confessions 179 Time's Revenges .... 180 Porphyria^ Lover . . . PAGE 182 My Last Duchess .... 183 Bunner, H. C. "One, Two, Three" . . . 228 Burns, Robert The Cotter's Saturday Night 251 Butler, Ellis Parker Fleas will be Fleas . . . 119 Cahn, Bessie The Gate ....... 282 Cary, Alice Old Chums 271 Cheney, John Vance Sweet-Thing Jane ... 214 The Happiest Heart . . 215 Cooke, Majorie Benton Her Husband's Dinner Party 137 Crawford, F. Marion A Tale of Old Madrid . . 63 Davis, Richard Harding Her First Appearance . . 86 Dickens, Charles Sairey Gamp and Betsey Prig (From "Martin Chuzzlewit") .... 392 Little Em'ly (From " David Copperfield") 386 Dialogue from "David Copperfield" .... 389 Dialogue from "Nicholas Nickleby" 393 Dialogue from "The Pick- wick Papers" .... 400 Dixon, Mabel In the Pantry 311 Dobson, Austin The Child Musician ... 253 Secrets of the Heart . . 348 TuQuoque 350 XX INDEX TO AUTHORS Dodge, Mary Mapes The Two Mysteries ... 216 Drummond, William Henry De Habitant ...... 223 Dunbar, Paul Laurence Accountability 201 When Malindy Sings . . 202 Angelina 204 In the Mornin' 205 Encouragement .... 207 A Coquette Conquered . 208 Fearing, Blanche My Angel and I .... 230 Field, Eugene The Dream-ship .... 191 The Limitations of Youth 192 Long Ago 193 Fisk, May Isabel Her First Call on the Butcher 141 Fitch, Clyde , Two Letters and Two Telegrams 113 Foss, Sam Walter The Meeting of the Clab- berhuses 298 Fuller, Henry B. Pasquale's Picture ... 26 Garland, Hamlin Mrs. Ripley's Trip ... 37 Gilder, Richard Watson The Drama 25 A Theme 216 Gillilan, S. W. Mammy's Lullaby ... 278 Gordon, Grace M a 1 1 i e ' s Wants and Wishes 291 Hale, Edward Everett The Man without a Country 104 Harris, Joel Chandler Uncle Remus on an Elec- tric Car ' 125 Henry, O. The Gift of the Magi . . 67 Hichens, Robert Domini's Triumph ... 97 Holmes, Oliver Wendell Bill and Joe '. * 238 Hope, Anthony PAGE Nature and Philosophy . 329 Hunt, Leigh Abou Ben Adhem . . . 247 Cupid Swallowed .... 247 Ingalls, John J. Opportunity 214 Irwin, Wallace A Club Meeting of Solo- mon's Wives 300 Jacobs-Bond, Carrie Talkin' 'bout Trouble . . 275 Jenks, Tudor Abbie's Accounts .... 146 Parried 337 At the Door . . ... . 341 Jonson, Ben (Trans.) Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes ..... 251 Keats, John A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever 249 Kerr, Joe An Italian's Views on the Labor Question . . . 297 Key, Francis Scott The Star-Spangled Banner 256 King, Ben Jane Jones 198 She Does not Hear . . . 199 If I can be by Her . . . 199 But Then 200 Kipling, Rudyard The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows 77 Gentlemen-Rankers . . . 185 Chant-Pagan 186 My Rival 188 Boots 190 Lampton, Will J. The Unexpected .... Lancaster, A. E. The Little Church around the Corner Laughlin,' Clara E. The Making of a Comedi- enne Lincoln, Joseph Crosby When the Minister Comes to Tea Aunt 'Mandy 277 280 50 301 302 INDEX TO AUTHORS XXI Longfellow, Henry W. The Day is Done . . . .. Lowell, James Russell Auf Wiedersehen .... LYTTQN fc I^ULWER lone and Nydia .... Julia and her Slaves . . The Witch's Cavern . . (Selections from "The Last Days of Pom- peii") Markham, Edwin The Man with the Hoe . Marshall, John On a Gray Birthday . . M'Groarty, John S. El Camino Real .... McPhelim, Edward J. To Shakespeare's Love . Miller, Joaquin The Tiger Lily The Bravest Battle . . . Mitchell, S. Weir The Whole Creation Groaneth Moliere Dialogue from V Critic of the School for Wives " Monroe, Harriet The Shadow Child . . . Morgan, Bessie Spatially Jim Moseley, Litchfield Love in a Balloon . . . Nesbit, Wilbur D. A Social Promoter . . . Nasturchums With a Posy from Shot- tery Payne, John Howard Home, Sweet Home . . Peattie, Elia W. Their Dear Little Ghost . Phillips, Henry Wallace A Red-haired Cupid . . Phillips, Stephen Scene from "Paola and Francesca" Poe, A. H. Granma 'Al'us Does . . PAGE 235 240 419 422 424 419 221 254 215 259 209 211 233 415 232 282 305 58 219 220 257 32 42 351 274 Rice, Wallace The Cheer of Those Who Speak English .... 217 Rich,' Helen Hinsdale Somewhere 254 Riley, James Whitcomb The Old Man and Jim . . 194 Out to Old Aunt Mary's . 196 The Life Lesson .... 197 Romaine, Harry Out of Arcadia 277 Shakespeare Hamlet's Instruction to the Players ...... 157 Hamlet's Declaration of Friendship 158 Othello's Apology ... 158 Mercutio's. Description of Queen Mab 160 The Seven Ages .... 161 The Motley Fool .... 162 Benedick's Soliloquy on Love 163 Life's .Revels 163 Juliet's Wooing of the Night 164 The Potion Scene .... 168 Brutus and Cassius . . . 357 Scene from f'As You Like It" 360 Mrs. Page and Mrs. Ford 362 Scene from "Two Gentle- men of Verona" . . . 364 Dialogue from "Twelfth Night" 368 Scene from "Coriolanus" 371 Scene from * ' King John " 374 Scene from "The Mer- chant of Venice "... 377 Shanly, C. D. Kitty of Coleraine . . . 279 Shaw, G. Bernard Napoleon and a Strange Lady (From "The Man of Destiny") 315 Shelley, Percy Bysshe Good-night ....... 249 Verses on a Cat .... 250 Sheridan, Richard Brinsley Sir Peter and Lady Teazle (From "The School for Scandal") 409 Scene from "The Rivals" 412 XXII INDEX TO AUTHORS page; Sherwood, M. E. W. (Trans.) Carcassonne 226 Sill, Edward Rowland The Fool's Prayer . . . 212 Opportunity 213 Smith, Samuel F. America 255 Stedman, Edmund Clarence Provencal Lovers .... 229 Story, W. W. Cleopatra , 259 Stuart, Ruth McEnery Buying her Husband a Christmas Present . . 143 Sutton, Thomas Shelley Life 288 Tennyson, Alfred Ulysses 241 The First Quarrel ... 243 Terrett, William B. Platonic 286 Tolstoi, Leo How Much Land does a Man Require? .... 80 Van Dyke, Henry A Lover of Music PAGE 115 Watson, William The Lute Player .... 234 Wauless, Andrew She Liked Him Rale Weel 288 Whitman, Walt O Captain ! My Captain ! 248 Whittier, John G. Marguerite 236 Wilcox, Ella Wheeler My Ships ....... 225 Wilde, Oscar The Ballad of Reading Gaol 263 Woolf, Benjamin E. Scene from ♦'The Mighty Dollar" 406 Wordsworth, William The Daffodils 246 PROSE SELECTIONS SELECTED READINGS I — PROSE SELECTIONS THE DRAMA* Supposed to be from the Polish I SAT in the crowded theatre. The first notes of the or- chestra wandered in the air; then the full harmony burst forth ; then ceased. The conductor, secretly pleased with the loud applause, waited a moment, then played again; but as he struck upon his desk for the third time, the bell sounded, the just- beginning tones of the wind-instruments and the violins hushed suddenly, and the curtain was rolled to the ceiling. Then appeared a wonderful vision, which shall not soon be forgotten by me. For know that I am one who loves all things beautiful. Did you find the figure of a man lying solitary upon the wind- fashioned hills of sand, watching the large sun rise from the ocean ? That was I ? It was I who, lonely, walked at evening through the woods of Autumn, beholding the sun's level light strike through the unf alien red and golden foliage, — Whose heart trembled when he saw the fire that rapidly consumed the dead leaves lying upon the hillside, and spread a robe of black that throbbed with crimson jewels under the wind of the rushing flame. Know, also, that the august forms wrought in marble by the ancient sculptors have power upon me, also the imagina- tive works of the incomparable painters ; and that the voices of the early poets are modern and familiar to me. What vision was it, then, that I beheld; what art was it that made my heart tremble and filled me with joy that was like pain? * By permission of Houghton Mifflin Co., publishers of Mr. Gilder's works. 26 SELECTED READINGS Was it the art of the poet; was it of a truth poetry made visible in human attitudes and motions? Was it the art of the painter — which Eaphael knew so well when he created those most gracious shapes that yet live on the walls of the Vatican ? Or was it the severe and marvellous art of the sculptor, in which antique Phidias excelled, and which Michael Angelo indued with new and mighty power? Or, haply, it was that enchanting myth, made real before our eyes — of the insensate marble warmed to life beneath the passionate gaze of the sculptor ! No, no; it was not this miracle, of which the bards have so often sung; nor was it the art of the poet, nor of the painter, nor of the musician (tho' often I thought of music), nor of the sculptor. It was none of these that moved my heart and the hearts of all who beheld, and yet it was all of these, For it was the ancient and noble art of the drama, — that art which includes all other arts, — and she who was the mistress of it was the divine Modjeska. Richard Watson Gilder. PASQUALE'S PICTURE* * "R ^^ su PP 0S i n g ne were n °t t° come, after all? " asks old J3 Assunta with some anxiety. * Never fear, madre mia," returns Pasquale, confidently. " Have I not said that he is a gran signore inglese ? He will do as he has promised." Ah, that was a day long remembered in Murano. What a wave of excitement rippled over the town, what an impulse of curiosity brought everybody flocking to old Assunta's house ! Pasquale is the hero of the hour. For the gran signore with whom he spent a day on the lagoon last week is coming to Murano expressly to make Pasquale's picture. So he stands here this sunny afternoon amidst his circle of friends and acquaintances; and he wears a mighty black felt hat upon his shapely head, and the big collar of a wonderful new plaid shirt — his mother's express make — lies over his broad, * By permission of the author and the publishers. PROSE SELECTIONS 27 square shoulders ; and Assunta regards him with a fond pride, and Lucia with a timid adoration, while everybody, nocking down and around, choruses the advantage of having made such a friend. And, best of all, the picture is to remain Pasquale's own. Ah, but here is the signore inglese coming up the canal this very moment. Catarina at her window is sourly surveying the whole scene. Aha ! when has old Catarina ever had a guest like this? And everybody hastens to help the signor alight. Ho, there ! pass out the three-legged box with the hole in it ! Here, Gigi, you young rascal, take this other box full of bottles and things, and mind you have a care ! Wel- come, Eccellenza, to Murano ! Thanks to this gracious gentleman, they shall have Pas- quale with them always, after this. When he goes to Venice now and then, he will yet leave himself behind in Murano. Ah, what a joy this portrait would always remain for them ! S' accomodi, Eccellenza. Where shall we stand this strange machine? And where shall we put all these curious little bottles, each with a different color and each with a different smell ? — Yes, that will do very well — bene, benissimo. And now we will proceed with the picture without loss of time. Let the good Pasquale stand just about here, please, and rest his eye about there, and keep very quiet just a moment. Now, then. Girolamo sniffs ; he has seen the same thing done — ■ Bio mio, how many times ! — over in Venice itself. Assunta crushes him with one look. Quiet, please, my friends. A deep silence falls, while the great miracle is being wrought. An old crone scuffling by is frozen into stone by a multitude of hisses. Not a soul whispers. — There, now ; that 's all. What! done already? ? Sh! the signor is asking old Assunta for a dark room and a candle-end. Mystery ! Per- plexed Assunta — what shall she do ? A dark room and a candle ! Was this all quite — quite right and proper ? Oh, yes, indeed ; right and proper, and quite indispensable. So the magician is lost to the general gaze for a few minutes. When he returns his finger-tips are more or less stained and discolored, and he carries in one hand a square sheet of glass which he treats very carefully and scrutinizes closely, with one eye shut. Oho ! this, then, is the picture ! Come now ; let us see how it looks. Yes, but is it the picture, after all? How can it be? — this poor, pale, yellow affair that is not to be seen at all save 28 SELECTED READINGS when held just so, and that looks quite as much like anybody else as like Pasquale. Our new friend is doubtless very kind and very clever, and means well enough ; but — Pasquale himself is quite crestfallen, and Assunta looks very dubious indeed. The signor takes all this with a careless smile; then, in due course, he pulls out a sharp lead pencil, and makes a few dots and scratches here and there on the shadowy face before him. Girolamo laughs aloud; the enraged Assunta glares with almost equal severity on both. And then the signor, with a reproving shake of the head, sets down the glass very carefully in full sunlight, and directs everybody to fall back beyond the possibility of throwing a shadow upon the image. So, then, there is something more to be done still; perhaps this is n't the real picture after all. Why, look ! look ! I beg of you ! The signor has placed a bit of paper under the glass, and the paper is turning black before our very eyes ! This, then, is the picture, the real picture, at last! Evviva! Ev — Quiet, my good people, for just a moment more. One or two small things still to be done, and then the picture will be ready to look at, to touch, to do what you please with. But for the present, pazienza. Then comes the last act of all in this thrilling drama : the signor whips out a sharp little pair of scissors from his vest pocket, trims the picture along the edges, fastens it deftly upon a stiff piece of cardboard, gives it a parting rub with his elbow, and then, holding it high overhead in his splotched and stained fingers, gayly cries : — " Eccolo! Ecco nostro bravo Pasquale!" And then, with a flourishing bow and an added " Complimenti" he hands it over to the gondolier. At last, the picture! It is stupendo; it is magnifico! Wonder ; delight ; ecstasy ! When has Pasquale ever been so proud and happy? And when, when has old Assunta ever been beheld in such a transport as this ? With a loud scream of delight she catches the picture from Pasquale's hand, kisses it again and again, and bursts into a flood of happy tears. (i Look ! " she cries ; " look ! See the eyes, the mouth, the hair, and every single little button on the shirt! Ah, vera- mente, it is my own dear son ! " Oh, was there another such son in all Murano ? And was there another such picture in all the world? Comparative quiet comes presently; and the signor, who has been constrained for the moment to turn away his face, — l PROSE SELECTIONS 29 humbly thankful, perhaps, to have been made the instrument of so great a joy, — becomes himself again, and says that his little task is done, and that if they will allow him to wash his hands he will get his things together and try to reach Venice before sunset. Ho, friends, the gran signore stands to depart ! Hi, Gigi, you little monkey, lend a hand again with all those things ! Ha, what is it you have let drop ? Alas ! it is the glass picture that falls upon the pavement and breaks into a thousand frag- ments, you careless wicked boy ! No matter, my friends ; you have the paper picture all safe, and that is the chief concern. So, then, good-bye. The brave Pasquale will himself conduct his Excellency back to Venice. Again, then, addio! A rive- derci! Buon viaggio! Addio, Eccellenza! And so they go down the canal, Pasquale' s vast hat flapping to and fro in exact accord with the rhythmical movements of his strong and supple frame, and the gran signore gayly waving his cap with one hand and vigorously brandishing his stick with the other, until a quick turn in the middle distance puts them altogether out of sight. ir What need to say how precious the picture became in old Assunta's eyes ; how jealously it was guarded from all harm or mishap ; how proudly it was displayed before the admiring gaze of friends and privileged visitors ? But if the picture was precious now, how doubly precious was it to become hereafter ! Oh, fatal day — the day when Pasquale went over the lagoon to Venice, and was brought back stark and dripping, with his dark locks all matted to- gether and his bright eyes forever closed ! Terrible was old Assunta's anguish when they brought his dead body back to Murano ; and less violent, but no less intense and inconsol- able, was her grief when, the day following, the little funeral train glided back from San Michele and left Pasquale still to float on and on, eternally, with all the Venice that had been and was not. When Assunta entered the familiar but blighted chamber, the picture, now fastened on the wall, met her first glance. Ah, the picture ! In her great distress she had all but for- gotten it, and now her Pasquale, dead and buried though he be, smiles gravely and fondly down upon her. A thousand blessings upon the good Madonna who had sent so kind a 30 SELECTED READINGS friend to leave them such a memorial as this ! Tears of grat- itude mingle with tears of grief, and the acuteness of her first sorrow is over and past. Their Pasquale is with them yet. The picture shall remain where it now is, a perpetual shrine, and he shall be present to them always, always — morning, noon, and night. There are those upon whom fate enjoins the graceless task of being cruel to be kind; and there are those to whom it assigns the infinitely harder lot of being kind but to be cruel. The genial young gentleman who whiled away an idle after- noon in that old Italian town never knew what a trail of doubt and despair and utter desolation his visit left, in the end, behind him. And may he never learn. ! It is only the third morning after Pasquale's death, and Assunta stands there before his picture, her hands tightly clasped together and her face clouded with doubt and anxiety. She rubs her old eyes; can it be that they are coming to be less sharp and sure than they have been heretofore ? " It seems to be fading," she murmurs, — " fading ! " Ah, my gay and gracious young amateur, are you quite sure that in all the haste and excitement of the moment you car- ried out completely every step of your process? Let us but hope so, for old Assunta's sake. " Oh, what a pity it is that it should not have stayed as it was at firgt. But no matter; it is still our Pasquale — caro ! " A sudden thought strikes Lucia. She looks anxiously, tim- idly, compassionately at the old woman, yet cannot find the heart to say a word. But she watches the picture. There seems to be no change at the end of one hour; none at the end of two. By afternoon, however, there is a change — the picture is dimmer; only a little, but dimmer all the same. Assunta sees it too. And they both feel together that the picture not merely has faded, but is fading all the time. And neither dares ask the other how all this is going to end. Assunta feels that something must be done, and done at once. To whom shall she turn ? She comes to a decision : she will go to the libra jo, that little old man who keeps a shop around the corner, who sells books that the learned can read, who has that beautiful image of the Madonna in his window. Why had n't she thought of him before ? There was a man who would know all about pictures, indeed ! — let him be con- sulted without loss of time. And the librajo comes blinking PROSE SELECTIONS 31 to the front of his dingy little shop, and holds the picture up to the light with his fat hands, and rambles vaguely through a maze of words that has to do with everything but his own entire ignorance of the matter, and sends poor Assunta home with a dazed head and an aching heart. She dreads to-morrow. How will the picture look then? she asks herself a thousand times over. When to-morrow comes she is standing before the picture — which is now duller and dimmer than ever — questioning, with locked fingers and a tear-worn face, if no agency nor any power can stop this dread fatality. Is she doomed to remain in helpless contemplation of such slow-wrought ruin ? Must she watch powerlessly the sparkle fade from those bright eyes, the smile pass away from those fond lips ? No ; there is help for her — there must be — somehow, somewhere. She will go to the parroco, who has never failed her yet in time of need. She will lay the whole matter before him and pray for his assistance. So, with the picture in her hand, she trudges confidently through the sun — the fierce and blinding sun, the cruel, re- morseless, destructive sun, that is but too surely undoing all that he had done for them — to the house of the parish priest. Oh, who would have believed it ? Who could have thought it true ? The parroco himself, her main prop, her chief reliance, to fail her at a time like this ! Sick and dizzy and despairing, she turns her weary steps homeward. The picture goes on fading. Every half-hour brings its difference now. With a strong light and an intent regard the several features may yet be distinguished ; but they are fad- ing, fading, fading all the time, as stars do before the crude and garish coming of the cold first light of a winter morning ; and now and then some one of them goes out altogether and for aye. Finally comes the day — Assunta is at home alone — when even the outline of the general mass fades away as all else has faded, and the old woman, pressing her fingers to her aching eyes, and giving out a bitter and hopeless cry, feels that now, indeed, Pasquale has gone from her forever, and that a universal darkness has overtaken all things. " I have lost him twice ! " she wails, and falls back utterly crushed and broken. And yet after all this, does there not remain one final resort that cannot fail? Is there not one power to whom she can make a last and sure appeal ? She rises from the fragments 32 SELECTED READINGS of her scanty repast, new vigor in her step and fresh resolu- tion in her face. She locks the door, crosses the courtyard, turns down the riva, and directs her steps toward the cathe- dral. The neighbors cannot counsel her ; the parroco cannot assist her ; she will appeal to the pity of the Blessed Madonna herself. Lucia returned home at twilight. The house stood de- serted: no light, no fire, no inmates. On the table were the scanty remnants of Assunta's midday meal, but Assunta her- self was nowhere to be seen. Some vague instinct prompted the girl to direct her search toward the cathedral. There appeared to be no one within; the church seemed to stand altogether empty. Or, no ; not quite. For from the darken- ing glory of the apse an immemorial Madonna frowned down her grim and inexorable refusal ; while on the chill altar steps below, a heartbroken old woman, with a faded brown card clutched in her stiffening fingers, bowed her gray head meekly and eternally before this court of last appeal. Henry B. Fuller. Abridged by Anna Morgan. THEIR DEAR LITTLE GHOST THE first time one looked at Elsbeth, one was not prepos- sessed. She was thin and brown, her nose turned slightly upward, her toes went in just a perceptible degree, and her hair was perfectly straight. But when one looked longer, one perceived that she was a charming little creature. The straight hair was as fine as silk, and hung in funny little braids down her back ; there was not a flaw in her soft brown skin ; and her mouth was tender and shapely. But her par- ticular charm lay in a look which she habitually had, of seem- ing to know curious things — such as it is not allotted to ordinary persons to know. One felt tempted to say to her : " What are these beautiful things which you know, and of which others are ignorant? What is it you see with those wise and pellucid eyes ? Why is it that everybody loves you ? " Elsbeth was my little godchild, and I knew her better than I knew any other child in the world. But still I could not truthfully say that I was familiar with her, for to me her spirit was like a fair and fragrant road in the midst of which I might walk in peace and joy, but where I was continually to discover something new. The last time I saw her quite well PROSE SELECTIONS 33 and strong was over in the woods where she had gone with her two little brothers and her nurse to pass the hottest weeks of Summer. I followed her, foolish old creature that I was, just to be near her, for I needed to dwell where the sweet aroma of her life could reach me. One morning when I came from my room, limping a little, because I am not so young as I used to be and the lake wind works havoc with me, my little godchild came dancing to me singing : " Come with me and I '11 show you my places, my places, my places ! " Miriam, when she chanted by the Eed Sea might have been more exultant, but she could not have been more bewitching. Of course I knew what "places" were, because I had once been a little girl myself, but unless you are acquainted with the real meaning of " places," it would be useless to try to explain. Either you know " places " or you do not — just as you understand the meaning of poetry or you do not. There are things in the world which cannot be taught. Elsbeth's two tiny brothers were present, and I took one by each hand and followed her. No sooner had we got out of doors in the woods than a sort of mystery fell upon the world and upon us. We were cautioned to move silently; and we did so, avoiding the crunching of dry twigs. " The fairies hate noise," whispered my little godchild, her eyes narrowing like a cat's. " I must get my wand first thing I do," she said in an awed undertone. " It is useless to try to do anything without a wand." The tiny boys were profoundly impressed, and, indeed, so was I. I felt that at last, I should, if I behaved properly, see the fairies, which had hitherto avoided my materialistic gaze. It was an enchanting moment, for there appeared, just then, to be nothing commonplace about life. There was a swale near by, and into this the little girl plunged. I could see her red straw hat bobbing about among the tall rushes, and I wondered if there were snakes. " Do you think there are snakes ? " I asked one of the tiny boys. " If there are," he said with conviction, " they won't dare hurt her." He convinced me. I feared no more. Presently Elsbeth came out of the swale. In her hand was a brown " cattail," 3 34 SELECTED READINGS perfectly full and round. She carried it as queens carry their sceptres — the beautiful queens we dream of in our youth. " Come," she commanded, and waved the sceptre in a fine manner. So we followed, each tiny boy gripping my hand tight. We were all three a trifle awed. Elsbeth led us into a dark underbrush. The branches, as they flew back in our faces, left them wet with dew. A wee path, made by the girFs dear feet, guided our footsteps. Perfumes of elderberry and wild cucumber scented the air. A bird, frightened from its nest, made frantic cries above our heads. The underbrush thickened. Presently the gloom of the hemlocks was over us, and in the midst of the shadowy green a tulip tree flaunted its leaves. Waves boomed and broke upon the shore below. There was a growing dampness as we went on, treading very lightly. A little green snake ran coquettishly from us. A fat and glossy squirrel chattered at us from a safe height, strok- ing his whiskers with a complacent air. At length we reached the " place." It was a circle of velvet grass, bright as the first blades of Spring, delicate as fine sea- ferns. The sunlight, falling down the shaft between the hemlocks, flooded it with a softened light and made the forest round about look like deep purple velvet. My little godchild stood in the midst and raised her wand impressively. " This is my place," she said, with a sort of wonderful glad- ness in her tone. " This is where I come to the fairy balls. Do you see them ? " " See what ? " whispered one tiny boy. . « The fairies/' There was a silence. The older boy pulled at my skirt. "Do you see them?" he asked, his voice trembling with expectancy. " Indeed," I said, " I fear I am too old and wicked to see fairies, and yet — are their hats red ? " " They are," laughed my little girl. " Their hats are red, and as small — as small ! " She held up the pearly nail of her wee finger to give us the correct idea. " And their shoes are very pointed at the toes ? " " Oh, very pointed ! " " And their garments are green? " " As green as grass." / " And they blow little horns? " " The sweetest little horns ! " ' " I think I see them," I cried. PROSE SELECTIONS 35 " We think we see them too," said the tiny boys, laughing in perfect glee. " And you hear their horns, don't you ? " my little godchild asked somewhat anxiously. " Don't we hear their horns ? " I asked the tiny boys. " We think we hear their horns," they cried. " Don't you think we do ? " "It must be we do," I said. "Aren't we very, very happy?" We all laughed softly. Then we kissed each other and Elsbeth led us out, her wand high in the air. And so my feet found the lost path to Arcady. The next day I was called to the Pacific coast, and duty kept me there till well into December. A few days before the date set for my return to my home, a letter came from Elsbeth's mother. " Our little girl is gone into the Unknown," she wrote — * that Unknown in which she seemed to be forever trying to pry. We knew she was going, and we told her. She was quite brave, but she begged us to try some way to keep her till after Christmas. 'My presents are not finished yet,' she made moan. ' And I did so want to see what I was going to have. You can't have a very happy Christmas without me, I should think. Can you arrange to keep me somehow till after then ? ' We could not ' arrange ' either with God in heaven or science upon earth, and she is gone." She was only my little godchild, and I am an old maid, with no business fretting over children, but it seemed as if the medium of light and beauty had been taken from me. Through this crystal soul I had perceived whatever was love- liest. However, what was, was ! I returned to my home and took up a course of Egyptian history, and determined to con- cern myself with nothing this side the Ptolemies. Her mother has told me how, on Christmas eve, as usual, she and Elsbeth's father filled the stockings of the little ones, and hung them, where they had always hung, by the fireplace. They had little heart for the task, but they had been prodigal that year in their expenditures, and had heaped upon the two tiny boys all the treasures they thought would appeal to them. They asked themselves how they could have been so insane previously as to exercise economy at Christmas time, and what they meant by not getting Elsbeth the autoharp she had asked for the year before. 36 SELECTED READINGS " And now — " began her father, thinking of harps. But he could not complete this sentence, of course, and the two went on passionately and almost angrily with their task. There were two stockings and two piles of toys. Two stock- ings only, and only two piles of toys ! Two is very little ! They went away and left the darkened room, and after a time they slept — after a long time. Perhaps that was about the time the tiny boys awoke, and, putting on their little dressing gowns and bed slippers, made a dash for the room where the Christmas things were always placed. The older one carried a candle which gave out a feeble light. The other followed behind through the silent house. They were very impatient and eager, but when they reached the door of the sitting-room they stopped, for they saw that another child was before them. It was a delicate little creature, sitting in her white night gown, with two rumpled funny braids falling down her back, and she seemed to be weeping. As they watched, she arose, and putting out one slender finger as a child does when she counts, she made sure over and over again — three sad times — that there were only two stockings and two piles of toys ! Only those and no more. The little figure looked so familiar that the boys started toward it, but just then, putting up her arm and bowing her face in it, as Elsbeth had been used to do when she wept or was offended, the little thing glided away and went out. That 's what the boys said. It went out as a candle goes out. They ran and woke their parents with the tale, and all the house was searched in a wonderment, and disbelief, and hope, and tumult! But nothing was found. For nights they watched. But there was only the silent house. Only the empty rooms. They told the boys they must have been mis- taken. But the boys shook their heads. " We know our Elsbeth/' said they. " It was our Elsbeth, cryin' 'cause she had n't no stockin' an' no toys, and we would have given her all ours, only she went out — jus' went out ! " Alack ! The next Christmas I helped with the little festival. It was none of my affair, but I asked to help, and they let me, and when we were all through there were three stockings and three piles of toys, and in the largest one were all the things that I could think of that my dear child would love. I locked the boys' chamber that night, and I slept on the divan in the PROSE SELECTIONS 37 parlor off the sitting-room. I slept but little, and the night was very still — so windless and white and still that I think I must have heard the slightest noise. Yet I heard none. Had I been in my grave I think my ears would not have re- mained more unsaluted. Yet when daylight came and I went to unlock the boys' bedchamber door, I saw that the stocking and all the treasures which I had bought for my little godchild were gone. There was not a vestige of them remaining ! Of course we told the boys nothing. As for me, after din- ner I went home and buried myself once more in my history, and so interested was I that midnight came without my know- ing it. I should not have looked up at all, I suppose, to become aware of the time, had it not been for a faint, sweet sound as of a child striking a stringed instrument. It was so delicate and remote that I hardly heard it, but so joyous and tender that I could not but listen, and when I heard it a sec- ond time it seemed as if I caught the echo of a child's laugh. At first I was puzzled. Then I remembered the little auto- harp I had placed among the other things in that pile of vanished toys. I said aloud: " Farewell, dear little ghost. Go rest. Eest in joy, dear little ghost. Farewell, farewell." That was years ago, but there has been silence since. Els- beth was always an obedient little thing. Elia W. Peattie. "MRS. RIPLEY'S TRIP"* From {'Main Travelled Roads" THE night was in windy November, and the blast, threat- ening rain, roared around the poor little shanty of Uncle Ripley, set like a chicken-trap on the vast Iowa prairie. Uncle Ethan was mending his old violin, totally oblivious of his tireless old wife, who, having " finished the supper dishes," sat knitting a stocking, evidently for the little grandson who lay before the stove like a cat. Neither of the old people wore glasses, and their light was a tallow candle; they couldn't afford "none o' them new- fangled lamps." The room was small, the chairs were wooden, and the walls bare — a home where poverty was a never-absent guest. * By permission of the author and the publishers, The Macmillan Company. 38 SELECTED READINGS Suddenly the old lady paused, stuck a needle in the spare knob of hair at the back of her head, and, looking at Eipley, said decisively, " Ethan Eipley, you '11 haff to do your own cooking from now on to New Year's; I'm goin' back to Yaark State." " I want to know if y' be." "Well you '11 find out." " Goin' to start to-morrow, mother?" " No, sir, I ain't; but I am on Thursday. I want to get to Sally's by Sunday, sure, an' to Silas's on Thanksgivin'." " How d' ye 'xpect to get the money, mother ? Anybody died an' left yeh a pile ? " " Never you mind where I get the money, so 's 't you don't haff to bear it. The land knows if I 'd a-waited for you to pay my way — " " You need n't twit me of bein' poor, old woman, I 've done my part t' get along. I've worked day in and day out — " " Oh ! J ain't done no work, have I ? " " I did n't say you had n't done no work." "Yes, you did!" " I did n't neither. I said — " e< I know what you said." " I said I 'd done my part ! I did n't say you had n't done your part." " I know you did n't say it, but y 9 meant it. I don't know what y' call doin' my part, Ethan Ripley ; but if cookin' for a drove of harvest hands and thrashin' hands, takin' care o' the eggs and butter, 'n' diggin' taters an' milkin' ain't my part, I don't never expect to do my part, 'n' you might as well know it fust 's last. I 'm sixty years old, an' I 've never had a day to myself, not even Fourth o' July. If I 've went a-visitin' 'r to a picnic, I 've had to come home an' milk, 'n' it was just so in Davis County. For twenty-three years, Ethan Ripley, I 've stuck right to the stove an' churn without a day or a night off. And now I 'm a-goin' back to Yaark State." " But how y' goin' t' raise the money ? I ain't got no extra cash this time. Agin Roach is paid, an' the interest paid, we ain't got no hundred dollars to spare, Jane, not by a jugful." " Wal, don't you lay awake nights studyin' on where I 'm a-goin' to get the money." " Come, Tewky, you better climb the wooden hill," Mrs. Ripley said, a half -hour later, to the little chap on the floor, PROSE SELECTIONS 39 who was beginning to get drowsy under the influence of his grandpa's fiddling. " Pa, you had orter 'a put that string in the clock to-day — on the 'larm side the string is broke," she said, upon returning from the boy's bedroom, " I orter git up early to-morrow, to get some sewin' done. Lord knows, I can't fix up much, but they is a little I c'n do. I want to look decent." They were alone now, and they both sat expectantly. " You 'pear to think, mother, that I 'm agin yer goin'." " Wal, it would kinder seem as if y' had n't hustled yerself any t' help me git off." " Wal, I 'm just as willin' you should go as I am for my- self ; but if I ain't got no money I don't see how I 'm goin' to send — " " I don't want ye to send ; nobody ast ye to, Ethan Ripley. I guess if I 'd had what I 've earnt since we came on this farm I 'd have enough to go to Jericho with." " You 've got as much out of it as I have. You talk about your goin' back. Ain't I been wantin' to go back myself? And ain't I kept still 'cause I see it wa'n't no use ? I guess I 've worked jest as long and as hard as you, an' in storms an' in mud an' heat, ef it comes t' that." " Waal, if you 'd 'a managed as well as I have, you 'd have some money to go with. Come, put up that squeakin' old fiddle, and go to bed. Seems as if you orter have sense enough not to set there keepin' everybody in the house awake." " You hush up; I '11 come when I get ready and not till. I '11 be glad when you 're gone — " " Yes, I warrant that." With which amiable good-night they went off to sleep, or at least she did, while he lay awake, pondering on " where under the sun she was goin' t' raise that money." Having plenty of time to think matters over, he had come to the conclusion that the old woman needed a play-spell. " I ain't likely to be no richer next year than I am this one ; if I wait till I 'm able to send her, she won't never go." The next night as Mrs. Ripley was clearing the dishes away, she got to thinking about the departure of the next day, and she began to soften. She gave way to a few tears when little Tewksbury Gilchrist, her grandson, came up and stood beside her. " Gran'ma, you ain't goin' to stay away always, are yeh ? " 40 SELECTED READINGS " Why, of course not, Tewky. What made y 9 think that ? " " Well, y' ain't told ns nawthin' 't all about it. An' yeh kind o' look 's if yeh was mad." " Well, I ain't mad ; I 'm jest a-thinkin', Tewky. Y' see I come away from them hills when I was a little girl a'most; before I married y^r grandad. And I ain't never been back. 'Most all my folks is there, sonny, an' we 've been s' poor all these years I could n't seem t' never git started. Now when I 'm 'most ready t' go, I feel kind o' queer — 's if I 'd cry." Ripley came in with a big armful of wood, which he rolled into the wood-box with a thundering crash. " It 's snowin' like all p'sessed. I guess we '11 have a sleigh- ride to-morrow. I ealc'late t' drive y* daown in scrumptious style. If you must leave, why, we '11 give yeh a whoopin' old send-off. Won't we, Tewky ? An' I was tellin' Tewky t'-day that it was a dum shame our crops had n't turned out better. An' when I saw oF Hatfield go by I hailed him, an' asked him what he 'd gimme for two o' ma shoats. Wal, the upshot is, I sent t' town for some things I calc'lated you'd need. An' here's a ticket to Georgetown, and ten dollars. Why, ma, what 's up ? " Mrs. Ripley dashed into the bedroom, and in a few minutes returned with a yarn mitten, tied around the wrist, which she laid on the table with a thump, saying : " I don't want yer money. There 's money enough to take me where I want to go." "Thunder and scissors! Must be two or three hundred dollars there." " They 's jest seventy-five dollars and thirty cents ; jest about enough to go back on. Tickets is fifty-five dollars, goin' an' comin'. That leaves twenty dollars for other ex- penses, not countin' what I 've already spent, which is sixty- five. It's plenty." " But y' ain't calc'lated on no sleepers nor hotel bills." " I ain't goin' on no sleeper. Mis' Doudney says it 's jest scandalous the way things is managed on them cars. I 'm goin' on the old-fashioned cars, where they ain't no half- dressed men runnin' around. As for the hotel bills, they won't be none. I ain't a-goin' to pay them pirates as much for a day's board as we'd charge for a week's, and have nawthin' to eat but dishes. I 'm goin' to take a chicken an' some hard-boiled eggs, an' I 'm goin' right through to Georgetown." PROSE SELECTIONS 41 "Well, all right, mother; but here's the ticket I got." " I don't want yer ticket." " But you 've got to take it. They won't take it back." " Wal, if they won't — I s'pose I '11 have to use it." And that ended it. They were a familiar sight as they rode toward town next day. Mrs. Ripley wore a shawl over her head, and carried her queer little black bonnet in her hand. Tewksbury was also wrapped in a shawl. "Now remember, Tewky, have grandad kill that biggest turkey night before Thanksgivin', an' then you run right over to Mis' Doudney's — she 's got a nawful tongue, but she can bake a turkey first rate — an' she '11 fix up some squash pies for yeh. You can warm up one o' them mince pies. I wish ye could go with me; but ye can't, so do the best ye One cold, windy, intensely bright day, Mrs. Stacey, who lives about two miles from Cedarville, looking out of the win- dow, saw a queer little figure struggling along the road, which was blocked here and there with drifts. " Why ! it 's Gran'ma Ripley, just getting back from her trip. Why ! how do you do ? Come in. Why ! you must be nearly frozen. Let me take off your hat and veil." " No, thank ye kindly, but I can't stop. I must be gittin' back to Ripley. I expec' that man has jest let ev'rything go six ways f'r Sunday. Jest kind o' stow them bags away. I '11 take two an' leave them three others. Good-bye. I must be gittin' home to Ripley. He '11 want his supper on time." And off up the road the indomitable little figure trudged, head held down to the cutting blast. Little snow-fly, a speck on a measureless expanse, crawling along with painful breath- ing and slipping, sliding steps — " Gittin' home to Ripley an' the boy." Ripley was out to the barn when she entered, but Tewks- bury was building a fire in the old cook-stove. He sprang up with a cry of joy, and ran to her. She seized him and kissed him, and it did her so much good she hugged him close, and kissed him again and again, crying hysterically. " Oh, gran'ma, I 'm so glad to see you ! We 've had an awful time since you 've been gone." 42 SELECTED READINGS She released him, and looked around. A lot of dirty dishes were on the table, the table-cloth was a " sight to behold " (as she afterwards said) , and so was the stove — kettle-marks all over the table-cloth, splotches of pancake batter all over the stove. When Ripley came in she had her regimentals on, the stove was brushed, the room was swept, and she was elbow-deep in the dish-pan. " Hullo, mother ! Got back, hev ye ? " " I sh'd say it was about time," she replied curtly, without looking up or ceasing to work. " Has ol' Crumpy dried up yit ? " This was her greeting. Her trip was a fact now; no chance could rob her of it, and now she could look back at it accomplished. She took up her burden again, never more thinking to lay it down. Hamlin Garland. Abridged oy Anna Morgan. A RED-HAIRED CUPID* HOW did I come to get myself disliked down at the Chanta Seechee ? Well, I '11 tell you. The play came up like this. First, they made the Chanta Seechee into a stock company, then the stock company put all their brains in one think, and says they, "We'll make this man Jones superintendent, and the ranch is all right at once." So out comes Jones from Boston, Massachusetts; and what he didn't know about running a ranch was common talk in the country, but what he thought he knew about running a ranch was too much for one man to carry around. He was n't a bad-hearted feller in some ways, yet on the whole he felt it was an honor to a looking-glass to have the pleas- ure of reflecting him. Looking-glass ? I should say he had ! And a bureau, and a boot-blacking jigger, and a feather bed, and curtains, and truck in his room. Strange fellers used to open their eyes when they saw that room. " Hello-o-o ! they 'd say, " whose little birdie have we here ? " Well, the next thing after Jonesy got established was that his niece must come out during vacation and pay him a visit. " Jeerusalem ! " thinks I, " Jonesy's niece ! " I had visions of a thin, yaller, sour little piece, with mouse-colored hair plastered down on her head, and an unkind word for everybody. I can stand 'most any kind of a man, but if * By permission of the McClure Co. Copyright, 1901, by the S. S. McClure Co. PROSE SELECTIONS 43 there is anything that makes the tears come to my eyes it 's a botch of a woman. I know they may have good quali- ties and all that, but I don't like 'em, and that 's the whole of it. I was elected to take my buckboard and drive twenty miles to the railroad. I didn't mind the going out, but that twenty miles back with Jonesy's niece ! Say, I foamed like a soda-water bottle when I got into the bull-pen and told the boys my luck. "Well, I'll give that Eastern blossom an idea of the quality of this country, anyhow," thinks I. So I togs myself up in the awfullest rig I could find ; strapped two cartridge belts to me, every hole filled, and a gun in every holster ; put candle-grease on my mustache and twisted the ends up to my eye-winkers; stuck a knife in my hatband and another in my boot; threw a shotgun and a rifle in the buckboard, and pulled out quick through the colt-pens before Jonesy could get his peeps onto me. Well, sir, I was jarred witless when I laid my eyes on that young woman. I had my mind made up so thorough as to what she must be that the facts knocked me cold. She was the sweetest, handsomest, healthiest girl I ever saw. It would make you believe in fairy stories again just to look at her. She was all the things a man ever wanted in this world rolled up in a prize package. Tall, round, and soople, lim- ber and springy in her action as a thoroughbred, and with something modest yet kind of daring in her face, that would remind you of a good, honest boy. Red, white, and black were the colors she flew. Hair and eyes black, cheeks and lips red, and the rest of her white. Now, there 's a pile of difference in them colors; when you say "red," for in- stance, you ain't cleaned up the subject by a sight. My top-knot's red, but that wasn't the color of Loys's cheeks. No; that was a color I never saw before nor since. A rose would look like a tomater alongside of 'em. Then, too, I've seen black eyes so hard and shiny you could cut glass with 'em. And again that wasn't her style. Seems like the good Lord was kind of careless when he built Jonesy, but when he turned that girl out, he played square with the fambly. I ain't what you might call a man that's easily dis- turbed in his mind, but I know I says to myself that first day, " If I was ten year younger, young lady, they 'd never lug you back East again." Gee, man! There was a time 44 SELECTED READINGS when I 'd have pulled the country up by the roots but I 'd have had that girl ! I notice I don't fall in love so violent as the years roll on. Well, I was plumb disgusted with the fool way I 'd rigged myself up, but, fortunately for me, Darragh, the station-man, come out with the girl. " There 's Reddy, from your ranch now, ma'am" says he, and when he caught sight of me, "What's the matter, Red; are the Injuns up?" " They ain't up exactly, but it looked as if they were a leetle on the rise, and being as I had a lady to look out for, I thought I 'd play safe." The color kind of went out of the girl's cheeks, " Perhaps I 'd better not start ? " I stepped up to her, with my hat in my hand. " Miss Andree," says I, " if you come along with me I '11 guaran- tee you a safe journey. If any harm reaches you, it will be after one of the liveliest times in the history of the Territory." At this she laughed. "Very well, I'll chance it, Mr. Red." " His name ain't Red," put in Darragh, solemn. " His name 's Saunders. We call him Red becus uf his hair." " I 'm sure I beg your pardon," says Miss Loys, all of a fluster. " That 's all right, ma'am ; no damage done at all. It 's useless for me to conceal the fact that my hair is a little on the auburn. Now hop in, and we '11 touch the breeze." So I piled her trunk in and away we flew. Bud and Dandy were a corking little team. They were snorting and pulling grand, the buckboard bouncing behind 'cm like a rubber ball. " Goodness gracious ! " says the girl, " do you always go like this in this country ? " " Why, no," says I. " Hike ! " and I snapped the black- snake over the ponies' ears, and they strung themselves out like a brace of coyotes, nearly pulling the buckboard out from under us. " Sometimes we travel like this. You 're not afraid, are you ? " " Indeed I 'm not. I think it 's glorious. Might I drive ? " " If I can smoke," says I, " then you can drive." I 'd heard about young women who 'd been brought up so tender that tobacker smoke would ruin their morals or something, and I kind of wondered if she was that sort. PROSE SELECTIONS 45 ' " That 's a bargain," says she prompt ; " but how you 're going to light a cigar in this wind I don't see." " Cigarette/' says I. " And if you would kindly hold my hat until I get one rolled I 'd take it kind of you." She held my hat for a wind-break, and I got my paper pipe together. And then — not a match. I searched every pocket. Not a lucifer. That is more of what I got for being funny and changing my clothes. And then she happened to think of a box she had for travelling, and fished it out of her grip. "Young lady," I says, "until it comes to be your bad luck — which I hope won't ever happen — to be very much in love with a man who won't play back, you '11 never properly know the pangs of a man that's got all the materials to smoke with except the fire. Now, if I have a chance to do as much for you sometime, I 'm there." She laughed and crinkled up her eyes at me. " All right, Mr. Saunders." She blushed real nice. I like to see a woman blush. It's a trick they can't learn. But I see she was put out by my easy talk, so I gave her a pat on the back and says, " Don't mind me, little girl ! We fellers see an eighteen-carat woman so seldom that it goes to our heads. Let's shake hands." So she laughed again and shook. I mean shook. It was n't like handing you so much cold fish — the way some women shake hands. And Loys and me, we were full pards from date. Well, I don't have to mention that Loys stirred up things considerable around the Chanta Seechee and vicinity. Gee ! What a diving into wannegans and a fetching out of good clothes there was, and trading of useful coats and things for useless but decorating silk handkerchiefs and things! And what a hair-cutting and whisker-trimming ! But Kyle was the man from the go in. And it was right it should be so. If ever two young people were born to make trouble for each other it was Kyle and Loys. He was 'most as good-looking for a man as she was for a woman. They made a pair to draw to, I tell you, loping over the prairie, full of health and youngness! You wouldn't want to see a prettier sight than they made. Well, things went as smooth and easy as bob-sledding until it came time for Loys to be moseying back to college again. Then Kyle took me into his confidence. I never 46 SELECTED READINGS was less astonished in my whole life, and I didn't tell him so. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" says I. He kind of groaned and shook his head. " I dunno," says he. " Do you think she likes me, Red ? " " Well, about that I don't think I ought to say anything." " Think so ? " says he, bracing up. And then, by-and-by, they went out to ride. They came back at sunset, when the whole world was glowing red the same as they were. I reached for the field glasses and took a squint at them. There was no harm in that, for they were well-behaved young folks. One look at their faces was enough. There were three of us in the bull-pen — Bob and Wind-River Smith and myself. We 'd brought up a herd of calves from Nanley's ranch, and we were taking it easy. "Boys," says I, under my breath, " they 've made the riffle." " No ! " says they, and then everybody had to take a pull at the glasses. " Well, I 'm glad," says Smithy. And darn my buttons if that old hardshell's voice did n't shake. " They 're two of as nice kids as you 'd find in many a weary day. And I wish 'em all the luck in the world." " So do I, and I really think the best we could do for 'em would be to shoot Jones." " Let 's go out and meet 'em ! " And away we went. . They were n't a particle surprised. I suppose they thought the whole universe had stopped to look on. We pump- handled away and laughed, and Loys she laughed kind of peart, and Kyle he looked red in the face and proud and happy and shamed of himself, and we all felt loosened up considerable ; but I told him on the quiet, " Take that fool grin off your faee, unless you want Uncle Jones to drop the moment he sees you." Now they only had three days left to get an action on them, as that was the time set for Loys to go back to college. Next day they held a council behind the big barn, and they called in Uncle Red, otherwise known as Big Red Saunders. " Skip," says I. " Fly for town and get married, and come back and tell Jonesy about it. It 's a pesky sight stronger argument to tell him what you have done than what you're going to do." They could n't quite agree with that. They thought it was sneaky. PROSE SELECTIONS 47 " So it is," says I. " The first art of war is understand- ing how to make a grand sneak. If you don't want to take my advice you can wait." That did n't hit them just right either. " What will we wait for ? " says Kyle. "Exercise — and the kind you don't take when you get as old and as sensible as me. You're taking long chances, both of you ; but it 's just like playing cards, you might as well put all your money on the first turn, win or lose, as to try and play system. Systems don't work in faro, nor love affairs, nor any other game of chance. Be gone. Put your marker on the grand raffle. In other words take the first horse to town and get married. Ten chances to one Jonesy will have the laugh on you before the year is out." They decided that they'd think it over until next day, but that turned out to be too late, for what must Kyle do but get chucked from his horse and have his leg broke near the hip? You don't want to take any love affairs onto the back of a bad horse, now you mark me ! Now here was a hurrah! Loys, she dasn't cry, for fear of uncle; and Kyle, he used the sinfullest language known to the tongue of man. 'T was the first time I 'd ever heard him say anything much, but he made it clear it was n't be- cause he could n't. " What will we do, Red? What will we do? " says he. "Now," says I, "don't bile over like that, because it's bad for your leg." He cussed the leg. " Go on and tell me what we can do," says he. "When you ask me that, you've pulled the right bell. I'll tell you exactly what we'll do. I go for the doctor. Savvy? Well, I bring back the minister at the same time. Angevine, he loses the Jersey cow over in the cane-brake, and uncle and Angevine go hunting her, for not even Loys is ace high in uncle's mind alongside that cow. The rest is easy." "Red, you're a brick — you're the best fellow alive," says Kyle. " I 've tried to conceal it all my life, but I knew it would be discovered some day," says I. "Well, I suppose I'd better break the news to Loys — 'twould n't be any more than polite." "Oh, Lord! I wonder if she'll be willing?" says he. 48 SELECTED READINGS She was willing all right — even anxious. There 's some women, and men too for that matter, who go through life like a cat through a back alley, not caring a cuss for either end or the middle. They would have been content to wait. Not so Loys. She wanted her Kyle, her poor Kyle, and she wanted him quick. That's the kind of people for me! Your cautious folk are all the time falling down wells be- cause their eyes are up in the air, keeping tabs so that they can dodge shooting stars. Now, I had a minister friend up in town, Father Slade by name. No, he was not a Catholic, I think. They called him " Father/' because it fitted him. His church has a steeple on it, anyhow, so it was no maverick. I knew the old man would do me a favor if it could be done, so I pulled out easy in my mind. First place, I stopped at the doctor's, because I felt they might fix up the marrying business some other time, but if a leg that 's broke in the upper joint ain't set right, you can see a large dark-complected hunk of trouble over the party's left shoulder for the rest of his days. The doctor was out, so I left word for him what was wanted, and to be ready when I got back, and pulled for Father Slade's. The old gentleman had the rheumatism and he groaned when I come in. " Dear ! dear ! " says he. " The hurry and skurry of young folks ! How idle it seems when you get fifty years away from it, and see how little anything counts ! For all that, I thank God," says he, " that there 's a little red left in my blood yet, which makes me sympathize with them. But the girl's people object, you say ? " I made that all clear to him. " The girl 's always all right, Father," says I, " and as for the man in this case, my word for him." " Give me your arm to the wagon." He put his arm on my shoulder and hobbled his weight off the game leg. " Per- haps you 'd better pick me up and carry me bodily." When we reached the ranch the boys were lined up to meet us. " Hurry along ! " they called. " Angey can't keep uncle amused all day ! " So we hustled. Kyle was for being married first, and then having his leg set, but I put my foot down flat. It had gone long enough now, and I was n't going to have him crippling it all his life. But the doctor worked like a man PROSE SELECTIONS 49 who gets paid by the piece, and in less than no time we were able to call Loys in. We'd got settled to business when in comes Angevine, puffing like a buffalo. " For Heaven's sakes ! Ain't you finished yet ? " says he. " Well, you want to be at it, for the old man ain't over two minutes behind me, coming fast." Well, sir, at this old Father Slade stood right up, for- getting that foot entirely. " Children, be ready," says he, and he went over the line for a record. u Hurry there ! " hollers old Bob from the outside, where he was on watch ; " here comes uncle up the long coulee ! " " What are your names ? " says Father Slade. They told them, both red'ning. " Do you, Kyle, take this woman, Loys, to have and keep track of, come hell or high water, her heirs and assigns for ever?" — or such a matter — says he, all in one breath. They both said they did. Things flew till we came to the ring. There was a hitch. We had plumb forgotten that important article. For a minute I felt stingy; then I cussed myself for a mean old long-horn, and dived into my box. " Here, take this ! " I says ; " it was my mother's ! " " Oh, Red ! You must n't part with that ! " cried Loys, her eyes filling up. " Don't waste time talking ; I put through what I tackle. Hurry, please, Father." "Has anybody any objections to these proceedings?" says he. " I have," says I, " but I won't mention 'em. Give them the verdict." " I pronounce you man and wife. Let us pray," says he. "Wnat's that?" screeches Uncle Jonesy from the door- way. And then he gave us the queerest prayer you ever heard in your life. He stood on one toe and clawed chunks out of the air while he delivered it. He seemed to have it in for me in particular. "You villain! You rascal! You red-headed rascal! You did this! I know you did!" " Oh, uncle ! " says I, " forgive me ! Go up and con- gratulate 'em." "I won't. Ouch! Yes, I will! I will!" So up he goes, grinding his teeth. 4 50 SELECTED READINGS "I wish you every happiness/' "Won't you forgive me, uncle?" begs Loys. " Some other time, some other time ! " he hollers, and he pranced out of the house like a hosstyle spider, the maddest little man in the Territory. The rest of Loys's folks was in an unpleasant frame of mind too. Howsomever the whole outfit came round in time. Henry Wallace Phillips. Abridged by Anna Morgan. THE MAKING OF A COMEDIENNE From "Felicity" PROBABLY only one thing could have kept Phineas Morton in Millville all Summer, but that thing hap- pened: he fell ill before he had been with his daughter a week. During his convalescence the interminable days were chiefly beguiled by Felicity. The child was completely fas- cinated by Phineas and he found her the winsomest thing he had ever known. Day after day, the old man and the little girl sat together and held converse about things he knew and things she knew and things that never were on land or sea. As for her, nothing was of sufficient charm to take her away from this wondrous being who dreamed her dreams ; who knew equally well about the hobgoblins and Queen Mary, and who under- stood perfectly when you told him how hard it was to keep from laughing in church because the precentor looked so much like the Cheshire Cat in that entrancing "Alice in Wonderland." " I tell you, that play-actor 's no fit company for a child," said Jane Fergus, when Felicity had obediently given ac- count of herself since dinner. " I can't see that he 's doing her a bit of harm," Amelia retorted. " You '11 not see it till it 's too late to mend." And Fe- licity wondered till she was weary what irreparable harm could come to her through Mr. Morton, and why gran'ma could not be made to feel as she felt his fascinations. She was coming early through her first experience of that universal distress in which we battle with the prejudice of our powers that be against our dearest enchantment. No PROSE SELECTIONS 51 one of us, presumably, grows to maturity without suffering some degree of the resentment that comes when ruthless hands try to break the bonds of our willing thraldom and set us free when we are wishful only to stay bound. Meditating on the strange perversity of gran'ma and wishing delicacy did not forbid her asking Mr. Morton about it, Felicity slipped from her chair when permission was granted, and went into the kitchen to fill in a too brief interval before evening prayers. Zilianne, who had been her nurse while she needed one, now filled the office of cook. In the course of the supper hour she had gone into her pantry and found a mouse-trap sprung and a tiny, long-sought culprit inside. Felicity greeted the mouse with eager interest. " Oh, what you goin' to do with him, Zilly? " " Sho' gwine ter drown 'im, honey, he bin a-eatin' mah cohn-meal; now Fse ketched 'im Fse gwine mek 'im sorry fer 'is sins." " He 's sorry now." " Not so sorry as he 'm gwine ter be." " Please don't, Zilly — please don't drown him ! Give him to me an' I '11 carry him mi-iles away, where he can't ever get back any more." " How kin I gi' 'im ter you ? You ain't think I'se gwine ter let you traipse off wid mah onlies' mice-trap, is you? I sho' would n' nevah see hit agin." " Give him to me in a little box, then. Wait — " Felicity was upstairs and down again in a twinkling, bringing with her a small pasteboard box hastily emptied of some doll-rag hoardings. " Put him in here, please, and I '11 carry him a-wa-ay off." So Zilianne put the box down close to the trap and lifted the wire door, then clapped the box cover on and handed over the reprieved, with many cautions. " First I must poke holes in his housey, so he can breathe. And then I must put him in some supper, so he won't starve." "Ain't gwine ter starve ter-night, he des' bustin' full o' yo' gran'ma's cheese an' meal." "Well, le's put him in a piece for breakfas'; maybe he won't know how to find breakfas', far away like I 'm goin' to take him." The cheese thus eloquently begged was scarcely crammed through the air holes — somewhat to the exclusion of air — <• 52 SELECTED READINGS when the call to prayers was sounded peremptorily from the sitting-room. Felicity meant to keep " Mr. Mouse " until the morning ; it was asking too much of human nature to expect she would give him up sooner. To prayers, therefore, went Mr. Mouse — which was no more than proper after his narrow escape from the destroyer — and in his queerly riddled cardboard home was stealthily deposited in the obscurest corner of the sitting-room, beyond which corner, if the truth be told, Felicity's thoughts did not once soar during the Scripture reading and hymn-singing. Then gran'ma, looking over the top of her spectacles at Fe- licity, asked solemnly: "What is sin?" Felicity started guiltily as she thought of Mr. Mouse. " Sin is any want of comformity unto or transgression of the law of God." It was strange that gran'ma's evening question, selected at random from " The Shorter Catechism " to keep Felicity from forgetting any of it, should have proved so disconcert- ing. But Felicity, who knew in a way what the big words meant, assured herself that if keeping a poor little mouse overnight was any want of comf ormity unto or transgression of the law of God, she 'd never been told so. She was so thinking as she knelt while gran'ma prayed, when there was a shrill scream, the prayer came abruptly to an end, and she jumped up to find gran'ma shaking her voluminous, crinolined skirts excitedly and crying, " Scat ! Scat!" For a moment Felicity was scared; her gran'ma's panic was so very real. But when Mr. Mouse had been shaken down and had made good his escape, she burst into gleeful laughter and laughed until she cried — at which gran'ma was sufficiently recovered to be indignant. " What do you mean ? " she asked the culprit sternly. " Please, gran'ma, it was so funny ! " " Everything is funny to you, it seems. That ? s what comes of association with a buffoon." "What's that?" " A buffoon is a person who sees nothing but fun in the misfortunes of others." ' c I did n't know it was a misfortune, gran'ma. I was just thinking Mr. Mouse must be — be so surprised. He PROSE SELECTIONS 53 must V thought he was in the bigges' trap in the world!" " Did you turn him loose in here? " " No 'm; I was keepin' him tight, an' he must 'a' got out." " He very certainly did. But what I find most fault with is, not the fright you gave me, but your disrespectful enjoy- ment of my distress. If I had behaved so at your age, I should have been punished terribly." " Could n't you ever laugh ?. " " I never laughed at my elders — that ? s sure." " Mr. Morton says God likes folks to laugh whenever they can." " And what, if you '11 tell me, does Mr. Morton know about God?" "Oh, a lot! He told me." " I don't doubt ! He '11 make an atheist of you before he 's through. I can see now that you discount your church and home teachings by what he says, and I '11 have no more of it — this trafficking with evil-doers. You'll keep away from that man in the future — mark my words ! Amelia may let you go to the devil, but I '11 not stand by and be a party to it. I 'm your keeper before God, whether your father made me such or not. You 're my son's child, and I '11 save your soul for you if I can." Felicity began to cry and Amelia told her to go upstairs. " I told you all this would come of letting her act in plays and spend her time with mummers," said Jane Fergus. "And I say that's all antediluvian bigotry," retorted Amelia, " and that it 's a great privilege for Felicity to have the companionship of a man like Mr. Morton." "It's a privilege she'll have to forego, then, as long as she 's under my roof." Encouraged by her rebellion much as a child is encouraged when he omits his prayers and meets no cataclysmic conse- quences, Amelia retreated in good order, her cheeks flushed and her mouth as determinedly set as her mother's. She made no reply to her mother's ultimatum; she wanted the night to think it over. But she was not cowed, and she knew it. Upstairs, Felicity was waiting to be "unbuttoned in the back " and to have her silken-fine, fair hair done up in rag curlers. When the bedtime preparations were completed and the 54 SELECTED READINGS little night-gowned figure was outstretched in the small bed beside Amelia's own, the woman who was finding vent thug belatedly for her maternal passion, on a child not her own, sat down in the dark by the wide-open window, to look out into the summer night — and to make the great decision of her life. Life, in so far as it held that expectancy which makes life worth living, was over for her. For herself she could enter- tain no more eagerness, dream no more dreams — could an- ticipate only release. And that, before she had lived at all ! No, no. It must not be ! God never mocked one so. He had given her this child, this wonderful child, to live in; they would realize together, she and Felicity — It was midnight when she crept to bed to finish a restless, night. Recalled to that pitiless knowledge of her situation which she had mercifully forgotten for awhile in sleep, Amelia sat up, conscious of keen regret that it was day so soon. Felicity backed up to have her little petticoats buttoned, and Amelia, when she had done this, took the child by the shoulders and wheeled her around, facing her ; looking deep into the brown eyes as if searching for an answer in their yelvety depths, she asked: " Felicity, would you like to be an actress ? " " How could I ? Pmso little/' " They have little girls, sometimes. Mr. Morton has little girls in his plays. I think maybe if we ask him he '11 take you to play with him right now, and then when you 're grown up you might be celebrated like he is." "What is celerbated?" "It's being famous, well known — having ever and ever so many people like you, and when you play they go to see you and applaud, and you make lots of money and travel all over the world, and everywhere you go people know about you and try to do lovely things for you, and you meet other cele- brated people — kings and queens, sometimes — and great writers and painters and musicians; and everybody envies you and wishes they were in your place, instead of feeling sorry for you because you've never called your soul your own." " I 'd like that. I 'd like it fine ! But gran'ma ! She would n't let us." " No," agreed Amelia, soberly, " she would n't. But would PROSE SELECTIONS 55 you do it anyway ? I mean would you want to ? If gran'ma would n't let you, but I would, would you go ? " "What would gran'ma do?" " I don't know, turn us out, I suppose — certainly refuse to speak to us for a long, long time." "I would n't like that." " Neither would I, but if you want to do great things you have to do hard things first." " Would gran'ma be mad for keeps ? " " I don't know ; she might, I can't tell." " Would n't it be wicked to make her that mad ? " " If you always ask yourself what your gran'ma will think, every time you want to do anything, you'll never get any- thing done ! That 's what I did, and there was never a thing I wanted to do that I did n't give it up because she 'd be mad if I did it. Now, you sha'n't begin that way. Do you under- stand? You sha'n't do it. Give me your hand and come to breakfast ; there 's the bell." And hand in hand the rebels descended the stairs and entered the dining-room. Jane Fergus was sitting at a window in the dining-room, reading her morning paper. Amelia, holding Felicity by the hand, stood before her mother, a mixture of fear and defiance in her attitude. " Mother, I have something very — very important to tell you." A curious ring in Amelia's voice made Jane Fergus lay down her paper. "Well?" " I 'm sorry you feel the way you do about Mr. Morton, but he thinks Felicity has a talent for acting; he says its devel- opment should begin now. I know you won't approve, but I can't help it ; I 'm going to see if he will take her on the stage. If he does it will be a wonderful chance for her. I — she wants to go and I — I think we ought not to stand in her way." Jane Fergus ignored her daughter and fixed her searching gaze on Felicity. " Is this true ? Are you wanting to go ? " Felicity looked from the compressed mouth and keen eyes before her, to the compressed mouth and unflinching eyes above her. She wanted to cry, to fling her arms about her gran'ma's neck and say she would never be an act- ress — never! But something in Amelia's face restrained 56 SELECTED READINGS her and she choked down the lump in her throat and answered : * Yes 'm." "This is your doing/' said Jane Fergus, turning to Amelia. " To satisfy your own wicked ambition you traffic this child's soul to the devil. I wash my hands of you. Her blood be upon your head ! " With this terrible pronouncement she took off her spec- tacles, folded them into their case, and left the room. There was no breakfast eaten in the Fergus household that morning. After two years on the stage Felicity had begun to lengthen out to that spindling awkwardness which promised well for the future but made her impossible for child parts. When this time came Phineas persuaded Amelia to put the child in a boarding school in western Massachusetts. To school Felicity went, while Amelia took a small house in Salem and acquired a cat, and sat down by her swept and lonely hearth to wait the passing of the years until Felicity should be with her again. The Hilldale School for Girls was in the Berkshires; it was in charge of the Reverend Henry Candee Tutwiler. Felicity was looked upon with no little suspicion when her application for entrance was filed. The stage was rank in the nostrils of the Reverend Tutwiler, and he feared, moreover, that a majority of his patrons would be incensed if their off- spring were brought in contact with a child of the theatre. Amelia was enraged, and Felicity would never have gone to the Hilldale School for Girls had not the Reverend Tut- wiler weakened when he heard of Felicity's strictly orthodox upbringing, and had not Amelia weakened when it was pointed out to her that girls' schools inspired by a large world- wisdom and presided over by a fine catholic spirit, were so scarce that if she insisted on such a one, Felicity bade fair to live and die uneducated. So, early in September, Amelia took her to Hilldale and left her. Every month she went to spend Saturday and Sunday with Felicity, but the intervals between seemed interminable ; they were great voids, marked only by Felicity's letters. PROSE SELECTIONS 57 " Dear, darling, preshus Aunt Elie, I perfecly abbominate this place. You ought to see what they call appel sauce it is pieces of appel noting a round in swetish water. When any- thing is the matter with you Mrs. Tutwiler comes and says its nothing and tells how many things has been the matter with her and Mr. Tutwiler and how brave they allways were. Ive cried every night since you left me hear and Mrs. Tutwiler says when she was my age she cried becaus there was no school for her to go to. I don't see why she tells me such things becaus I don't beleave them. Can't you write them a letter for me not to learn arithmetick I don't see any sense in it. " Your darling child, Felicity Fergus." " P.S. — Mrs. Tutwiler says is Felicity all the name youve got. I 'm glad none of my name is Tutwiler." Gradually, however, the joys of companionship began to balance Mrs. Tutwiler and the " appel sauce." " Thear is a girl hear named Eosalie Beech she has seen me act. She is a very nice girl. Some of the girls seam awful stupid they know thear lessons but they never been any place. They think I 'm wonderfull becaus Ive been so many places. They havent read much either their is a big girl that never heard of Mary Queen of Scots she says she ain't had Scotch histry yet what do you think of that ? " Letter number three was superbly sarcastic. " It seams," this letter read, " that its kind of a crime to laugh hear. Im being kept in my room this whole lovely long Saturday becaus I laughed last night. You see Fridays we have a funny thing that 's called the ele- gunt deportmunt class we ware our best dresses and have a kind of play although Mr. and Mrs. Tutwiler do not aprove of plays. The kind of play we had was that Mr. Tutwiler was the president of U. S. and Mrs. Tutwiler was Mrs. Grant and the teachers was cabinut ladys and we had to go in and act like we was at the white House it was awfull funny. Mr. Tutwiler didnt do right at all he called me madam so grand at least I guess he thought it was grand and I told him when I was at the real white House the president Grant called me chicken. Mrs. Tutwiler was so funny I nearly died laughing and just for that I got sent to my room to stay till Sunday. I don't see how I can ever stay in a school whear its a crime 58 SELECTED READINGS to laugh. When I go home 111 show you how they did and see if you dont think its awfull funny." Amelia sent this letter to Phineas, who laughed over it till he cried. He was to be in Philadelphia at the holiday time and he invited Amelia to bring Felicity and join him there. "Well, pardner," Phineas said to Felicity, "I guess we can make a comedienne out o' you, all right. You seem to have the stuff in you. But you 've a long, hard row to hoe if you 're going to develop it. "Now I'll tell you what I'll do: If you work hard at school until June and learn what you can — if you don't like their deportment, see if you can't learn to like the way they spell — I '11 take you to Europe in the summer. Come, now, what do you say ? Is it a bargain ? " It was, and they sealed it with a kiss. Clara E. Laughlin - . Abridged by Anna Morgan. A SOCIAL PROMOTER* COLONEL ABEL GINN mopped his brow and glared at nobody in particular and went on : " Here I am — a self-made man ; self-made and remod- elled as rapidly as was necessary to keep up with the times. I invent a ginger snap that never loses its freshness ; I 'm just as much a benefactor of humanity as if I wrote poetry or painted pictures or carved statues. I 'm an artist, all right enough, when you get to the truth of the matter. I didn't corner anything but my own common sense. I worked as hard as anybody ever did; hard enough to make up for the fact that I have n't time to waste looking up a string of an- cestors. I make my pile. I come here and buy a half -block right in the middle of the best district. I rip out the old buildings on that half-block and I put up a marble palace that would have made Julius Caesar howl with joy. And then my wife can't understand why we are n't taken into society. I can't, either." Leyburn smiled pleasantly. He had a way of always smil- ing at the right time. He always smiled with Ginn, never at him. " Now," said the Colonel, " what 's the best way to go about it?" * Published in Harper's Magazine, 1908. Copyright, Harper & Brothers. PROSE SELECTIONS 59 " I believe the custom is to get some letters of introduction and become acquainted gradually/' Leyburn replied. " Tried all that/' Colonel Ginn said. " Had plenty of let- ters. Presented them. Not much force. Leyburn, you've been in society — hang it ! you 're in it yet if you want to be. There ought to be a short cut." " Some folks have broken in through eccentricities — but you are not eccentric. And, really, Colonel, the game is n't worth the candle." " I 've got plenty of candles. Say ! " He leaned across the table and smiled. " I 've got it. I '11 advertise." "Advertise?" " Sure. How did I make a success of Ginn's Ginger Snaps ? Advertising. You remember that long before you were on my pay-roll there was something doing that made people real- ize they could n't keep house without my ginger snaps ? " " I remember. That was great advertising. But ginger snaps and getting into society are two different propositions, Colonel." " Advertising is the same thing, no matter what you adver- tise. I '11 show them a few kinks they never dreamed of." Colonel Ginn took a sheet of paper, gnawed his cigar, and presently handed Leyburn the following, scrawled in the vigorous chirography of the man who made ginger snaps for the wide world : " Col. Abel Ginn, president of Ginn's Ginger Snap Cor- poration, has built the finest, most beautiful residence in the city. It occupies the sites of four famous old Colonial man- sions on Bent Street. It cost him four millions to put up and another million to decorate. The paintings and furni- ture can't be duplicated, or even imitated. Col. Ginn is going to have a housewarming in the form of a dinner dance next Wednesday night. The Biltneys, the Cross-Fillinghams, the Schoolers, and all the leaders of society will be invited. Col. Ginn will welcome them with open arms." Leyburn read it over twice, then looked up. " Get that in every paper to-morrow," said the Colonel. " But the society columns will not print — " " Who 's talking about society columns ? I want that set in thirty-two-point type across three columns and half a page deep. Same space we use for the ginger snaps." " Had n't you better give this a little more thought, Colonel?" 60 SELECTED READINGS " If I think it over again I '11 do something worse." The advertisement created excitement. Some of the papers got out extras, and put the advertisement on the first page in spite of their rules. Eeporters came to interview the Colonel, but Leyburn warded them off. This was easy, because the Colonel did not come to his offices until late in the day. " Say, Leyburn," he began as soon as he came in, " you should have been at my house this morning. I got more crit- icism than the author of a play. Mrs. Ginn said I was making a laughing stock of us. I told her we were almost that normally, and it was up to us to choose what sort of laughing stock we would be." " Just so." " But the funniest part is Laura. Instead of being angry over it, she is half way between hurt and tickled. Takes after me. Don't care a rap for the society game either, but I be- lieve she agrees with me that now I 'm in for it I 'd best play the game out." " Another advertisement ? " asked Leyburn. "Not to-day. Never overplay advertising after you've made your impression. Wait for results." Colonel Ginn stopped at the door of his office and called back: "Get your invitation? I told Laura to send you one. Hope you can come. I 've got cigars and things in my room for you and me, if we want to get off by ourselves." It is as well to pass lightly over that housewarming. Col- onel Ginn said grimly, late in the evening, that this was the first time in his life advertising had not paid. He was about to say more to himself, when Leyburn was announced. " Hello, Leyburn ! Make yourself at home. You 've prac- tically got the whole house to yourself, if you don't count the servants and that gang of Hungarians sawing fiddles behind the palms. What do you think of this ? " " Beautiful. It 's the first time I 've seen it, you know." " I don't mean the house. I mean the party." " Well, you know, just now every one in society is terribly busy, and — " " And I 'm getting the busy signal." Colonel Ginn led the way to his wife and daughter. In- stead of the fat and florid dame and gawky girl Leyburn had feared to meet, he saw a tall, slender woman, with motherly blue eyes, and beside her a stately young woman of grace and PROSE SELECTIONS 61 self-possession, perfectly gowned, and winsomely good- looking. He found it easy to talk with Laura. A few guests came, and their chat was interrupted, but one bantering speech of Laura's lingered in Leyburn's memory next day. It was: "You will enjoy the dinner to-night; we won't serve ginger snaps." And next morning he gasped when he saw this spread across three half-columns of the paper he bought on the way downtown : " Colonel Abel Ginn entertained an exclusive number of guests at his palatial marble residence on Bent Street last night. The Schoolers, the Cross-Fillinghams, the Milvanes, and others of the leaders of society were absent. They missed it. Colonel Ginn, who is president of the Ginn Ginger Snap Corporation, is planning a few more fetes and functions that are calculated to rattle the dry bones of arbitrary restrictions. It may be well to watch for his next announcement." " I sent that copy to the papers late last night," the Col- onel explained to Leyburn. " Only two of them printed it. The others said it was too late to receive advertisements." Leyburn breathed more freely after a week had passed with no further advertisement experiments by the Colonel. Once during that time he had called at the Ginn palace and had spent an hour with Laura. He carefully avoided mention of the advertising, as there were other subjects to discuss. When he rose to go she laughed : " When are you and papa going to print another invitation in the papers ? " "I — reaUy — I don't know." "Mr. Leyburn, if papa wants to go in for that sort of thing, I wish — " " I would discourage him ? Certainly, I — " " No, indeed. Help him all you can. I 've known him longer than you have, and I know that when he sets his head or his heart on anything he '11 get it, if he must fight day and night. Papa is all right. I've always believed in him — and I 'm going to keep right on." Naturally, Leyburn vowed unfailing allegiance to the Colonel. That is why he expressed approval of the next advertise- ment, which read : "Colonel Abel Ginn, inventor and purveyor of Ginn's 62 SELECTED READINGS Ginger Snaps, who owns what is conceded to be the hand- somest home in the city, will once more throw open that palatial place to society. Next Wednesday night he will give a musicale. Nobbelik will play, and Nelbica and the three de Ruspkes will sing. In addition to these, Dumrich's entire orchestra will render a classic and popular programme. There will be a little supper. The menu comprises every meat, bird, fruit, fish, and vegetable that is out of season here. If anything has been overlooked that will gladden the eye, please the ear, or tempt the palate Colonel Ginn would like to know of it. Invitations have been sent to the Cross- Fillinghams, the Schoolers, the Biltneys, and all of the other three hundred and ninety-seven. Colonel Ginn does n't care a rap about getting into society. He is doing this be- cause a principle is involved. He does his part: the ques- tion is, Will society do its part? The affair will begin along about ten o'clock and will last until the guests are satisfied." " By ginger ! " the Colonel declared. " If I can make the Esquimau and the Hottentot believe he cannot live without my ginger snap, then I can make society believe life is a hollow mockery if it does n't know my house." This advertisement started the tidal wave of editorial and other comment. Colonel Ginn's picture was in demand in the newspaper offices. The text of the advertisement was cabled to Europe and it was alleged that it was commented upon by royalty and nobility. Nay, more. It was stated that kings and queens instructed their purveyors to send Ginn's ginger snaps to their palaces. When all the world shakes, society feels the quiver. Mrs. Cross-Fillingham cancelled her engagements for that evening and went in state to Ginn's, and society filed in her wake. It was a living society column that marched through the doors and clasped the hand of Colonel Abel Ginn. " We fetched 'em," Ginn whispered to Leyburn, in a cor- ner not far from the madding crowd. " Mrs. Cross-Filling- ham is here, hyphen and all, large as life and twice as natu- ral. The Biltneys, the Schoolers, the Perronbys — all of 'em are here." Leyburn looked dumbly over the crowd. Ginn was right. There was Mrs. Cross-Fillingham flicking a jewelled hand at him. Here and there others of his acquaintance nodded, or called jovially to him. He edged through. PROSE SELECTIONS 63 " Well, Laurence Leyburn ! " chirped Mrs. Cross-Filling- ham. " Where ever have you been hiding ? And is n't this the dearest, most delightful little affair you ever knew? Fancy finding you on earth again! And, oh, Miss Ginn, I am so happy your dear, deliciously absurd papa has given us all this chance to know you." So it was chirp and chatter and chatter and chirp for the next hour, one after the other praising everything and every- body, and Colonel Ginn tossing back repartee as though, to quote Pudgy Futter, the wit of society, " he were full of his own ginger snaps." After that night Leyburn was discontented and preoccu- pied. The Ginns had been caught into the whirl and he found Laura not at home an astonishingly high percentage of the times he called. In the end he tore a leaf from her father's book. "I am going to advertise for something," he told her. " I wish you success," she smiled. " I 'm going to advertise for a wife." " How silly ! But then you have been a successful adver- tiser, have n't you ? " " I don't know." " Just what do you mean ? " " It begins to look as though, if I want to see you long enough to propose to you, I '11 have to announce it through the papers, because I never find you to — " " How absurd ! I 'm right here now. So propose, Laurence." At the end of that year Colonel Abel Ginn said to his new son-in-law : " Laurence, the sales of Ginn's ginger snaps have about doubled this past year. Advertising, done right, pays." " It does," quickly agreed Leyburn. Wilbur D. Nesbit. A TALE OF OLD MADRID* DOLORES had prepared no speech with which to appeal to the King, and she had not counted upon her own feeling toward him when she found herself in the room where Mendoza had been questioned, and heard the door close behind * From " In the Palace of the King," by F. Marion Crawford. Copyrighted by The Macmillan Company. 64 SELECTED READINGS her by the chamberlain who had announced her coming. She stood still a moment, dazzled by the brilliant lights and the magnificent tapestries which covered the walls with glow- ing colors. Everywhere in the room there were rich objects that caught and reflected the light, things of gold and silver, of jade and lapis lazuli, in a sort of tasteless profusion that detracted from the beauty of each, and made Dolores feel that she had been suddenly transported out of her own ele- ment into another that was hard to breathe and in which it was bad to live. As she entered she saw the King in profile, seated in his great chair at some distance from the fire but looking at it steadily. He did not notice her presence at first. His secre- tary, Antonio Perez, sat at the table busily writing, and he only glanced at Dolores sideways when he heard the door close after her. She sank almost to the ground as she made the first court curtsey before advancing, and came forward into the light. She was very beautiful, as she stood waiting for him to speak and meeting his gaze fearlessly with a look of cold con- tempt in her white face, such as no living person had ever dared to turn to him, while the light of anger burned in her deep gray eyes. " Be seated, Dona Dolores. I am glad that you have come, for I have much to say to you." Dolores came forward un- willingly and sat down very erect, with her hands folded on her knees. " Dolores is pale, — bring a cordial, Perez, or a glass of old Oporto wine." " I thank Your Majesty. [Quickly.] I need nothing." " I will be your physician. I shall insist upon your taking the medicine I prescribe. Perez, you may go and take some rest. I will send for you when I need you." The secretary rose, bowed low, and left the room. The King waited till he saw it close before he spoke again. " I feel that we are united by a common calamity, my dear. I intend to take you under my most particular care and pro- tection from this very hour. I know why you come to me; you wish to intercede for your father." " I ask justice, not mercy, sire." " Your father shall have both, for they are compatible." " He needs no mercy, for he has done no harm. Your . Majesty knows that as well as I." PROSE SELECTIONS 65 "If I knew that, my dear, your father would not be tinder arrest. I cannot guess what you know or do not know — " " I know the truth/' "I wish I did. But tell me what you think you know about this matter. You may help me sift it, and then I shall be the better able to help you. What do you know ? " (Speaking in a whisper.) "I was close behind the door Your Majesty wished to open. I heard every word; I heard your sword drawn and I heard Don John fall — and then it was some time before I heard my father's voice, taking the blame upon himself, lest it should be said that the King had murdered his own brother in his room, unarmed. Is that the truth or not? When you were both gone, I came in and I found him dead with a wound in his left breast, and he was unarmed, murdered without a chance for his life. There is blood upon my dress where it touched his — the blood of the man I loved, shed by you. Ah, he was right to call you coward, and he died for me, because you said things of me that no loving man would bear. He was right to call you coward — it was well said — it was the last word he spoke, and I shall not forget it. He had borne everything you heaped upon himself, your insults, your scorn of his mother, but he would not let you cast a slur upon my name, and if you had not killed him out of sheer cowardice, he would have struck you in the face. Then my father took the blame, to save you from the monstrous accusation, and that all might believe him guilty he told the lie that saved you before them all. Do I know the truth? Is one word of that not true ? Confess that it is true ! Can you not even find cour- age for that? You are not the King now, you are your brother's murderer, and the murderer of the man I loved, whose wife I should have been to-morrow. Look at me, and confess that I have told the truth. I am a Spanish woman, and I would not see my country branded before the world with the shame of your royal murders, and if you will con- fess and save my father, I will keep your secret, for my country's sake. But, if not — then you must either kill me here as you slew him, or by the God that made you, and the mother that bore you, I will tell all Spain what you are, and the man who loved Don John of Austria shall rise and take your blood for his blood, though it be blood royal ; and you shall die, as you killed, like the coward you are! Will 5 66 SELECTED READINGS 3'ou not speak? Then find some weapon and kill me here before I go, for I shall not wait till you find many words." The King made no sound and Dolores moved toward the door. Her hand was almost on the door when the King raised himself by the arms of his chair and cried out to her in a frightened voice : " No, no ! Stay here — you must not go — what do you want me to say ? " " Say I have spoken the truth." "Yes, — it is true — I did it — for God's mercy do not betray me." " That is not all. That was for me, that I might hear the worst from your own lips. There is something more I want — my father's freedom and safety. I must have an order for his instant release. Let him come here at once as a free man." "That is impossible. He has confessed the deed before the whole court — he cannot possibly be set at liberty with- out a trial. You forget what you are asking." " I am not asking anything of Your Majesty ; I am dic- tating terms to my lovers murderer." " This is past bearing, girl ! You are out of your mind — I shall call servants to take you away to a place of safety. We shall see what you will do then. You shall not impose your insolence upon me any longer." " Call whom you will, you cannot save yourself. Don Ruy Gomez is on the other side of that door and there are chamberlains and guards there too. I shall have told them all the truth before your men can lay hands on me. If you will not write the order to release my father, I shall go out at once. In ten minutes there will be a revolution in the palace and to-morrow all Spain will be on fire to avenge your brother. Spain has not forgotten Don Carlos yet! There are those alive who saw you give Queen Isabel the draught that killed her — with your own hand. Are you mad enough to think that no one knows those things ; that your spies, who spy on others, do not spy on you; that you alone of all mankind can commit every crime with impunity ? Beware, Don Philip of Austria, King of Spain and half the world, lest a girl's voice be heard above yours, and a girl's hand loosen the foundation of your throne; lest all mankind rise up to-morrow and take your life for the lives you have destroyed ! Outside this door here, there are men PROSE SELECTIONS 67 who guess the truth already, who hate you as they hate Satan, and who loved your brother as every living being loved him — except you. One moment more — order my father to be set free or I will open and speak. One moment ! You will not ? It is too late — you are lost ! " Her hand went out to open, but Philip was already on his feet, and with quick, clumsy steps, he reached the writ- ing-table, seized the pen Perez had thrown down, and began to scrawl words rapidly in his great angular handwriting. He threw sand upon it to dry the ink, and then poured the grains back into the silver sand-box, glanced at the paper, and held it out to Dolores without a word. His other hand slipped along the table to a silver bell, used for calling his private attendants, but the girl saw the movement and in- stinctively suspected his treachery. " If you ring that bell I will open. I must have the paper here, where I am safe, and I must read it myself before I shall be satisfied." She took the document from his hand, keeping her eyes on his. For some seconds they faced each other in silence. At last she allowed her eyes to glance at the paper. It was an order stating that Don Diego Mendoza was to be set at liberty instantly and unconditionally. " I humbly thank Your Majesty, and take my leave," she said, throwing the door wide open and curtseying low. A chamberlain who had seen the door move on its hinges stepped in to shut it, for it opened inward. The King beck- oned him in and closed it, but before it was quite shut, he heard Dolores' voice. "Don Euy Gomez, this is an order to set my father at liberty unconditionally and at once. Tell him from me that he is safe. You have been very kind to me, Prince ; let me thank you with all my heart, now, for we may not meet hereafter. You will not see me at this court again." F. Marion Crawford. Adapted by Anna Morgan. THE GIFT OF THE MAGI* ONE dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved, one and two at a time, by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable * By permission of the McClure Co. Copyrighted, 1906, by McClure, Phillips & Co. 68 SELECTED READINGS man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Delia counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but to flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Delia did it. Which insti- gates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating. When the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8.00 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad. In the vestibule below was a letter box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining there- unto was a card bearing the name " Mr. James Dillingham Young." The " Dillingham " had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid thirty dollars per week. Now, when income had shrunk to twenty dollars, the letters of " Dillingham " looked blur- red, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming " D." But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called " Jim " and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dil- lingham Young, already introduced to you as Delia. Which is all very good. Delia finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray back yard. To- morrow would be Christmas day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dol- lars a week does n't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim ! Her Jim ! Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling — something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim. There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an eight-dollar flat. A very thin and agile person may, by observing his reflection in PROSE SELECTIONS 69 a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly ac- curate conception of his looks. Delia, being slender, had mastered the art. Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Eapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length. Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grand- father's. The other was Delia's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the air shaft, Delia would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solo- mon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy. So now Delia's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knees and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket; on. went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped the sign read : " Mme. Sof ronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Delia ran, and col- lected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the " Sofronie." " Will you buy my hair ? " asked Delia. " I buy hair," said Madame. " Take your hat off and let 's have a sight at the looks of it." Down rippled the brown cascade. " Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand. " Give it to me quick," said Delia. Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present. She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the 70 SELECTED READINGS stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by mere- tricious ornamentation — as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value — the description applied to both. Twenty-one dol- lars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain. When Delia reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tre- mendous task, dear friends — a mammoth task. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically. " If Jim does n't kill me," she said to herself, " before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do — oh ! What could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents ? " At seven o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops. Jim was never late. Delia doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: " Please God, make him think I am still pretty." The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two — and to be burdened with a family ! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves. Jim stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Delia, and there was an expression in them which she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor PROSE SELECTIONS 71 disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face. Delia wriggled off the table and went for him. " Jim, darling," she cried, " don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't live through Christmas without giving you a present. It '11 grow out again — you won't mind, will you ? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say c Merry Christmas ! ' Jim, and let 's be happy. You don't know what a nice — what a beautiful, nice gift I 've got for you." "You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor. " Cut it off and sold it," said Delia. " Don't you like me just as well, anyhow ? I 'm me without my hair, ain't I ? " Jim looked about the room curiously. " You say your hair is gone ? " he said, with an air almost of idiocy. "You needn't look for it," said Delia. "It's sold, I tell you — sold and gone, too. It 's Christmas eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim ? " Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He en- folded his Delia. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year — what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The Magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illumin- ated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table. "Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there 's anything in the way of a hair cut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you will unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first." White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy ; and then, alas ! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating 72 SELECTED READINGS the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat. For there lay The Combs — the set of combs, side and back, that Delia had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise-shell, with jewelled rims — just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and j^earned over them without the least hope of pos- session. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone. But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and smile and say : " My hair grows so fast, JIM!" And then Delia leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!" Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. " Is n't it a dandy, Jim ? I hunted all over town to find it. You will have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it." Instead of obeying Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled. " Dell," said he, " let 's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em awhile. They 're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs." 0. Henry. Abridged by Anna Morgan. THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL* FOR two years it had been notorious that Sam'l Dickie was thinking of courting T'nowhead's Bell, and that if Little Sanders Elshioner went in for her, he might prove a formidable rival. It was Saturday evening — the night in the week when Auld Licht young men fell in love — that Sam'l Dickie came to the door of a farmhouse. The farmer's wife, Lisbeth, came to the door. " Oh, Sam'l." * By permission of Lovell, Coryell & Co. PROSE SELECTIONS 73 Sam'l shook hands with Lisbeth, said "Ay, Bell," to his sweetheart, " Ay, T'nowhead," to the farmer, and " It 's yersel, Sanders," to his rival. " Sit in to the fire, Sam'l," said the farmer. " Na, na, I 'm to bide nae time." Sam'l felt a little anxious. Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than the other, but looked well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at home. Sam'l did not like it. It was impossible to say which of her lovers Bell preferred, but undoubtedly, according to custom, she would accept the first one who proposed. "Ye '11 bide a wee, an' hae something to eat?" Lisbeth asked Sam'l. " No, I thank ye." "Ye '11 better." " I dinna think it." " Hoots aye ; what J s to hender ye ? " a Weel, since ye 're sae pressin', I '11 bide." No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was but the servant, and T'nowhead knew that the kick his wife had given him meant that he was not to do so either. San- ders whistled to show that he was not uncomfortable. " Ay, then, I '11 be stappin' ower the brae." He did not go, however. At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The potatoes were burning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on his tongue. "Yes, I'll hae to be movin'," said Sanders, hopelessly, for the fifth time. "Guid-nicht to ye, then, Sanders," said Lisbeth. "Gie the door a fling-to, ahent ye." Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together. He looked boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. Sam'l saw with misgivings that there was something in it which was not a handkerchief. It was a paper bag glitter- ing with gold braid, and contained such an assortment of sweets as lads bought for their lasses. " Hae, Bell," said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an offhand way as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless he was a little excited, for he went off without saying good-night. " Sit in by to the table, Sam'l," said Lisbeth, trying to look as if things were as they had been before. Sam'l hurried out of the house. " What do ye think ? " asked Lisbeth. 74 SELECTED READINGS « I d'na kin/' faltered Bell. In ten minutes Sam'l was back. " Bell, hae ! " he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag twice the size of San- ders's gift. " I thank ye, Sam'l," said Bell, feeling an unwonted ela- tion as she gazed at the two paper bags in her lap. " I widna advise ye to eat thae ither anes, Bell — they 're second quality," said Sam'l. " How do ye kin ? " " I speired i' the shop." The courting of T'nowhead's Bell reached its crisis one Sabbath about a month after the events just related. It was a fateful Sabbath for T'nowhead's Bell, who had remained home from church. The first half of the service had been gone through with- out anything remarkable happening. It was at the end of the psalm which preceded the sermon that Sanders Elshioner, who sat near the door, lowered his head until it was no higher than the pews, and slipped out of the church. In their eagerness to hear the sermon, many of the congregation did not notice him, but Sam'l, from his seat in the gallery, saw Sanders disappear, and with the true lover's instinct, un- derstood it all. Bell was alone at the farm. Sanders, doubt- less, was off to propose, and he, Sam'l, was left behind. The suspense was terrible. Sam'l and Sanders had both known all along that Bell would take the first of the two who asked her. In ten minutes Sanders would be at T'now- head's ; in an hour all would be over. Sam'l rose to his feet in a daze. His mother pulled him down by the coat-tail, and his father shook him, thinking he was walking in his sleep. He tottered past them, however, hurried up the aisle and was gone. A number of the congregation realized that day the ad- vantage of sitting in the loft. What was a mystery to those downstairs was revealed to them. From the gallery windows they had a fine open view to the south; and as Sam'l took a short cut through a steep ascent, to T'nowhead's, he was never out of their line of vision. Sanders was not to be seen, but they guessed rightly the reason why. Thinking he had ample time, he had gone round by the main road. Sam'l's design was to forestall him by taking the shorter path. It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the gallery PROSE SELECTIONS 75 braved the minister's displeasure to see who won. Those who favored Sam'l's suit exultingly saw him leap the stream, while the friends of Sanders fixed their eyes on the top of the common where it ran into the road. The chances were in Sanders's favor. Had it been any other day in the week Sam'l might have run. So some of the congregation in the gallery were thinking, when suddenly they saw him take to his heels. The rivals had seen each other. It was now a hot race. More than one person in the gallery almost rose to their feet in their excitement. Sam'l had it. No, San- ders was in front. Then the two figures disappeared from view. "Lord preserve's! Are ye no at the kirk?" cried Bell, nearly dropping the baby as Sam'l broke into the room. " Bell ! " cried Sam'l, " will ye hae 's, Bell? " "Ay," answered Bell. " Bring 's a drink o' water, Bell." But Bell thought the occasion required milk, and there was none in the kitchen. She went out to the byre, and saw Sanders Elshioner sitting gloomily on the pigsty. " Weel, Bell," said Sanders. " I thocht ye 'd been at the kirk, Sanders," said Bell. "Has Sam'l speired ye, Bell?" " Ay." Sanders gave the pig a vicious poke as Bell went back to the kitchen. Sanders remained at the pigsty until Sam'l left the farm, when he joined him at the top of the brae. " It 's yersel, Sanders," said Sam'l. " It is so, Sam'l." " Very cauld." " Blawy." After a pause — " Sam'l." " Ay." " I 'm hearin' ye 're to be mairit." a Ay." " Weel, Sam'l, she 's a snod bit lassie." " Thank ye." " I had ance a kin' o' notion o' Bell mysel^ "Ye had?" "Yes, Sam'l; but I thocht better o't." "Hoo d'ye mean?" 76 SELECTED READINGS "Weel, Sam'l, mairitcli is a terrible responsibeelity. An' no the thing to tak up withoot conseederation." " But it 's a blessed and honorable state, Sanders ; ye 've heard the minister on ? t." " They say 'at the minister doesna get on sair wi' the wife himsel." " So they do." " I 've been telt," Sanders went on, " 'at gin ye can get the upper han' o' the wife for a while at first, there 's the mair chance o' a harmonious exeestence." " Bell 's no the lassie to thwart her man. D' ye think she is, Sanders?" "Weel, Sam'l, I'd'na want to fluster ye, but she's been ower lang wi' Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways. An a'body kins what a life T'nowhead has wi' her." " Guid-sake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o' this afore ? " " I thocht ye kent o' t, Sam'l." • " But, Sanders, ye was on yer wy to speir her yersel." " I was, Sam'l, and I canna but be thankfu' ye was ower quick, for 's." " Gin 't hadna been you, I wid never hae thocht o' t." " I 'm sayin' naetlnng agin Bell ; but man, Sam'l, a body should be mair deleeberate in a thing o' the kind." " It was michty hurried." " It 's a serious thing to speir a lassie." « It 's an awfu' thing." u But we '11 hope for the best." "Sam'l!" "Ay, Sanders." " Did ye — did ye kiss her, Sam'l ? " a Na." "Hoo?" " There was varra little time, Sanders." " Half an 'oor." " Was there ? Man, Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never thocht o' t." Meeting Sanders some weeks later Sam'l said to him, " If I had only kent her langer ! " " It wid hae been safer." " Ye hae kent her langer than me," said Sam'l. " Yes, but there 's nae gettin' at the heart o' women. Man, Sam'l, they 're desperate cunnin'." " I 'm dootin' t ; I 'm sair dootin' t." PROSE SELECTIONS 77 " It '11 be a warnin' to ye, Sam'l, no to be in sic a hurry i' the futur." " But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin oot o' the kirk that awfu' day was at the bottom o 'd a'." " It was so/' " An' ye used to be fond o' Bell, Sanders." « I dinna deny 't." " Sanders, laddie, I aye thocht it was you she likit." " I had some sic idea mysel." " Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel suited to ane anither as you an' Bell." "Canna ye, Sam'l?" " She wid mak ye a guid wife, Sanders. I hae studied her weel, and she's a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, there 's no the like o' her. Mony a time, Sanders, I hae said to mysel, ' There 's a lass ony man micht be prood to tak.' A'body says the same, Sanders. There 's nae risk ava, man : nane to speak o'. Tak her, laddie, tak her, Sanders ; it 's -a grand chance, Sanders. She's yours for the speirin'. I'll gie her up, Sanders." "Will ye, though?" "What d'ye think?" " If ye wid rayther." " There 's my han' on 't. Bless ye, Sanders ; ye 've been a true frien' to me." So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took to wife T'nowhead's Bell, and Sam'l Dickie danced at the wedding. J. M. Baerie. Adapted by Anna Morgan. THE GATE OF THE HUNDRED SORROWS* THIS is no work of mine. My friend, Gabral Misquitta, the half-caste, spoke it all, between moonset and morn- ing, six weeks before he died; and I took it down from his mouth as he answered my questions. So : It lies between the Coppersmith's Gully and the pipe-stem sellers' quarter, within a hundred yards of the Mosque of Wazir Khan. I don't mind telling any one this much, but I defy him to find the gate, however well he may think he knows the city. You might even go through the very gully it stands * By permission of H. M. Caldwell Co. 78 SELECTED READINGS in a hundred times and be none the wiser. We used to call the gully the Gully of the Black Smoke. A loaded donkey could n't pass between the walls, and at one point just before you reach the gate a bulged house front makes people go along all sideways. It isn't really a gate though, it's a house. Old Fung-Tching had it first five years ago. He was a bootmaker in Calcutta. They say that he mur- dered his wife there when he was drunk. That was why he dropped Bazaar Eum and took to the Black Smoke instead. Later on he came up north and opened a gate as a house where you could get your smoke in peace and quiet. Mind you, it was a respectable opium house and not one of those stifling, sweltering chandoo-khanas that you find all over the city. No, the old man knew his business thoroughly, and he was most clean for a Chinaman. Fung-Tching never told us why he called the place The Gate of the Hundred Sorrows. We used to find that out for ourselves. Nothing grows on you so much if you are white as the black smoke. A yellow man is made different. Opium does n't tell on him scarcely at all, but white and black suffer a good deal. Of course there are some people that the smoke doesn't touch any more than tobacco would at first. They just doze a bit, as one would fall asleep naturally, and next morning they are almost fit for work. Now, I was one of that sort when I began, but I 've been at it for five years pretty steadily, and it's different now. There was an old aunt of mine down Agra way, and she left me a little at her death, about sixty rupees a month secured. Sixty is n't much. I can recollect the time, it seems hundreds and hun- dreds of years ago, that I was getting my three hundred a month and pickings, when I was working on a big timber contract in Calcutta. There was ten of us met at the Gate when the place was first opened. Now there is only me, the Chinaman, and the half-caste woman that we call the Memsahib. The Memsahib looks very old now. I think she was a young woman when the Gate was opened, but we are all old for the matter of that, hundreds and hundreds of years old. It is very hard to keep count of time in the Gate, and besides, time doesn't matter to me. Now I am quite happy, not drunk happy, you know, but always quiet and soothed and contented. How did I take to it ? It began at Calcutta. I used to try it in my own house, just to see what it was like. Finally, I PROSE SELECTIONS 79 found myself here and got to know Fung-Tching. He told me of the Gate, and I used to go there, and somehow I have never got away from it since. Mind you, though, the Gate was a respectable place in Fung-Telling's time. We always had a mat apiece with a wadded woollen head-piece all cov- ered with black and red dragons and things, just like the coffin in the corner. At the end of one's third pipe the dragons used to move about and fight. I 've watched them many and many a night through. I used to regulate my smoke that way; and now it takes a dozen pipes to make them stir. Besides they 're all torn and dirty like the mats, and old Fung-Tching is dead. He died a couple of years ago and gave me the pipe I always use now, a silver one, and I 've got to clean it out now, and that 's a great deal of trouble ; but I smoke it for the old man's sake. He must have made a good thing out of me, but he always gave me clean mats and a pillow and the best stuff you could get anywhere. When he died his nephew Tsin-Ling took up the Gate, and he called it The Temple of the Three Possessions ; but we old ones speak of it as The Hundred Sorrows, all the same. The nephew does things very shabbily. I found burned bran in my pipe over and over again. The old man would have died if that had happened in his time. I don't know why I don't leave the place and smoke quietly in a little room of my own in the Bazaar. Most like Tsin- Ling would kill me if I went away. He draws my sixty rupees now, and besides, it 's so much trouble, and I 've grown to be very fond of the Gate. It 's not what it was in the old man's time, but I could n't leave it. One of these days I hope I shall die in the Gate. The Persian and the Madras man are terribly shaky now. They've got a boy to light their pipes for them. I always do that myself. Most like I shall see them carried out before me. I don't think I shall ever outlive the Memsahib or Tsin-Ling. Women last longer than men at the black smoke, and Tsin-Ling has a deal of the old man's blood in him. The Bazaar woman knew when she was going, two days before her time, and she died on a clean mat with a nicely wadded pillow; and the old man hung up her pipe just above the joss. He was always fond of her, I fancy, but he took her bangles just the same. I should like to die like the Bazaar woman on a clean, cool mat with a pipe of good stuff between my lips. When I feel 80 SELECTED READINGS I 'm going I shall ask Tsin-Ling for them, and he can draw my sixty rupees a month fresh and fresh as long as he pleases. Then I shall lie back quiet and comfortable and watch the black and red dragons have their last big fight together, and then. . . . Well, it does n't matter ; nothing matters much to me — only I wish Tsin-Ling wouldn't put bran into the black smoke. Eudyaed Kipling. Abridged by Anna Morgan. HOW MUCH LAND DOES A MAN REQUIRE? AN" elder sister from town visited a younger sister in the . country. The elder was married to a merchant, the younger to a simple peasant. The elder fell to boasting of her town life; how she lived and moved about in ease and comfort ; how nicely she dressed her children ; what delicious things she had to eat and drink, and how pleasant it was to be always driving about or going to the theatre. The younger sister was vexed. She began to run down town life and exalt country life. " I would not change my condition for yours," said she. " I grant you that our life is dull, but it is without care. You live more finely, no doubt; but if trade brings you in much, it may also ruin you in an instant. The prov- erb says, ' Gain has a big brother called Loss.' To-day you are pretty rich, to-morrow you may be begging your bread beneath my windows. Our rustic life is surer: we are not rich, perhaps, but we always have enough." " Enough, indeed," retorted the elder ; " yes, and you share it with oxen and swine. You 've neither elegance nor com- fort. Let your husband work as he may, you '11 live and die muckworms, and your children after you." " Yes, so 't is," returned the younger ; " and we know what we have to expect. But set against it that our life is as solid as the rock beneath our feet. We truckle to none. We fear nobody. But all you townsfolk are beset with stumbling- blocks. To-day 't is well, but to-morrow the unclean spirit pokes his head in and tempts your husband with cards, or wine, or theft, and — your wealth is all dust and ashes. You can't deny it." Pakhom, the younger sister's husband, was listening to the women's prattle. " Quite true," said he to himself, PROSE SELECTIONS 81 " perfectly true. As our brother (i. e., himself) has been turn- ing over his mother earth from childhood, nonsense has had no time to get into his head. The mischief of it is there 's so little land to be had. Let me only have land enough and I '11 fear nobody ; no, not even the Devil himself." And the Devil, who had all the time been sitting behind the stove, heard everything. He hugged himself with joy that the peasant's wife should have set her husband off brag- ging — bragging that if he only had land enough, the Devil himself should not hurt him. " Softly, softly," thought he. " We '11 be even with you yet. I '11 give you land enough, and both you and your land shall be mine." One day Pakhom was sitting at home, when a strange peasant, who was passing by, looked in. " Pray say, friend, whither is God leading you ? " The peasant replied that he came from the south, from the lower Volga, and that plenty of work was to be had there. One peasant went there quite poor, with nothing but his two hands, in fact, and got an allotment of fifty acres. Last year he made a thousand roubles (a hundred pounds) from a single wheat crop. Pakhom's heart burned within him. Why should he grow poorer the harder he worked, when he might live so well elsewhere ? " I '11 sell my farm and land, and settle down there with the money, and farm on a big scale." So when the summer time came he arose and went. He sailed down the Volga by the steamer as far as Samara. Everything was exactly as he had been told. The peasants lived sumptuously there. He investigated everything, re- turned home in the Autumn, and sold all he had. They received Pakhom into the community, allotted him land for five souls, with right of pasturage on the communal lands. Pakhom built him a house and bought much cattle. His own lot of land was double as much as before, and fat land it was. Thus he lived for five years. He hired more * land and sowed more and more wheat. The years rolled by prosperously ; the wheat crops were good ; he began to amass money. Life would indeed have been worth living but from the annoyance which Pakhom felt in hiring land from people every year and losing time by going in search of it. One day a merchant on his way home stopped at Pakhom's farm to 6 82 SELECTED READINGS fodder his horses. The merchant said that he had come all the way from the land of the Bashkirs. There, he said, he had bought five thousand acres of land from the Bashkirs, and the whole lot only came to one thousand roubles. Pak- hom began asking questions. The merchant told him all about it. " You have only to cajole their chiefs," said he, " give them a hundred roubles' worth of dressing-gowns and carpets, and a chest of tea, and drink a little wine with those who like it, and get land at twenty kopecks (twelve cents) an acre." " The land there," continued the merchant, " is so vast that if you took a whole year to go over it you would not do it, and it all belongs to the Bashkirs. They are a simple people, just like sheep. Possibly you may even get some of the land for nothing." "Well," thought Pakhom, "why should I buy fifty acres of land with my thousand roubles, and saddle myself with debt besides, when there with the same money I could do what Hiked?" As soon as the merchant had gone, Pakhom got ready for his journey. He left his wife at home but took a laborer with him, and set out. First they went to town; bought some chests of tea, gifts, wine, everything that the merchant had said. On the seventh day they came to the land of the nomadic Bashkirs. Everything there was exactly as the merchant had said. The instant they saw Pakhom they came out of their kibitki and surrounded the stranger. An interpreter chanced to be there. Pakhom told him he had come for land. " They bid me tell you," said the interpreter, " that they ? ve taken a fancy to you, and ? t is their custom to grant the de- sires of their guests, and give back gifts for gifts. You have given us gifts, speak now ! what thing of ours does your heart desire, that we may give it to you ? " "What I like best of all," said Pakhom, "is your land. I have never seen the like of it before." The interpreter interpreted. The Bashkirs talked away among themselves. Pakhom did not understand what they were saying, but he could see that they were vastly amused at something, for they laughed heartily. "They bid me tell you," said the interpreter, "that for your goodness to them they will be glad to give you as much land as you desire." I PROSE SELECTIONS 83 w And the price ? " said Pakhom. " We have only one price here, one thousand roubles a day. We sell by the day — that is to say, so much land as you are able to compass in a day, so much is your measure; the price per day is one thousand roubles. But there's one condition. If you don't come back within the day to the point whence you started, you forfeit your money and get nothing." " But how," asked Pakhom again ; "do you mean to say you '11 measure me all I go over ? " " You are free to make your own circuit, but you must come back to the place from whence you started before the setting of the sun. Whatsoever you compass within that time the same shall be yours." Pakhom consented and they agreed to set out early the next morning. Then they made a bed for Pakhom of soft cush- ions, and the Bashkirs left him. Pakhom lay on his cushions but he could not sleep. He kept thinking of the land. " Here," said he, " I am indeed in luck's way. I am about to drop into a huge domain, for in a day I can make a circuit of fifty miles easily. Now, in fifty miles there are at least ten thousand acres. I shall be inde- pendent of all the world." Pakhom did not sleep a wink the whole night. It was only just before dawn that he dozed off. When he woke his first thought was, "I must wake up the people, the time has come." When Pakhom with his laborer reached the steppe the red dawn was already visible. They came to a little mound, dis- mounted, and the Bashkirs went up to the top of it and stood there in a group. The chief came to Pakhom, and pointed with his hand. "Behold," said he, "as far as your eye can reach, all is ours. Choose what you will ! " The chief doffed his fox-skin hat, and set it on top of the mound. " That," said he, " will be the goal, put your money in it. Your laborer will stand here. This is your starting point — hither also will you return. Whatsoever you compass shall be yours." Pakhom took out his money, placed it in the cap, doffed his long cloak, girded up his loins, tightened his belt, thrust a bit of bread into his bosom, fastened a gourd full of water to his waist, drew up the straps of his boots, and prepared to depart. 84 SELECTED READINGS He racked his brains as to what direction he should take first — everywhere the land was good. " 'T is all one/' thought he, " I '11 go toward the setting of the sun." Pakhom set out at a leisurely, even pace. He went a mile and then bade them plant a pole. He went on farther. His limbs began to lose their first stiffness. He quickened his pace. Pakhom glanced back at the sun. The top of the mound was well in sight, with the group standing on it. Pakhom calculated that he had gone five miles. And now he began to sweat. He cast off his doublet and girded himself still tighter. He went on farther and covered another five miles. It began to be hot. Again he looked back at the sun. It was already breakfast-time. " I have now done one wagon-stage," thought he, " four wagon-stages make a good day's journey. It is still too early to turn back, but I may at least loosen my boots." He sat down, made his boots easier and went on farther. It was now much easier going. He thought, " I '11 go another five miles, and then I '11 turn to the left. This spot is good." But the farther he went the better the land got. He con- tinued to go straight on. He looked round at last. The mound was scarcely visible, and the people upon it looked like black ants. " Well," thought Pakhom, " I have taken enough in this direction. I must turn off now." He had grown very hot and felt a strong desire to drink. So he raised his gourd to his mouth and drank without stopping; and turned off sharply to the left. He went on and on. The heat became oppressive. Pakhom stood still. He looked at the sun. It was dinner- time. " Well," thought Pakhom, " I must rest, I suppose." So he stopped and ate some bread but would not sit down. " For," thought he, " if you begin to sit down you will want to lie down, and if you lie down you will go to sleep." So he stood still for a little while to get his breath, and then on he went again. At first it was easy going. His food had forti- fied him. But soon it grew very hot again, and the sun beat full upon him. Pakhom began to grow mortally weary. " Come, come ! " thought he, " endure for an hour and live like a king ever afterwards ! " So he went on and traversed in this direction likewise. He was about to turn to the left again, when his eye fell upon a very good little spot, a fresh, well watered ravine. He had PROSE SELECTIONS 85 not the heart to leave it out, so he went straight on again, encompassed the ravine and turned the second corner. Pak- hom looked toward the mound. The people on it were just visible. It was exactly fifteen miles off. "Well," thought he, " I have made the first two sides of my domain very long, this one must be much shorter/' He now traversed the third side, taking longer strides than before. He looked again at the sun. It had already begun to decline. On the third side he had only gone two miles in all, and still he was quite fif- teen miles from the goal. " Well," thought he, " although my property will be somewhat lopsided, I must nevertheless keep straight on now. Any more would be more than I could manage. "I have got enough land at last." So Pakhom turned his steps straight toward the mound and very heavy going he found it. On he went, stumbling again and again. His legs ached and swelled, and seemed on the point of giving way beneath him altogether. He would have liked to rest, but that was now out of the question. He would never have reached the goal before sunset. The sun did not wait for him. It was not sinking, it was falling — falling as if some one was jerking it down. " Alas ! " thought Pakhom. (i Have I made a mistake ? Have I chosen too much ? Sup- pose I don't arrive in time ? Alas ! how far off it is ! I am wearied to death ! What if all my labor and trouble go for nothing ! " Pakhom pulled himself together and broke into a trot. His legs began to bleed but he ran for all that. He threw away his vest, his shoes, his water-gourd ; he threw away his hat. " Alas," thought Pakhom, " I have coveted too much, and I shall lose everything if I do not reach the goal in time," and a terrible fear seized upon his soul. Pakhom ran and ran. His shirt and his trousers, drenched with sweat, clave to his body; his mouth was parched and dry, his breast seemed to be a blacksmith's bellows; his heart beat like a hammer; his feet bent beneath him and no longer seemed his own. Pakhom thought no more of his land, what he thought was this : " Suppose I were to die of fatigue ! " He feared to die, but he could not find it in his heart to stop. " After running such a distance, to stop now ! " he thought. " No ; they would call me a fool ! What was that ? " He listened. The Bashkirs were shouting and bellowing to him to come on, and their shouts kindled his courage once more." Pakhom 86 SELECTED READINGS ran with all the strength he still had left in him, — and just then the sun dipped on the horizon. But he was now quite close to the goal. Pakhom saw the people on the mound waving their hands to him and it goaded him on. And now he saw the fox-skin cap on the ground, and the money in it, and he saw the chief sitting on the ground and holding his sides. " The land is plenteous," thought he, " most plenteous, but will God let me live upon it ? Alas ! I have lost my very self," thought he. And still he kept running on. He looked back upon the sun. It was large and red and quite close to the ground; it was on the point of disappearing. Pakhom reached the foot of the mound and the sun went down. Pak- hom groaned. He already thought that he had lost every- thing ; but then it suddenly occurred to him that 't was only he, below there, who could not see the sun, from the top of the mound it must still be visible. Pakhom dashed toward the mound. He scaled it at a gallop and saw the fox-skin cap — yes ! there it lay ! Then he stumbled and fell, and as he fell he stretched out his hands toward the cap. " Well done, my son ! " roared the chief of the Bashkirs, " you have indeed won much land ! " Pakhom's laborer ran toward him, and would have lifted him up but he saw that blood was flowing from his mouth; there he lay — dead ! The laborer groaned, but the chief sat squatting on the ground, holding his sides and roaring with laughter. And now the Bashkir chief arose, took the money from the ground, and shouted to the laborer, " Come ! Dig ! " He dug Pakhom a grave and there he buried him. The grave was two Kussian ells in length, Pakhom's exact meas- urement from head to foot. Leo Tolstoi. Adapted by Anna Morgan. HER FIRST APPEARANCE MR. CARUTHERS was standing by the mantel over the empty fireplace, wrapped in a long, loose dressing- gown, which he was tying around him as Van Bibber entered. " Excuse my costume, will you ? " he said. " I turned in rather early to-night, it was so hot." " I was at the first night of ' The Sultana ' this evening." " Oh, yes, Lester's new piece. Was it any good ? " PROSE SELECTIONS 87 " I don't know — yes, I think it was. I did n't see it from the front. There were a lot of children in it — little ones ; they danced and sang, and made a great hit. One of them had never been on the stage before. It was her first appear- ance. It seems to me that it is a great pity — I say it seems a pity that a child like that should be allowed to go on in that business. A grown woman can go into it with her eyes open, or a girl who has had a decent training can, too. But it ? s different with a child. She has no choice in the matter ; they don't ask her permission, and she is n't old enough to know what it means ; and she gets used to it and fond of it before she grows to know what the danger is. And then it's too late. It seemed to me that if there was any one who had the right to stop it, it would be a very good thing to let that person know about her — about this child I mean ; the one who made the hit — before it was too late. It seems to me a responsibility I would n't care to take myself. I would n't care to think that I had had the chance to stop it, and had let the chance go by. You know what the life is — we all know — every man knows." " What is all this about ? Did you come here, simply to tell me this ? Why did you come ? " " Because of the child." "What child?" " Your child." " Mr. Van Bibber, you are a very brave young man. You have dared to say to me what those who are my best friends — what even my own family would not care to say. You come here unasked, and uninvited, to let me know what you think of my conduct; to let me understand that it does not agree with your own ideas of what I ought to do, and to tell me how I, who am old enough to be your father, should be- have. I suppose I ought to thank you for it; but I have always said that it is not the wicked people who are to be feared in this world, or who do the most harm. It is the well-meaning fool who makes all the trouble. I think, if you will allow me to say so, that you have demonstrated my theory pretty thoroughly, and have done about as much needless harm for one evening as you can possibly wish. And so, if you will excuse me, I will ask to say good-night, and will request of you that you grow older and wiser and much more considerate before you come to see me again." " It is very easy to call a man a fool, but it is much harder 88 SELECTED READINGS to be called a fool and not to throw the other man out of the window. But that, you see, would not do any good, and I have something to say first. I am quite well aware that I did an unconventional thing in coming here — a bold thing, or a foolish thing, as you choose — but the situation is pretty bad and I did as I would have wished to be done by if I had had a child going to the devil and did n't know it. I should have been glad to learn of it even from a stranger. How- ever, there are other kindly disposed people in the world be- sides fathers. There is an aunt perhaps, or an uncle or two ; and sometimes, even to-day, there is the chance Samaritan. Good-night." "Wait just one minute, please, Mr. Van Bibber. Before you go, I want to say — I want you to understand my posi- tion. When I married I did so against the wishes of my people and the advice of all my friends. You know all about that. God help us! who doesn't? It was very rich, rare reading for you, and for every one else who saw the daily papers, and we gave them all they wanted of it. I took her out of that life and married her because I believed she was as good a woman as any of those who had never had to work for their living, and I was bound that my friends and your friends should recognize her and respect her as my wife had a right to be respected; and I took her abroad that I might give all you sensitive, fine people a chance to get used to the idea of being polite to a woman who had once been a bur- lesque actress. It began over there in Paris. She had every chance when she married me that a woman ever had — all that a man's whole thought and love and money could bring her. And you know what she did. And after the divorce — and she was free to go where she pleased, and to live as she pleased, and with whom she pleased, — I swore to my God that I would never see her nor her child again. I loved the mother, and she deceived me and disgraced me and broke my heart, and I only wish she had killed me. Was I to love and worship and care for this child and have her grow up with all her mother's vanity, and have her turn on me some day and show me that what is bred in the bone must tell, and that I was a fool again — a pitiful fond fool ? I could not trust her; I can never trust any woman or child again, and least of all that woman's child. She is as dead to me as though she were buried with her mother, and it is nothing to me what she is or what her life is. I know in time what it will PROSE SELECTIONS 89 be. She has begun earlier than I had supposed, that is all; but she is nothing to me. Oh, I care too much. I cannot let her mean anything to me ; when I do care, it means so much more to me than to other men. They may pretend to laugh and to forget and to outgrow it, but it is not so with me. Why, man, I loved that child's mother to the day of her death. I loved that woman then, and God help me ! I love that woman still." " Mr. Caruthers, I came here, as you say, on impulse ; but I am glad I came, for I have your decisive answer about the child. I have been thinking, since you have been speaking, and before, when I saw her dancing in front of the footlights, when I did not know who she was, that I could give up a horse or two, if necessary, and support this child instead. Children are worth more than horses. As you say, it's a good deal of an experiment, but I think I'll run the risk." He walked quickly to the door and disappeared in the hall, and then came back, kicking the door open as he returned, and holding the child in his arms. " This is she ; this is your child. She will need to be fed a bit. She is thin and peaked and tired-looking." He drew up the loose sleeve of her jacket, and showed the bare forearm to the light. " It is very thin, and under her eyes you can see how deep the lines are. This red spot on her cheek is where the chorus girls kissed her, but they will never kiss her again. She is going to grow up a sweet, fine, beautiful woman. It seems a pity she will grow up without knowing who her father is, or was, if he should die." The child in his arms stirred, shivered slightly, and awoke. She raised her head and stared around the unfamiliar room doubtfully, then turned to where her father stood, looking at him a moment, and passed him by; and then looking up into Van Bibber's face, recognized him, and gave a gentle, sleepy smile, and with a sigh of content and confidence, drew her arm up closer around his neck, and let her head fall back upon his breast. The father sprang to his feet with a quick, jealous gasp of pain. " Give her to me ! She is mine ; give her to me ! " Van Bibber closed the door gently behind him, and went jumping down the winding stairs of the Berkley, three steps at a time. And an hour later, when the English servant came to his 90 SELECTED READINGS master's door, he found him still awake and sitting in the dark by the open window, holding something in his arms and looking out over the sleeping city. "James, you can make up a place for me here on the lounge. Miss Caruthers, my daughter, will sleep in my room to-night." Richard Harding Davis. Abridged by Anna Morgan. A PASSION IN THE DESERT DURING an expedition in Upper Egypt a Provencal soldier was made a prisoner by the Arabs and taken into the desert beyond the falls of the Mle. In order to place a sufficient distance between themselves and the French army, the Arabs made forced marches, and rested only dur- ing the night. They camped round a well overshadowed by palm trees. Not dreaming that the notion of flight would occur to their prisoner, they contented themselves with binding his hands and went to sleep. When the brave Provencal saw that his enemies were no longer watching him, he made use of his teeth to seize a scimitar, fixed the blade between his knees, and cut the cords which prevented him from using his hands. In a moment he was free. He at once seized a rifle and a dagger, leapt on to a horse, and spurred on vigorously in the direc- tion where he thought to find the French army. So impa- tient was he that he pressed on the already tired courser at such speed that its flanks were lacerated with his spurs, and at last the poor animal died, leaving the Frenchman alone in the desert. After walking some time in the sand the sol- dier was obliged to stop, as the day had already ended. In spite of the beauty of an Oriental sky at night, he felt he had not strength enough to go on. Fortunately he had been able to find a small hill, on the summit of which a few palm trees shot up into the air ; his fatigue was so great that he lay down in a natural grotto and fell asleep. In the middle of the night his sleep was troubled by an extraordinary noise ; he sat up, and the deep silence around him allowed him to dis- tinguish the alternating accents of a respiration whose savage energy could not belong to a human creature. He almost felt his hair stand on end, when by straining his eyes to their utmost he perceived a huge animal lying but PROSE SELECTIONS 91 two steps from him. Presently the reflection of the moon lit up the den, rendering gradually visible and resplendent the spotted skin of a panther curled up like a big dog. Her eyes opened for a moment and closed again; her face was turned toward the man. A thousand confused thoughts passed through the Frenchman's mind; first he thought of killing it with a bullet from his gun, but he saw there was not enough distance between them for him to take proper aim — the shot would miss the mark. And if the beast were to wake ! — the thought made his limbs rigid. He listened to his own heart beating in the midst of the silence. Twice he placed his hand on his scimitar intending to cut off the head of his enemy ; to miss would be to die for cer- tain, he thought ; he preferred the chances of fair fight, and made up his mind to wait till morning. A bold thought brought daylight to his soul and cheeked the cold sweat which sprang forth on his brow. He resolved to play his part with honor to the last. When the sun appeared, the panther suddenly opened her eyes ; then she put out her paws with energy, as if to stretch them and get rid of cramp ; then turned her head toward the man and looked at him fixedly without moving. He looked at her caressingly, staring into her eyes in order to magnetize her, and let her come quite close to him ; then with a gentle movement he passed his hand over her body. The animal waved her tail voluptuously, and her eyes grew gentle; and when for the third time the Frenchman accom- plished this interesting flattery she gave forth one of those purrings by which our cats express their pleasure. When he felt sure of having extinguished the ferocity of his capricious companion by redoubling his caresses he got up to go out of the cave. As the panther's hunger had fortunately been sat- isfied the day before, she let him go out, and when he had reached the summit of the hill she sprang after him and rubbed herself against his legs, putting up her back after the manner of all the race of cats. Then regarding her guest with eyes whose glare had softened a little, she gave vent to a wild cry. The Frenchman began to play with her ears ; he scratched her head as hard as he could. When he saw he was successful he tickled her skull with the point of his dagger, watching for the moment to kill her. The Sultana of the desert showed herself gracious to her 92 SELECTED READINGS slave ; she lifted her head, stretched out her neck, and mani- fested her delight by the tranquillity of her attitude. It sud- denly occurred to the soldier that to kill this savage princess with one blow he must poniard her in the throat. He raised the blade, when the panther laid herself gracefully at his feet, and cast up at him glances in which, in spite of their natural fierceness, was mingled confusedly a kind of good- will. The poor Provengal leaned against one of the palm- trees, casting his eye upon the desert in quest of some libera- tor. He tried if he might walk up and down. And the panther left him free, contenting herself with following him with her eyes, observing everything and every movement of her master. The soldier conceived the wild hope of continu- ing on good terms with the panther, neglecting no means of taming her and remaining in her good graces. When he returned to her, he had the unspeakable joy of seeing her wag her tail with an almost imperceptible movement at his approach. He sat down without fear by her side and they began to play together ; he took her paws and muzzle, pulled her ears, rolled her over on her back, stroked her warm delicate flanks. The man, however, kept his dagger in one hand thinking to plunge it into the too-confiding panther, but he was afraid that he would be immediately strangled in her last convulsive struggle; besides, he felt in his heart sort of remorse which bid him respect a creature that had done him no harm. He seemed to have found a friend, in a boundless desert; half unconsciously he thought of his first sweetheart, whom he had nicknamed " Mignonne." This memory of his early days suggested to him the idea of making the young panther an- swer to this name. Toward the end of the day he had famil- iarized himself with his perilous position, and almost liked the painfulness of it. . . . The soldier waited with impa- tience for the hour when Mignonne should fall asleep, which she did at the setting of the sun ; then he prepared for flight in the direction of the Nile. Hardly had he made a quarter of a league in the sand when he heard the panther bounding after him, crying with that saw-like cry more dreadful even than the sound of her leaping. " Ah," he said, " she 's taken a fancy to me ; she has never met any one before, and it is really quite flattering to have her first love." That instant the man fell into one of those PROSE SELECTIONS 93 treacherous quicksands so terrible to travellers, and from which it is impossible to save oneself. Feeling himself caught, he gave a shriek of alarm, the panther seized him with her teeth by the collar, and, springing vigorously backwards, drew him as if by magic out of the whirling sand. " Ah, Mignonne, we are bound together for life and death." From that time the desert seemed inhabited. It contained a being to whom the man could talk, and whose ferocity was rendered gentle by him, though he could not explain to him- self the reason for their strange friendship. One day in a bright midday sun, an enormous bird coursed through the air. The man left his panther to look at this new guest; but after waiting a moment the deserted Sul- tana growled deeply. " I do believe she 's jealous," cried the soldier, seeing her eyes become hard again. The man and the panther looked at one another with a look full of mean- ing; the coquette quivered when she felt her friend stroke her head; her eyes flashed like lightning — then she shut them tightly. " She has a soul," he said, looking at the stillness of this queen of the sands, golden like them, white like them, soli- tary and burning like them. But this passion of the desert ended as all great passions do end — by a misunderstanding. From some reason one sus- pects the other of treason ; they don't come to an explanation through pride, and quarrel and part from sheer obstinacy. " I don't know if I hurt her," said the soldier, " but she turned round, as if enraged, and with her sharp teeth caught hold of my leg — gently, I daresay; but I, thinking she would devour me, plunged my dagger into her throat. She rolled over, giving a cry that froze my heart ; and I saw her dying, still looking at me without anger. I would have given all the world to bring her to life again. It was as though I had murdered a real person. The soldiers who finally came to my assistance found me in tears. " Since then I have been in war in Germany, in Spain, in Eussia, in France; but never have I seen anything like the desert. It is very beautiful and what you feel there cannot be described. In the desert, you see, there is everything, and nothing. It is God without mankind." Honore de Balzac. Abridged by Anna Morgan. 94 SELECTED READINGS FREDERICK OF THE ALBERIGHI AND HIS FALCON IK Florence there was a young man called Frederick, son of Master Philip Alberighi, who for military ability and for courteous manners was reputed above all other gentlemen of Tuscany. He became enamored of a gentle lady called Madam Giovanna, in her time considered the most beautiful and the most graceful woman in Florence. In order that he might win her love he tilted and exercised in arms, made feasts and presents, and spent all his substance without re- straint. But Madam Giovanna, no less honest than beauti- ful, cared not for him or for those things which he did for her. Frederick then spent more than his means admitted, his money disappeared, and he remained poor and without any other property than a little farm, by the income of which he was barely able to live; besides this, he had his falcon, one of the best in the world. Now it happened one day, when Frederick had come to extreme poverty, that the husband of Madam Giovanna be- came ill and died. Remaining then a widow, she went that summer with her son into the country on an estate of hers near to that of Frederick. It happened that this boy, hav- ing many times seen Frederick's falcon fly, took an extreme pleasure in it and desired very greatly to have it, but did not dare to ask it, seeing that it was so dear to Frederick. In this state of things it happened that the boy became ill. The mother, sorrowing gently, tended him constantly and begged him, if there was anything that he wanted, to tell her and if it were possible she would obtain it for him. The young man said : " Mother, if you can manage that I should have Frederick's falcon, I believe that I should get well at once." The mother knew that Frederick had long loved her, and that he had never received from her even a look. On this account she said : " How can I send to him or go to him, to ask for this falcon, which is the thing that he most loves, and which besides maintains him in the world." Finally, the love of her son overcoming her, she decided to satisfy him, whatever might happen, and she replied: "My son, be comforted and try to get well, for I promise you that the PROSE SELECTIONS 95 first thing that I do to-morrow will be to go and bring to you the falcon." The lady the next day took a companion, and went to the house of Frederick and asked for him. Frederick having saluted her with reverence, she said : " Frederick, I have come to recompense you for the losses which you have al- ready had on my account; and the reparation is, then, that I intend with this my companion to dine with you familiarly to-day." To this Frederick humbly replied: "Madam, if ever I was worth anything, it is due to your worth, and to the love which I have borne you; and certainly your frank visit is dearer to me than would have been the being able to spend as much more as I have already spent, for you have come to a very poor house." So saying, he received them into his house in humility and conducted them into his garden ; and then said : " Madam, since there is no one else, this good woman, the wife of my gardener, will keep you company while I go to arrange the table." He, although his poverty was so great, had not yet real- ized how he had, without method or pleasure, spent his for- tune; but this morning, finding nothing with which he could do honor to the lady, he suffered extremely ; he cursed his fortune, and as a man beside himself, ran hither and thither, finding neither money nor anything to pawn. At length, his desire being to honor the gentle lady in some man- ner, and not wishing to call on anybody else but rather to do all himself, his eye fell upon his beloved falcon, which was on its perch above the table. He therefore took it, and finding it fat, and not having any other resource, he con- sidered it to be a proper food for such a woman; and with- out thinking any further, he wrung its neck and ordered his servant that it be prepared and roasted immediately. And setting the table with the whitest of linen, of which he had a little left, with a delighted countenance he returned to the lady and told her that such dinner as he was able to prepare for her was ready. Thereupon, the lady with her companion went to dinner, and without knowing what Fred- erick served, ate the good falcon. Then, leaving the table, she began amicably to say to Frederick : " Frederick, recalling your past life and my honesty, which perhaps you considered cruelty and severity, I do not doubt in the least that you will be astonished at my 9G SELECTED READINGS presumption, hearing what I have come for ; but if you had ever had children, it seems to me certain that in part you would excuse me. But as you have not, I, who have a son, cannot escape the law common to all mothers, and ask of you a gift which I know is extremely dear to you; that gift is your falcon, of which my boy has become so strongly enamored, that if I do not take it to him I fear I may lose him in consequence. Therefore I pray you, not on account of the love which you bear me, but because of your gener- osity, which has shown greater courtesy than that of any other man, that you would be so kind, so good, as to give it to me, in order that by this gift the life of my son may be preserved and I be forever under obligation to you." Frederick, knowing that he could not serve her, because he had already given it to her to eat, began to weep so that he could not speak a word in reply. The lady at first be- lieved it to be for sorrow at having to give up his good fal- con, and was about to tell him that she did not want it. Then Frederick spoke thus : " Madam, since it pleased God that I bestow my love upon you, money, influence, and fortune have been contrary to me, and have given me great trouble; but all these things are trivial in comparison with what fortune makes me at present suffer; for which I shall never have peace, thinking that you have come here to my poor house — to which while I was rich you never deigned to come — and asked of me a little gift, and that fortune has so decreed that I shall not be able to give it to you. When I heard that you in your kindness wished to dine with me, I considered it worthy and proper to give you the most precious food in my power, and therefore had the falcon prepared for you; but now seeing that you have desired it in another manner, the sorrow that I cannot so please you is so great that never again shall I have peace. Saying this, he brought before them the feathers and the feet and the beak in evidence. The lady first blamed him, then praised the greatness of his mind, which his poverty had not been able to diminish. Then, there being no hope of having the falcon, she de- parted in sadness and returned to her son; who, either for grief at not being able to have the falcon, or for the illness which perhaps had brought him to this state, did not sur- vive for many days, and, to the great sorrow of his mother, passed from this life. PROSE SELECTIONS 97 She, full of sorrow, remaining rich and young, was urged many times by her brothers to marry. Kemembering the worth of Frederick, and that he had killed his beloved falcon to honor her, she said to her brothers : " I would willingly if it please you, remain as I am; but if it please you more that I should take a husband, certainly I shall never take any other if I do not take Frederick degli Alberighi." At this her brothers, making fun of her, said : " Silly creature, what do you say? Why do you choose him? He has nothing in the world." To this she replied : " My brothers, I know very well that it is as you say; but I would rather have a man who has need of riches, than riches without a man." Boccaccio. 'Adapted by Anna Morgan. DOMINFS TRIUMPH* A SILENCE had fallen between Domini and Androvsky which neither seemed able to break. They rode on side by side across the sands toward the north through the long day. The towers of Amara faded in the sunshine above the white crests of the dunes. The Arab villages upon their little hills disappeared in the quivering gold. Dreams of the mirage rose and faded far off on the horizon, rose and faded mystically, leaving no trembling trace behind. And they were silent as the mirage, she in her purpose, he in his wonder. And the long day waned, and toward evening the camp was pitched and the evening meal was prepared. And still they could not speak. Sometimes Androvsky watched her, and there was a great calm in her face, but there was no rebuke, no smallness of anger, no hint of despair. Always he had felt her strength of mind and body, but never so much as now. Could he rest on it? Dared he? He did not know. And the day seemed to him to become a dream, and the silence recalled to him the silence of the monastery in which he had wor- shipped God. He rode on and on beside her, and his sense of a dream deepened, helped by the influence of the desert. Where were they going? He did not know. What was her purpose? He could not tell. But he felt that she had a * By permission of the author and the publishers of " The Garden of Allah," Messrs. Frederick A. Stokes Company. 7 98 SELECTED READINGS purpose, that her mind was resolved. The desert understood their silence, clothed it in a silence more vast and more impenetrable. And Androvsky had made his effort. He had spoken the truth at last. He could do no more. He was incapable of any further action. As Domini felt herself to be in the hands of God, he felt himself to be in the hands of this woman who had received his confession with this wonderful calm, who was leading him he knew not whither in this wonderful silence. When the camp was pitched, however, he noticed some- thing that caught him sharply away from the dreamlike, unreal feeling, and set him face to face with fact that was cold as steel. Always till now the dressing-tent had been pitched beside their sleeping-tent, with the flap of the en- trance removed, so that the two tents communicated. To- night it stood apart, near the sleeping-tent, and in it was placed one of the small camp beds. Androvsky was alone when he saw this. On reaching the halting-place he had walked a little way into the desert. When he returned he found this change. It told him something of what was passing in Dominies mind, and it marked the transformation of their mutual life. As he gazed at the two tents he felt stricken, yet he felt a curious sense of something that was like — was it not like — relief ? It was as if his body had received a frightful blow and on his soul a saint's hand had been gently laid, as if something fell about him in ruins, and at the same time a building which he loved, and which for a moment he had thought tottering, stood firm before him founded upon rock. He was a man capable of a pas- sionate belief, despite his sin, and he had always had a pas- sionate belief in Domini's religion. That morning, when she came out to him in the sand, a momentary doubt had as- sailed him. He had known the thought, " Does she love me still — does she love me more than she loves God ? " Now, as he looked at the two tents, a white light seemed to fall upon Domini's character, and in this white light stood the ruin and the house that was founded upon a rock. He was torn by conflicting sensations of despair and triumph. She was what he had believed. That made the triumph. But since she was that where was his future with her? The monk and the man who had fled from the monastery stood up within him to do battle. The monk knew triumph, but the man was in torment. PROSE SELECTIONS 99 Presently, as Androvsky looked at the two tents, the monk in him seemed to die a new death, the man who had left the monastery to know a new resurrection. He was seized by a furious desire to go backward in time, to go backward but a few hours, to the moment when Domini did not know what now she knew. He cursed himself for what he had done. At last he had been able to pray. Yes, but what was prayer now, what was prayer to the man who looked at the two tents and understood what they meant? He moved away and began to wall? up and down near to the two tents. He did not know where Domini was. Never in the monastery, never even in the night when he left it, had he been tormented like this. For now he had a terrible companion whom, at that time, he had not known. Memory walked with him before the tents, the memory of his body, recalling and calling for the past. He had destroyed that past himself. But for him it might have been also the present, the future. It might have lasted for years, perhaps till death took him or Domini. Why not ? He had only had to keep silence, to insist on remaining in the desert, far from the busy ways of men. They could have lived as certain others lived, who loved the free, the solitary life, in an oasis of their own, tending their gardens of palms. Life would have gone like a sunlit dream. And death ? At that thought he shuddered. Death — what would that have been to him? What would it be now when it came? He put the thought from him with force, as a man thrusts away from him the filthy hand of a clamoring stranger assailing him in the street. This evening he had no time to think of death. Life was enough, life with this terror which he had deliberately placed in it. He thought of himself as a madman for having spoken to Domini. He cursed himself as a madman. For he knew, although he strove furiously not to know, how irrevocable was his act, in consequence of the great strength of her nature. He knew that though she had been to him a woman of fire she might be to him a woman of iron — - even to him whom she loved. How she had loved him ! He walked faster before the tents, to and fro. How she had loved him ! How she loved him still, at this moment, after she knew what he was, what he had done to 100 SELECTED READINGS her. He had no doubt of her love as he walked there. He felt it, like a tender hand upon him. But that hand was in- flexible too. In its softness there was firmness — firmness that would never yield to any strength in him. Those two tents told him the story of her strength. As he looked at them he was looking into her soul. And her soul was in direct conflict with his. That was what he felt. She had thought, she had made up her mind. Quietly, silently she had acted. By that action, without a word, she had spoken to him, told him a tremendous thing. And the man — the passionate man who had left the monastery — loose in him now was aflame with an impotent desire that was like a heat of fury against her, while the monk, hidden far down in him, was secretly worshipping her cleanliness of spirit. But the man who had left the monastery was in the as- cendant in him, and at last drove him to a determination that the monk secretly knew to be utterly vain. He made up his mind to enter into conflict with Domini's strength. He felt that he must, that he could not quietly, without a word, accept this sudden new life of separation symbolized for him by the two tents standing apart. In the distance, under the palms, he saw the poet Batouch. " Batouch ! " he called out sharply. " Batouch ! Where i — where is Madame?" With a sweeping arm the poet pointed toward a hump of sand crowned by a few palms. Domini was sitting there, surrounded by Arab children, to whom she was giving sweets out of a box. As Androvsky saw her the anger in him burnt up more fiercely. He looked again at the two tents as a man looks at two enemies. Then, walking quickly, he approached Domini. She did not see him. The little Arabs were dancing round her on their naked feet. Androvsky gazed at the woman who was causing this childish joy, and he saw a profound sad- ness. Never had he seen Domini's face look like this. It was always white, but now its whiteness was like a whiteness of marble. One of the children saw him, shrieked, pointed. Domini glanced round. As she saw him she smiled, threw the last sugar-plums and came toward him. " Do you want me?" " Yes, I want you. Domini — Domini. You can — you can play with children — to-day." PROSE SELECTIONS 101 " I wanted to feel I could give a little happiness to-day — even to-day." " To-day when — when to me — to me — yon are giving But before her steady gaze all the words he had meant to say, all the words of furious protest, died on his lips. « To me — to me " " Boris, I want to give you one thing, the thing that you have lost. I want to give you back peace." " You never can." " I must try. Even if I cannot, I shall know that I have tried." " You are giving me^- you are giving me not peace, but a sword." She understood that he had seen the two tents. " Sometimes a sword can give peace." " The peace of death." " Boris — my dear one — there are many kinds of deaths. Try to trust me. Leave me to act as I must act. Let me try to be guided — only let me try." He did not say another word. That night they slept apart for the first time since their marriage. " Domini, where are you taking me? Where are we going?" The camp was struck once more and they were riding through the desert. Domini hesitated to answer his ques- tion. It had been put with a sort of terror. " We are going back to Beni-Mora." " We are going to Beni-Mora ! " We are " He sat up on the wall, looking straight into her face. "Why?" " Boris, do you want to be at peace, not with me, but with God? Do you want to get rid of your burden of misery, which increases — I know it — day by day ? " "How can I?" " Is n't expiation the only way ? I think it is." " Expiation ! How — how can — I can never expiate my sin." " There 's no sin that cannot be expiated. God is n't merci- less. Come back with me to Beni-Mora. That little church — where you married me — - come back to it with me. 102 SELECTED READINGS Where you married me you will — you must — make your confession." " That was your purpose ! That is where you are taking me ! I can't go, I won't ! Domini, think what you are doing ! You are asking too much " " I feel that God is asking that of you. Don't refuse Him." " I cannot go — at Beni-Mora where we — where every- thing will remind us " " Ah, don't you think I shall feel it too ? Don't you think I shall suffer?" " But our lives — but — if I go — afterwards — if I make my confession — afterwards — afterwards ? " " Is n't it enough to think of that one thing ? Is n't it better to put everything else, every other thought, away? It seems so clear to me that we should go to Beni-Mora. I feel as if I had been told — as a child is told to do something by its father." She looked up into the clear sky. " I am sure I have been told. I know I have." There was a long silence between them. Androvsky felt that he did not dare to break it. Something in Domini's face and voice cast out from him the instinct of revolt, of protest. He began to feel exhausted, without power, like a sick man who is being carried by bearers in a litter, and who looks at the landscape through which he is passing with listless eyes, and who scarcely has the force to care whither he is being borne. " Domini, if you say I must go to Beni-Mora, I will go. I have done you a great wrong and — and " " Don't think of me any more. Think — think as I do — of — of What am 1 ? I have loved you, I shall always love you, but I am as you are, here for a little while, else- where for all eternity. You told him — that man in the monastery — that we are shadows set in a world of shadows." " That was a lie. When I said that I had never loved, I had never loved 3 T ou." " Or was it a half-truth ? Are n't we, perhaps, shadow now in comparison to what we shall be ? Is n't this world, even this — this desert, this pool with the light on it, this silence of the night around us — is n't all this a shadow in compari- son to the world where we are going, you and I? Boris, I think if we are brave now we shall be together in that world. PROSE SELECTIONS 103 But if we are cowards now, I think, I am sure, that in that world — the real world — we shall be separated forever. You and I, whatever we may be, whatever we may have done, at least are one thing — we are believers. We don't think this is all. If we did, it would be different. But we can't change the truth that is in our souls, and as we can't change it we must live by it, we must act by it. We can't do anything else. I can't — and you ? Don't you feel, don't you know, that you can't?" " To-night," he said, * I feel that I know nothing — noth- ing except that I am suffering." His voice broke on the last words. After a long silence he said: " Domini, take me where you will. If it is to Beni-Mora I will go. But — but — afterwards ? " " Don't let us think of afterwards, Boris. That song we have heard together, that song we love — ' No one but God and I knows what is in my heart.' I hear it now so often, always almost. It seems to gather meaning, it seems to — God knows what is in your heart and mine. He will take care of the — afterwards. Perhaps in our hearts already He has put a secret knowledge of the end." "Has He — has He put it — that knowledge — into yours ? " "Hush! "she said. She understood all the agony of spirit he was enduring, all the shame against which he was fighting. She longed to spring up, to take him in her arms, to comfort him as only the woman he loves and who loves him can comfort a man, without words, by the pressure of her arms, the pressure of her lips, the beating of her heart against his heart. She longed to do this so ardently that she moved restlessly, looking up at him with a light in her eyes that he had never seen in them before. But she did not lift her hand to his. " Boris," she said, * go. God will be with you." After a moment she added : " And all my heart." He stood, as if waiting, a long time. She had ceased from moving and had withdrawn her eyes from his. In his soul a voice was saying, " If she does not touch you now she will never touch you again." And he waited. He could not help waiting. 104 SELECTED READINGS " Boris/' she whispered, " good-bye." " Good-bye ! " he said, and went out without another word. And now Domini knew a moment of utter despair, in which all things seemed to dissolve into atoms and sink down out of her sight. She stood quivering in blackness. She stood ab- solutely alone, more absolutely alone than any woman had ever been, than any human being had ever been. She seemed presently, as the blackness faded into something pale, like a ghastly twilight, to see herself standing in a vast landscape, vast as the desert, companionless, lost, forgotten, out of mind, watching for something that would never come, listening for some voice that was hushed in eternal silence. That was to be her life, she thought — could she face it ? Could she endure it ? And everything within her said to her that she could not. And then, just then, when she felt that she must sink down and give up the battle of life, she seemed to see by her side a shape, a little shape like a child. And it lifted up a hand to her hand. And she knew that the vast landscape was God's garden, the Garden of Allah, and that no day, no night could ever pass without God walking in it. KOBERT HlCHENS. Abridged by Anna Morgan. THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY* I SUPPOSE that very few casual readers of the New York Herald of August 13, 1863, observed, in an obscure corner, among the " Deaths," the announcement : " Nolan. Died, on board U. S. Corvette Levant, Lat. 2° 11' S., Long. 131° W., on the 11th of May, Philip Nolan." There are hundreds of readers who would have paused at that announcement, if the officer who reported it had chosen to make it thus: "Died, May 11, The Man Without a Country." It seems to me worth while to tell a little of his story, by way of showing young Americans of to-day what it is to be A Man Without a Country. ...... B * By permission of the author. PROSE SELECTIONS 105 Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in the " Legion of the West." When Aaron Burr made his first dashing expedition down to New Orleans in 1805, he met, as the Devil would have it, this gay, dashing, bright young fellow; at some dinner-party, I think. Burr marked him, talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two's voyage in his flatboat, and, in short, fascinated him. For the next year, barrack-life was very tame to poor Nolan. He occasionally availed himself of the permission the great man had given him to write to him. Long, high-worded, stilted letters the poor boy wrote and rewrote and copied. But never a line did he have in reply from the gay deceiver. The other boys in the garrison sneered at him, because he sacrificed his time in this unrequited affection for a politician. But one day Nolan had his revenge. This time Burr came down the river not as an attorney seeking a place for his office, but as a disguised conqueror. It was rumored that he had an army behind him and an empire before him. It was a great day — his arrival — to poor Nolan. Burr had not been at the fort an hour before he sent for him. That evening he asked Nolan to take him out in his skiff, to show him a canebrake or a cottonwood tree, as he said — really to seduce him ; and by the time the sail was over, Nolan was enlisted body and soul. From that time, though he did not yet know it, he lived as a man without a country. What Burr meant to do I know no more than you. It is none of our business just now. Only, when the grand catas- trophe came, and Jefferson and the House of Virginia of that day undertook to break on the wheel all the possible Clarences of the then House of York, by the great treason trial at Bich- mond, some of the lesser fry in that distant Mississippi Valley introduced the like novelty on their provincial stage; and, to while away the monotony of the summer at Fort Adams, got up, for spectacles, a string of court-martials on the officers there. One and another of the colonels and majors were tried, and, to fill out the list, little Nolan, against whom, Heaven knows, there was evidence enough — that he was sick of the service, had been willing to be false to it, and would have obeyed any order to march anywhither with any one who would follow him had the order been signed " By command of His Exc. A. Burr." The courts dragged on. The big flies escaped — rightly, for all I know. Nolan was proved guilty. Yet you and I would never have heard of him, but that, when 106 SELECTED READINGS the president of the court asked him at the close whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faith- ful to the United States, he cried out in a fit of frenzy : " Damn the United States ! I wish I may never hear of the United States again ! " I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old Col- onel Morgan, who was holding the court. To him " United States" was scarcely a reality. Yet he had been fed by " United States " for all the years since he had been in the Army. He had sworn on his faith as a Christian to be true to " United States." It was " United States " which gave him the uniform he wore, and the sword by his side. Nay, my poor Nolan, it was only because "United States" had picked you out first as one of her own confidential men of honor that " A. Burr " cared for you a straw more than for the flatboat men who sailed his ark for him. I do not excuse Nolan; I only wish to explain why he damned his country, and wished he might never hear her name again. He heard her name but once again. From that moment, September 23, 1807, till the day he died, May 11, 1863, he never heard her name again. For that half -century and more he was a man without a country. Old Morgan, as I said, was terribly shocked. He called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes, with a face like a sheet, to say : " Prisoner, the court decides, subject to the approval of the President, that you never hear the name of the United States again." Then added : " Mr. Marshal, take the prisoner to Orleans in an armed boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there. See that no one mentions the United States to the prisoner. Make my respects to Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and re- quest him to order that no one shall mention the United States to the prisoner while he is on board ship. You will receive your written orders from the officer on duty here this evening. The court is adjourned without day." Colonel Morgan himself took the proceedings of the court to Washington and explained them to Mr. Jefferson. The President approved them, and before the Nautilus got round to the northern Atlantic coast with the prisoner on board, the sentence had been approved, and he was a man without a country. The original paper of instructions ran much in this way : PROSE SELECTIONS 107 " Washington (with a date which must have been late in 1807). " Sir : — You will receive from Lieutenant Neale the per- son of Philip Nolan, late a lieutenant in the United States Army. " This person on his trial by court-martial expressed, with an oath, the wish that lie might ' never hear of the United States again/ " The court sentenced him to have his wish fulfilled. " For the present, the execution of the order is intrusted by the President to this Department. " You will take the prisoner on board your ship, and keep him there with such precautions as shall prevent his escape. "You will provide him with such quarters, rations, and clothing as would be proper for an officer of his late rank if he were a passenger on your vessel on the business of his Government. " The gentlemen on board will make any arrangements agreeable to themselves regarding his society. He is to be exposed to no indignity of any kind, nor is he ever unneces- sarily to be reminded that he is a prisoner. "But under no circumstances is he ever to hear of his country or to see any information regarding it ; and you will especially caution all the officers under your command to take care that, in the various indulgences which may be granted, this rule, in which his punishment is involved, shall not be broken. " It is the intention of the Government that he shall never again see the country which he has disowned. Before the end of your cruise you will receive orders which will give effect to this intention. " Eespectfully yours, " W. Southard, for the " Secretary of the Navy." The rule adopted on board the ships on which I have met " the man without a country " was, I think, transmitted from the beginning. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of war — cut off more than half the talk men like to have at sea. But it was always thought too hard that he should never meet the rest of us, except to touch hats, and we finally sank into one 108 SELECTED READINGS system. He was not permitted to talk with the men unless an officer was by. With officers he had unrestrained inter- course, as far as they and he chose. But he grew shy, though he had favorites. Then the captain always asked him to din- ner on Monday. Every mess in succession took up the invi- tation in its turn. His breakfast he ate in his own stateroom — which was where a sentinel or somebody on the watch could see the door. And whatever else he ate or drank, he ate or drank alone. Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any special jollification, they were permitted to invite " Plain-Buttons," as they called him. Then Nolan was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home while he was there. They called him " Plain-Buttons " because, while he always chose to wear a regulation army uni- form, he was not permitted to wear the army button, for the reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned. Nolan must have been near eighty when he died. He looked sixty when he was forty. But he never seemed to me to change a hair afterwards. As I imagine his life, from what I have seen and heard of it, he must have been in every sea, and yet almost never on land. He must have known, in a formal way, more officers in our service than any man living knows. He told me once, with a grave smile, that no man in the world lived so methodical a life as he. " You know the boys say I am the Iron Mask, and you know how busy he was." He said it did not do for any one to try to read all the time, more than to do anything else all the time, but that he read just five hours a day. " Then," he said, " I keep up my note-books, writing in them at such and such hours from what I have been reading, and I include in these my scrap-books." These were very curious indeed. He had six or eight, of different subjects. There was one of History, one of Natural Science, one which he called " Odds and Ends." But they were not merely books of extracts from newspapers. They had bits of plants and ribbons, shells tied on, and carved scraps of bone and wood, which he had taught the men to cut for him, and they were beautifully illustrated. He drew admirably. He had some of the funniest drawings there, and some of the most pathetic that I have ever seen in my life. The men used to bring him birds and fish ? but on a long cruise he had to satisfy himself with centipedes and cock- roaches and such small game. He was the only naturalist I PROSE SELECTIONS 109 ever met who knew anything about the habits of the house-fly and the mosquito. He always kept up his exercise, and I never heard that he was ill. If any other man was ill, he was the kindest nurse in the world; and he knew more than half the surgeons do. Then, if anybody was sick or died, or if the captain wanted him to, on any other occasion, he was always ready to read prayers. He read beautifully. There is a story that Nolan met Burr once on one of our vessels, when a party of Americans came on board in the Mediterranean. But it is clear from Burr's life that nothing of the sort could have happened. So poor Philip Nolan had his wish fulfilled. He repented of his folly, and then, like a man, submitted to the fate he had asked for. The following excerpt from a letter gives an account of Nolan's last hours. " Levant, 2° 2' S. @ 131° W. " Dear Fred : — I try to find heart and life to tell you that it is all over with dear old Nolan. I have been with him on this voyage more than I ever was, and I can understand wholly now the way in which you used to speak of the dear old fellow. I could see that he was not strong, but I had no idea the end was so near. The poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling pleasantly as he gave me his hand. I could not help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he had made of the box he was lying in. The Stars and Stripes were triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he had painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings blazing from his beak and his foot just clasping the whole globe, which his wings overshadowed. The dear old boy saw my glance, and said, with a sad smile, ' Here, you see, I have a country ! ' And then he pointed to the foot of his bed, where I had not seen before a great map of the United States, as he had drawn it from memory, and which he had there to look upon as he lay. Quaint, queer old names were on it, in large let- ters : ' Indiana Territory/ ' Mississippi Territory,' and ' Louis- iana Territory,' as I suppose our fathers learned such things. But the old fellow had patched in Texas, too ; he had carried his western boundary all the way to the Pacific, but on that shore he had defined nothing. " ' Oh, Danf orth,' he said, ' I know I am dying. I cannot get home. Surely you will tell me something now ? Stop ! 110 SELECTED READINGS Stop ! Do not speak till I say what I am sure you know, that there is not in this ship, that there is not in America — God bless her ! — a more loyal man than I. There cannot be a man who loves the old flag as I do, or prays for it as I do, or hopes for it as I do. There are thirty-four stars in it now, Danforth. I thank God for that, though I do not know what their names are. There has never been one taken away; I thank God for that. I know by that that there has never been any successful Burr. Oh, Danforth, Danforth, how like a wretched night's dream a boy's idea of personal fame or of separate sovereignty seems, when one looks back on it after such a life as mine! But tell me — tell me something — tell me everything, Danforth, before I die! Tell me their names/ he said, and he pointed to the stars on the flag. i The last I know is Ohio. My father lived in Kentucky. But I have guessed Michigan and Indiana and Mississippi — that was where Fort Adams is. They make twenty. But where are your other fourteen? You have not cut up any of the old ones, I hope ? ' " I told him the names in as good order as I could, and he bade me take down his beautiful map and draw them in as I best could with my pencil. He was wild with delight about Texas — told me how his cousin died there ; he had marked a gold cross near where he supposed his grave was; and he had guessed at Texas. Then he was delighted as he saw Cali- fornia and Oregon. That, he said, he had suspected partly, because he had never been permited to land on that shore, though the ships were there so much. ' And the men,' said he, laughing, ' brought off a good deal besides furs.' Then he went back — heavens, how far ! — to ask about the Chesa- peake, and what was done to Barron for surrendering her to the Leopard, and whether Burr ever tried again — and he ground his teeth with the only passion he showed. But in a moment that was over, arid he said, ' God forgive me, for I am sure I forgive him.' Then he asked about the old war — told me the true story of his serving the gun the day we took the Java. Then he settled down more quietly, and very hap- pily, to hear me tell in an hour the history of fifty years. " How I wished it had been somebody who knew some- thing ! But I did as well as I could. I told him of the Eng- lish war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat begin- ning. I told him about old Scott, and Jackson — told him all I could think of about the Mississippi, and New Orleans, PROSE SELECTIONS 111 and Texas, and his own old Kentucky. And what do you think he asked ? ' Who was in command of the Legion of the West ! ' I told him it was a very gallant officer named Grant, and that, by our last news, he was about to establish his head- quarters at Vicksburg. Then, ' Where was Vicksburg?' I worked that out on the map ; it was about a hundred miles, more or less, above his old Fort Adams, and I thought Fort Adams must be a ruin now. ' It must be at old Vick's plan- tation, at Walnut Hills/ said he ; ' well, that is a change ! ' "I tell you, Ingham, it was a hard thing to condense the history of half a century into that talk with a sick man. And I do not now know what I told him — of emigration, and the means of it — of steamboats, and railroads, and tele- graphs — of inventions, and books, and literature — of the colleges, and West Point, and the Naval School — but with the queerest interruptions that ever you heard. You see, it was Eobinson Crusoe asking all the accumulated questions of fifty-six }^ears ! " I remember he asked, all of a sudden, who was President now. And when I told him, he asked if Old Abe was General Benjamin Lincoln's son. He said he met old General Lin- coln, when he was quite a boy himself, at some Indian treaty. I said no, that Old Abe was a Kentuckian like himself, but I could not tell him of what family ; he had worked up from the ranks. ' Good for him ! ' cried Nolan ; ' I am glad of that. As I have brooded and wondered, I have thought our danger was in keeping up those regular successions in the first families.' Then I got talking about my visit to Washington. I told him of meeting the Oregon Congressman, Harding ; I told him about the Smithsonian, and the exploring Expedi- tion; I told him about the Capitol, and the statues for the pediment, and Crawford's Liberty, and Greenough's Wash- ington. Ingham, I told him everything I could think of that would show the grandeur of his country and its prosperity; but I could not make up my mouth to tell him a word about this infernal rebellion. " And he drank it in and enjoyed it as I cannot tell you. He grew more and more silent, yet I never thought he was tired or faint. I gave him a glass of water, but he just wet his lips, and told me not to go away. Then he asked me to bring the Presbyterian 'Book of Public Prayer,' which lay there, and said, with a smile, that it would open at the right place — and so it did. There was "his double red mark down 112 SELECTED READINGS the page. And I knelt down and read, and he repeated with me, 6 For ourselves and our country, oh, gracious God, we thank Thee that, notwithstanding our manifold transgres- sions of Thy holy laws, Thou hast continued to us Thy mar- vellous kindness ' — and so to the end of that thanksgiving. Then he turned to the end of the same book, and I read the words more familiar to me : ' Most heartily we beseech Thee with Thy favor to behold and bless Thy servant, the Presi- dent of the United States, and all others in authority ' — and the rest of the Episcopal collect. f Danforth,' said he, ' I have repeated those prayers night and morning, it is now fifty-five years.' And then he said he would go to sleep. " He bent me down over him and kissed me, and he said, ' Look in my Bible, Danforth, when I am gone.' And I went away. " But I had no thought it was the end. I thought he was tired and would sleep. I knew he was happy, and I wanted him to be alone. " But in an hour, when the doctor went in gently, he found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile. He had something pressed close to his lips. It was his father's badge of the Order of the Cincinnati. " We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper at the place where he had marked the text : " ' They desire a country, even a heavenly : wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God : for He hath prepared for them a city.' " On this slip of paper he had written : " ' Bury me in the sea ; it has been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set up a stone for my memory at Fort Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be more than I ought to bear ? Say on it : " ' In Memory of «* PHILIP NOLAN, " ' Lieutenant in the Army of the United States. " ' He loved his country as no other man has loved her ; but no man deserved less at her hands.' " Edward Everett Hale. Abridged by Anna Morgan. PROSE SELECTIONS 113 TWO LETTERS AND TWO TELEGRAMS* LETTEE from Benton Fosdick, Esq., of New York, to Thomas Plankton, Esq., of Albany. My Dear Old Tom : — A very momentous question — that 's what I 'm going to ask you, and I want you to go into a corner of the club, quite by yourself, with a good big cigar, and don't dismiss the subject from your mind till the cigar 's finished. Do it for the sake of our old college chumship. There's a girl I want to marry, at least I think I do, in fact I know I do. Shall I? That's the question. Of course I love her, or I couldn't feel this way, could I? She's young, very young, always talking about her birthday — has just had it, I mean, or it is just going to be — something of that sort. She's beautiful; the kind of hair I like; she does n't dress it in the fashion, and yet it never seems out ; there 's no William Tell effect on top, or a bath bun or bustle at the back, or Dolly Vardens at the side, it 's just coiled away somehow, somewhere, sort of parted in front, and half-way wavy, without being crimpy or fancy, and is darkish — you know the kind I mean. Lovely eyes, and all the rest of it; splendid figure; hand full of character, and awfully pretty Trilbys. Her father 's very rich and only has one other child, so although she has notions of her own, financially it's a chance most any fellow would be glad to speculate on. I only mention this to show you that I have n't completely lost my head ; of course, the money does n't make any difference to me, only I want you to understand that I 'm not altogether impracticable. Her position in society is all right, better than mine, and her mother is always on the go, balls and parties and smaller things for derniers ressorts, so she 'd never be a bother. Then the girl herself has a mind. Is tremendously inter- esting and original in all her conversation. Really I often ask her advice about serious things, and take it, besides, and always find I am right. She knows about art, and music, and is all around cultivated. The sort of girl you'd be deuced proud of anywhere. And what I feel particularly about her is that she would take such a great interest in me and my work. She 'd be a constant stimulant : she would * From "Some Correspondence," by Clyde Fitch. Copyright, 1896, by Stone & Kimball, Herbert S. Stone & Co., Successors, Duffield & Company, Successors. 114 SELECTED READINGS adopt all my views, ideas, and ambitions ; she would lose her own self in me, devote herself to my work, and her life be absorbed in mine ! I would accomplish twice what I do now. She could do all the tedious mechanical work that takes so much time I might be giving to other things. She could help me in a thousand ways. She 'd always be on hand to protect me from the hundred and one sacrifices that come daily kick- ing one to take notice of them. Maybe my love blinds me, but I feel she has a beautiful character fully capable of doing all this for me. It seems to me it 's a chance in a lifetime that I ought n't to let slip by. And yet it 's an irretrievable sort of thing, this marriage, and I don't want to go into it too hastily, and perhaps find I 'd made a mistake after all and ruined my career instead of aiding it. So I come to you, remembering the old talks about marriage over the midnight woodfire that lasted almost till we heard the chapel bell for prayers. You were always falling in love; I never. You ought to understand the business better than I. (I heard, too, you almost ruined yourself a couple of years ago for a worthless girl, and nothing teaches like experience.) Think it out carefully, and send me word, shall I marry her ? Yours always sincerely, Benton - Fosdick. P. S. — I shall only wait a day to hear from you. II Telegram from Thomas Plankton, Esq., of Albany, to Benton Fosdick, Esq., of New York. In God's name, for the sake of the girl, DON'T. in Letter from Miss Beatrice Hauton, of New York, to Ben- ton Fosdick, Esq., of New York. Dear Mr. Fosdick : — I am very sorry. I trust I have n't been unconsciously flirting with you, for to be honest, while I enjoy enormously having you take me in to dinner, I could n't for one moment think of sitting opposite to you at the breakfast table ! I thank you sincerely for the honor you pay me, but I cannot be your wife. Sincerely your friend, Beatrice Hauton". PROSE SELECTIONS 115 IV Telegram from Benton Fosdick, Esq., of New York, to Thomas Plankton, Esq., of Albany. Thanks, old man. Have taken your advice. B. F. Clyde Fitch. A LOVER OF MUSIC* JACQUES dropped into his place and filled it as if it had been made for him. There was something in his dispo- sition that seemed to fit him for just the role that was vacant in the social drama of the settlement. He had literally played his way into the affections of the village. He was at his best when he was alone with Serena, in the kitchen. Serena was a pretty girl, and particularly fond of reading and of music. It was this that made her so glad of the arrival of the violin. " Where 'd yon get your fiddle, Jack ? " " A '11 get heem in Kebeck. Ma teacher, to de College, he gif me dat violon, w'en Ah was gone away to de woods." " And why did you come away from the woods and travel down this way ? " "Ah'l tole you somefing, Ma'amselle Serene. You ma f rien'. Den you h'ask me dat reason of it no more. Dat 's somet'ing vair' bad, bad, bad. Ah can't nevair tole dat — nevair." A man with a secret in his life ? The knowledge of it gave Serena a new interest in Jacques and his music. Once, and only once, he seemed to come near betraying himself. This was how it happened: There was a party at Moody's one night, and Bull Corey had come down from the Upper Lake and filled himself up with whisky. Bull was an ugly-tempered fellow. The tide of his pugnacity that night took a straight set toward Fiddlin' Jack. Bull began with musical criticisms. The fiddling did not suit him at all. It was too quick, or else it was too slow. And now he took national grounds. The French were, in his opinion, not a patch on the noble American race. They talked too much, and their language was ridiculous. They had a condemned, fool habit of taking off their hats when they spoke to a lady. They ate frogs. * From " The Ruling Passion." Copyright, 1901, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 116 SELECTED READINGS Having delivered himself of these sentiments he marched over to the table on which Fiddlin' Jack was sitting, and grabbed the violin from his hands. " Gimme that dam' fiddle, till I see if there 's a frog in it." Jacques leaped from the table, transported with rage. His face was convulsed. His eyes blazed. He snatched a carving- knife from the dresser behind him, and sprang at Corey. Half a dozen men thrust themselves between the would-be combatants. There was a dead silence, a scuffling of feet on the bare floor ; then the danger was past. Jacques dropped on his knees, hid his face in his hands, and prayed: " My God, it is here again ! Was it not enough that I must be tempted once before? Must I have the madness yet an- other time ? I am a sinner, but not the second time ; for the love of Jesus, not the second time ! " There was a multitude of counsellors discussing what ought to be done about the fracas, when Hose Eansom settled the case. " Tell ye what we '11 do. Jess nothin'. Ain't Bull Corey the blowin'est and the mos' trouble-us cuss 'round these hull woods ? And would n't it be a fust-rate thing ef some o' the wind was let out 'n him ? And wa' n't Fiddlin' Jack peacer- able 'nough 's long 's he was let alone ? Ain't he given us a lot o' fun here this winter in a innercent kind o' way, with his old fiddle? I guess there ain't nothin' on airth he loves better 'n that hollor piece o' wood, and the toons tha 's inside o' it. It 's jess like a wife or a child to him." So the recording angel dropped another tear upon the rec- ord of Hosea Eansom, and the books were closed for the night. For some weeks after the incident of the violin and the carving knife, it looked as if a permanent cloud had settled upon the spirits of Fiddlin' Jack. He seemed in a fair way to be transformed into " the melancholy Jaques." It was Serena who broke the spell; and she did it in a woman's way, the simplest way in the world — by taking no notice of it. Through all the occupations and pleasures of the Summer Jacques kept as near as he could to Serena. So the Summer passed and by the time Winter came around again, Fiddlin' Jack was well settled at Moody's as a regular Adirondack guide. PROSE SELECTIONS 117 The second Summer brought him in enough to commence building a little house. One day at the beginning of May, when the house was nearly finished, he asked Serena to stop in on her way home from the village and see what he had done. I do not want any one to suppose that there was a crisis in his affair of the heart, for there was none. Indeed, it is very doubtful whether anybody in the village, even Serena herself, ever dreamed that there was such an affair. Up to the point when the house was finished and fur- nished, it was to be a secret between Jacques and his violin. Serena was something of a sentimentalist, and a great reader of novels; but the international love-story had not yet been invented, and the idea of getting married to a for- eigner never entered her head. I do not say that she sus- pected nothing in the wild flowers, and the Sunday evening boat-rides, and the music. She was a woman. I have said already that she liked Jacques very much, and his violin pleased her to the heart. But the new building by the river ? I am sure she never even thought of it once, in the way that he did. Well, in the end of June, just after the furniture had come for the house, Serena was married to Hose Eansom. The wedding was at the Sportsmen's Retreat, and Jacques was there of course. There was nothing of the disconsolate lover about him. The strongest impulse in his nature was to be a giver of entertainment, a source of joy in others. And especially was he selfish enough to want to feel his ability to give Serena a pleasure at her wedding — a pleasure that no- body else could give her. When she asked him to play, he consented gladly. Never had he drawn the bow across the strings with a more magical touch. But Serena did not have many years to listen to the play- ing of Jacques Tremblay, for in the fourth year after her marriage she died, and Jacques stood beside Hose at the funeral. Hose Ransom sold his place on the hill, but Fiddlin' Jack lived on in the little house beside the river, and grew old gracefully. One Spring he caught a heavy cold and took to his bed. Hose came over to look after him. Jack was going to die. There was a Canadian priest in town that week, perhaps Jack would like to talk to him. His face lighted up at the proposal. Then the visitor came, a tall, friendly, 118 SELECTED READINGS quiet-looking man about Jacques's age. The door was shut, and they were left alone together. (i I am comforted that you are come, mon pere, for I have the heavy heart. There is a secret that I have kept for many years, but now it is the time to speak. I have a sin to confess — a sin of the most grievous, of the most unpardon- able, that makes me fear to die. Long since, in Canada, be- fore I came to this place, I have killed a man. It was, it was in the camp, on the river St. Maurice. The big Baptiste Lacombe, that crazy boy who wants always to fight, he mocks me when I play, he snatches my violin, he goes to break him on the stove. There is a knife in my belt. I spring to Bap- tiste. I see no more what it is that I do. I cut him in the neck — once, twice. The blood flies out. He falls down. He cries, ( I die.' I grab my violin from the floor, quick ; then I run to the woods. No one can catch me. A blanket, the axe, some food, I get from a hiding-place down the river. Then I travel, travel, travel through the woods, how many days I know not, till I come here. No one knows me. I give myself the name Tremblay. I make the music for them. With my violin I live. I am happy. I forget. But it all returns to me — now — at the last. I have murdered. Is there forgiveness for me, mon pere ? " The priest's face had changed very swiftly at the mention of the camp on the St. Maurice. As the story went on, he grew strangely excited. His lips twitched. His hands trembled. At the end he sank on his knees, and looked into the countenance of the sick man, searching it as a forester searches in the undergrowth for a lost trail. Then his eyes lighted up as he found it. " My son, you are Jacques Dellaire. And I — do you know me now ? — I am Baptiste Lacombe. You have not murdered. You have given the stroke that changed my heart. Your sin is forgiven — and mine also — by the mercy of God!" The round clock ticked louder and louder. A level ray from the setting sun — red gold — came in through the dusty window and lay across the clasped hands on the bed. The clock ticked on. But there was a sweeter sound than that in the quiet room. It was the sound of the prayer which begins, in every lan- guage spoken by men, with the name of that Unseen One who rules over life's chances, and pities its discords, and tunes PROSE SELECTIONS 119 it back again into harmony. Yes, this prayer of the little children who are only learning how to play the .first notes of life's music, turns to the great Master musician who knows it all and who loves to bring a melody out of every instrument that He has made ; and it seems to lay the soul in His hands to play upon as He will, while it calls Him, Our Father! Henry van Dyke. Adapted by Anna Morgan. FLEAS WILL BE FLEAS* MIKE FLANNERY was the star boarder at Mrs. Muldoon's. " Mike," said Mrs. Muldoon, one noon, " I know the opin- ion ye have of Dagos, and niver a one have I took into me house, and I think the same of thim meself — dirthy things, an' takin' the bread away from th' honest American laborin' man — and I would not be thinkin' of takin' one t' board at this day, but would ye to tell me this : — Is a Frinchmin a Dago?" "Mrs. Muldoon, mam, there be two kinds of Frinchmin. There be the respictible Frinchmin, an' there be the unres- pictible Frinchmin. They both be furriners, but they be classed different. Th' respictible Frinchmin is no worse than the Dutch, and is classed as Dutch, but th' other kinds is Dagos. But ye want tf have nawthing t' do with the Dago Frinch. They be a bad lot." " There was a Frinchmin askin' would I give him a room and board this mornin'," said Mrs. Muldoon. " If he be a Dutch Frinchmin let him come. Was he that?" " Sure, I don't know. 'T is a professor he is." " I have heard of thim. But 't is of insects they be pro- fessors, and not of one kind of insects alone, Mrs. Muldoon, mam. Ye have mistook th' understandin' of what he was sayin'." " I beg pardon to ye, but 't is not mistook I am. Fleas th' Professor said, and no mistake at all." "Yis? Well mebby 'tis so. He would be what ye call one of thim specialists. They do be doin' that now, I hear, and 'tis probable th' Frinchmin has fleas for his specialty. * Reprinted by permission of the author and The American Magazine. 120 SELECTED READINGS 'T is like this, mam : all professors is professors ; then a bunch of professors separate off from the rest and be pro- fessors of insects ; and then the professors of insects separate up, and one is professor of flies and another one is profes- sor of pinch bugs, and another is professor of toads, and another is professor of lobsters, and so on, until all the kinds of insects has each a professor to itself. And thim they call specialists, and each one knows more about his own kind of insect than any other man in the world knows. So mebby the Frinchmin is professor of fleas, as ye say." " I should think a grown man would want to be professor of something bigger than that, but there 's no accounting for tastes/' " If ye understand, mam, ye would not say that same, for to the flea professor the flea is as big as a house. He studies him through a telescope, Mrs. Muldoon, that magnifies th' flea a million times. Th' flea professor will take a dog with a flea on him, mam, and look at the same with his telescope, and the flea will be ten times the size of th' dog. 'T is by magnifyin' th' flea that the professor is able t' study so small an insect for years and years, discoverin' new beauties every day. One day he will be studyin' the small toe of th' flea's left hind foot, and th' next day he will be takin' a statue of it in plaster, and th' next day he will be photygraftin' it, and th' next he will be writin' out all he has learned of it, and then he will be weeks and months correspondin' with other flea professors in all parts of the world. And mebby he dies when he 's ninety years old and has only got one leg of the flea studied out. And then some other professor goes on where he left off, and takes up the next leg." " And do they get paid for it ? " " Sure, they do ! Good money too. A good specialist pro- fessor gits more than a hod-carrier. And 'tis right they should, for 't is by studyin' the feet of fleas, and such, they can learn about germs and how t' take out your appendix, and ' Is marriage a failure ? ' and all that." " Ye dumf ounder me, Mike Flannery. Ye should have- been one of thim professors yourself, what with all the knowl- edge ye have. And ye think 't would be a good thing t' let th' little Frinchmin come and take a room ? " " 'T would be an honor to shake him by th' hand." And so the Professor was admitted to the board and lodging of Mrs. Muldoon. PROSE SELECTIONS 121 The Professor was a small man, and not talkative. He put his baggage in the small bedroom that Mrs. Muldoon allotted to him, and received the friendly advances of Flan- nery and the other boarders rather coldly. He refused to discuss his specialty or show Mike the toe of the left hind foot of a flea through the telescope. When he remained at home after dinner he did not sit with the other boarders, but walked up and down the walk, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and thinking, and waving his hands in mute conversations with himself. "I dunno what ails th' Professor," said Mrs. Muldoon, one evening to Mannery. " I would not like to say for sure, mam, but I 'm thinkin' 'tis a loss he has had, maybe, that's preyin' on his mind. Ever since ye told me, Missus Muldoon, that he was a pro- fessor of th' educated fleas, I have had doubts of th' state of th' mind of th' Professor. Th' sense of studyin' th' flea, mam, I can understand, that bein' th' way all professors does these days, but 't is not human t' spend time givin' a flea a college education. I understand th' feelin' that makes a man educate a horse. Yes, Missus Muldoon! If th' edu- cated horse or th' educated pig got loose would they be easy to find again, or would they not, mam ? And if the Professor come t' have a grrand love for th' flea he has raised by hand, and th' flea run off from him, would th' educated flea be easy t' find? Th' horse and th' pig is animals that is not easy to conceal themselves, Missus Muldoon, but th' flea is harrd to find, an' when ye have found him he is harrd to put your thumb on. I 'm thinkin' the reason th' Professor is so down is that he has lost th' flea of his hearrt. If I be not mistaken, Missus Muldoon, th' Professor's educated flea spent last night with Mike Flannery. 'T is in me mind that th' Professor has a whole college of thim educated insects, an' that he do be lettin' thim have a vacation. Or mebby the class of 1907 is graduated and turned loose from the university, an' I have no wish t' speak disrespect of thim as is educated; but the conversation of a gang of Frinch edu- cated fleas is annoyin' t' a man that wants t' sleep." " I will speak t' th' Professor, and remonstrate with him," answered Mrs. Muldoon. It was late Sunday evening. The upper hall was dark, and Flannery stole softly down the hall in his socks and pushed open the Professor's door. He drew from his pocket 122 SELECTED READINGS an insect-powder gun, and fired it. There was no doubt in the Professor's mind. He was being robbed. He seized a pistol and fired. The bullet whizzed over Mike's head, and before the Professor could fire a second time Flannery rose and turned and, with a true aim, shot the Professor ! Shot him full in the face with the insect powder, and before the blinded man could recover his breath, Flannery had him by the collar and had jerked him to the head of the stairs. It is true; he kicked him downstairs. That night the Professor did not sleep in Westcote, but the next afternoon he appeared at Mrs. Muldoon's supported by Monsieur Jules. " For the keek, Madame Muldoon, I care not. I have been keek before. The keek by one gentleman, him I resent, him I revenge ; the keek by the base, him I scorn ! I let the keek go, Madame Muldoon. Of the keek I say not at all, but the Sea! Ah, the poor flea! Excuse the weep, Madame Mul- doon ! For the flea — I have the revenge ! How you say it ? I will be to have the revenge. I would to be the revenge hav- ing. The revenge to having will I be. Him will I have, that revenge business ! For why I bring the educate flea to these United States? Is it that they should be deathed? Is it that a Flannery should make them dead with a — with such a thing like a pop gun? Is it for those things I educate, I teach, I culture, I love, I cherish those flea ? Is it for those things I give up wife and patrie, and immigrate myself out of dear France? No, my madame! Ah, I am one heart- busted!" "Ah, now Professor," said Mrs. Muldoon, soothingly, " don't bawl annymore. There is sure no use bawlin' over spilt milk. If they be dead, they be dead. I would n't cry over a million dead fleas." " The American flea — no ! " said the Professor, haughtily. " The Irish flea — no ! The flea au naturel — no ! But the educate flea of la belle France? The flea I love, and teach, and make like a sister, a sweetheart to me? The flea that have act up in front of the crowned heads of Spain; that have travel on the ocean ; that have travel on the land ? Ah, Madame Muldoon, it is no common bunch of flea ! Of my busted feelings what will I say ? Nothings ! Of my banged- up heart, what will I say ? Nothings ! But for those dead flea, those poor dead flea, so innocents, so harmless, so much money worth — for those must Monsieur Flannery PROSE SELECTIONS 123 compensate. One dollar per each educate flea must he pay, that Flannery ! It is the ultimatum ! I come Sunday at past half one on the clock. That Flannery will the money ready have, or the law will be on him. It is sufficient ! " "Thief of th' worrld!" exclaimed Flannery, when Mrs. Muldoon told him the demand the Professor had made. " Sure, I have put me foot in it this time, Missus Muldoon, for kill thim I did, and pay for thim I must." But the more Flannery thought about having to pay out one hundred dollars for one hundred dead insects the less he liked it. It could not be denied that one dollar was a reason- able price for a flea that had a good education. A man could hardly be expected to take a raw country flea, as you might say, and educate it, and give it graces and teach it dancing and all the accomplishments, for less than a dollar. He in- quired diligently, seeking to learn the market value of edu- cated fleas. He learned that the government of the United States, in Congress assembled, had recognized that insects have a value, for he found in the list of customs duties this : — " Insects, not crude, a quarter-cent per pound and 10 per cent, ad valorem." He was ready to meet the Professor. " Good day to yez," he said cheerfully in the little parlor, where he found the Professor sitting, flanked by two fellow- countrymen. "I have come t' pay ye th' hunderd dollars Missus Muldoon was tellin' me about. I am glad ye spoke about it, for 't is always a pleasure to Mike Flannery to pay his honest debts, and I might not have thought of it if ye had not mentioned it. I was thinkin' thim was nawthin' but common ignorant fleas, Professor/' " Ah, no ! The very educate flea ! The flea of wisdom ! The very teached flea ! The truly French flea ! From Paris herself. The genuine. The import flea." " An' t' think of a flea bein' worth a dollar ! Thim can't be crude fleas at sich a price, Professor." "No! Certain, no!" " Not crude, an' imported by th' Professor ! 'T is odd I should have seen a refirince f them very things this very day, Professor. 'T is in this book here. ' Insects, not crude, one-quarter cent per pound and tin cint ad valorum.' I dunno, but 't is a wonderful thing th' tariff is. Who would be thinkin' tin years ago the Professor Jocolino would be comin' t' Ameriky with one hundred fleas, not crude, in his 124 SELECTED READINGS dress-suit portmanteau? But th' Congress was th' boy f think of everything. ' No free fleas ! ' says they. ' Look at th' poor American flea, crude, an' uneducated, an' see th' struggle it has, competin' with th' flea of Europe, Asia, an' Africa. Down with the furrin flea,' says Congress, ( pro- tect th' poor American insect. One-quarter cent per pound an' tin cint ad valorum for th' flea of Europe ! That 's what Congress says," said Flannery, glaring at the Profes- sor, " but up jumps the Sinator from Calif orny. ' Stop ! ' he says, ' wait ! 'T is all right enough for the East t' rule out the flea, but th' Californian loves th' flea like a brother. We want free fleas.' Then up jumps th' Sinator from New York. 'I don't object t' th' plain or crude flea comin' in free,' says he, ' for there be need of thim, as me frind from the West says. What amusement would the dogs of the nation have but for th' flea ? ' says he. ' But I 'm thinkin' of the sivinty-three theaytres on an' off Broadway,' says he. ' Shall th' amusemint industry of th' metropolis suffer from th' incomin' of th' millions of educated an' trained fleas of Europe? Shall Shakespeare an' Belasco an' Shaw be put out of business by th' high-toned flea theaytres of Europe? No ! ' says he. ( I move to amend th' tariff of th' United States t' read that th' duty on insects, not crude, be one fourth of a cent per pound an' tin per cint ad valorum,' says he, ' which will give the dog all th' crude fleas he wants, an' yit shut out th' educated flea from compytition with grand opera an' Barnum's circus.' An' so 't was voted," concluded Mike Flannery. "Be asy, there's no hurry. I'm waitin' for a frind of mine, an' th' frind I 'm lookin' for anny minute now is a fine expert on th' subject of th' tariff himself. O'Halloran is th' name of him as is second deputy assistant collector of evidence of fraud an' smugglin' in th' revenue service of th' United States. 'T was a mere matter of doubt in me mind. I was thinkin' mebby one dollar was not enough t' pay for a flea, not crude, so I asks O'Halloran. ' 'T will be easy t' settle that,' says O'Halloran, ' for th' value of thim will be set down in th' books of th' United States, at th' time whin th' Professor paid duty on thim.' ' But mebby th' Professor paid no duty on thim.' ' Make no doubt of that,' says O'Hal- loran, ' for unless th' Professor was a fool he would pay duty like a man, for th' penalty is fine an' imprisonmint,' says O'Halloran, an' I make no doubt he paid it." PROSE SELECTIONS 125 Elannery stopped and listened. "Is that th' train from th' city I hear? O'Halloran will sure be on it." The Professor arose. " Mori Dieu! I have lost the most valued thing, the picture of the dear mamma. It is lost! It is picked of the pocket ! Villains ! I go to the police. I return/' He did not wait for permission, but went, and that was the last Mike Flannery or Mrs. Muldoon ever saw of him. " An' f think of me a free trader every day of me born life," said Mike Flannery that evening to Mrs. Muldoon, "but I am no more. I see th' protection there is in th' tariff, Missus Muldoon, mam. But annyhow, I wonder what is ( Insects, not crude ' ? " Ellis Parker Butler. Abridged by Anna Morgan, UNCLE REMUS ON AN ELECTRIC CAR* ONE pleasant day not long ago Uncle Remus concluded that he would take a ride on the electric car. He had been engaged for some time in making up his mind. There was enough of mystery about the means of locomotion to make him somewhat skittish. In point of fact, he had his own private opinion, fortified by an abundant supply of superstition, in regard to the whole matter. Nevertheless he decided to make a little excursion on the car. He saw other people riding, and what they did he could do. So the old man was on hand when the car came down to the starting-point, where there is a wait of five minutes. He watched the conductor reverse the contrivance that connects the motor with the overhead wire, and then he got on. He smiled as he took his seat, but even his smile betrayed his anxiety. He fumbled about in his pockets until he found a quarter, which he proffered to the motor-man. " Don't be in a hurry, old man, the conductor will get your fare." " Yasser," said Uncle Remus. " On de t'er line whar dey got muels, I hatter gi' de money ter de driver — dat w'at make I han' it ter you. Dish yer ain't de same kyar. Hit look mighty blank out dar. I 'd feel lots better ef dey wuz a waggin tongue stickin' out dar, er some muels er sump'n." * By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 126 SELECTED READINGS "Why, if we bad mules out there," said the motor-man, with a consequential air, " they would n't last five minutes. We 'd run over 'em. We 'd grind them into giblets." "Boss, is de stuff what make dish yer kyar go — is she de same ez dat w'at make de thunder ? " " The very same." " Ain't you skeered ? " " Naw! So long as it don't singe the hair on my head, I ain't afraid." " Boss, does you keep de truck in dat ar churn dar ? " in- dicating the brass cylinder containing the machinery for turning on and shutting off the electric current. Something in Uncle Remus's tone — some suggestion of unusual politeness and affability — caused the motor-man to look at him more closely, and the look was followed by a pleasant smile, which was at once a recognition of and a tribute to the old negro's attitude of respectful anxiety. " Yes," said the motor-man, " we keep it in here," touch- ing the cylinder with his foot, " and when we want any we just turn it on." " Same like you draw 'simmon beer out ? n a bar 5 ! ? " "Yes, somewhat similarly." " Sometimes de beer got sech a head on 'er dat she '11 fly out en flow all over you. Do dat truck do dat away ? " " It ain't never done it yet, and when it does, I want to be plumb away from here." " Ef it 's de same kinder truck what busts aloose in de elements," said Uncle Remus, " dey must be enough un it in dat churn dar ter make thunder endurin' a whole Summer." The motor-man made no reply to this. In response to a signal from the conductor, he struck the gong sharply with his foot, causing Uncle Remus to dodge as if he had been shot at, turned on the current, and started the car. A negro girl sitting opposite Uncle Remus put a corner of her shawl in her mouth and tittered. The old man turned on her fiercely and exclaimed: " Whar yo' manners, gal ? Is dat de way yo' mammy l'arn you — come gigglin' in company ? " " De Lord knows I ain't doin' nothin'," said the girl, twist- ing herself around on the seat. " I des settin' here ten'in to my own business. I wan't sayin' a blessed word to nobody." " Who you grinnin' an' gigglin' at, den ? " asked Uncle Remus, severely. " You '11 be a-gwine on dat away some er PROSE SELECTIONS 127 deze yer odd-come-shorts, an' you'll break yo' puckerin'- string. Den what yon gwine ter do ? " "Mister," said the girl, turning to the conductor, "I wish you'd please, sir, make dis colored man lemme 'lone. I ain't doin' a blessed thing to him." " Fare ! " exclaimed the conductor. He spoke so loudly and so unexpectedly that Uncle Eemus dodged again, and this time he flung his right arm above his head as if to de- fend himself. This gave the angry girl the opportunity she wanted. "Des look at dat ole man!" she cried. "I b'lieve he goin' crazy." Then she began to laugh again. Even the conductor smiled, and Uncle Eemus, perceiving this, smiled himself, but somewhat grimly. As the conductor was giving him his change, a peculiar groaning sound issued from the motor underneath the car. "Boss, wharbouts is all dat zoonin? Hit soun' like de win' blowin' thoo a knot-hole." " It 's the current," said the conductor. " Yasser ! " exclaimed Uncle Eemus. " Dat what I 'low'd hit wuz. Hit bawlin' down dar like a steer calf lef out in de rain. She ain't gwine ter bus' loose en far up nothin', is she, boss ? " " Not right now, I reckon," replied the conductor. This was very unsatisfactory to the old negro, particularly as the zooning and groaning sound continued to grow louder. He looked out of the window, first on one side and then on the other, and then rose and seized the handstrap and gave it a jerk. Seeing that the car kept on, Uncle Eemus gave the strap a more violent tug, and then another and another. " Ef she 's a-runnin' away," he exclaimed, " des say de word en I '11 far up de flo', but I '11 git out 'n here." Seeing the old man's predicament, the conductor pulled the bell, and the car stopped. " Dat what make I say what I does," exclaimed Uncle Eemus, with some show of indignation, as he shuffled to- ward the door. " I 'm gwine ter tell you all good-bye. You kin set dar en listen at de interruptions gwine on in de intruls er dish yer kyar, but I 'm gwine, I am. I done f oun' out long ergo dat no 'spectable nigger ain't got no business gwine whar white folks fear'ed to resk der muels. I wish you mighty well ! " Joel Chandler Harris. 128 SELECTED READINGS A SPEECH OF LINCOLN'S* [The following is an impromptu address delivered by Abraham Lincoln to a caucus of his personal and political friends in Springfield, Illinois, in the month of June, 1858. To that conference of friends whom he trusted implicitly Lincoln submitted the question, whether or not he should make his famous speech in which he declares that 'fa house divided against itself cannot stand."] MY dear Friends : The time has come when these senti- ments should be uttered; and if it is decreed that I shall go down because of this speech, then let me go down linked to the truth — let me die in the advocacy of what is just and right. In taking this position, I do not suspect that any one of you disagrees with me as to the doctrine which I will an- nounce in that speech; for I am sure you would all like to see me defeat Douglas. It may be inexpedient for me to announce such principles at this time, but I have given the subject-matter the most patient, honest, and intelligent thought that I am able to command, because I have felt at times, and now feel, that we are standing on the advanced line of a political campaign which in its results will be of more importance than any political event that will occur during the nineteenth century. I regret that my friend Herndon is the only man among you who coincides with my views and purposes in the propriety of making such a speech to the public as I have indicated to you; but I have deter- mined in my own mind to make that speech, and in arriv- ing at this determination I cheerfully admit to you that I am moved to this purpose by the noble sentiments expressed in those beautiful lines of William Cullen Bryant in his poem on " The Battlefield/' where he says : " A friendless warfare ! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front and flank and rear. " Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown, — yet faint thou not. * By permission of Mr. William Jayne. PROSE SELECTIONS 129 " Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born, " Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again, — • The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers. " Yea, though thou lie upon the dust When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust Like those who fell in battle here ! " Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand thy standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave." I am aware that many of our friends, and all of our politi- cal enemies, will say, like Scipio, I am "carrying the war into Africa " ; but that is an incident of politics which none of us can help, but it is an incident which in the long run will be forgotten and ignored. We all believe that every human being, whatever may be his color, is born free, and that every human soul has an inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happi- ness. The Apostle Paul said, " The just shall live by faith." This doctrine, laid down by Saint Paul, was taken up by the greatest reformer of the Christian era, Martin Luther, and was adhered to with a vigor and fidelity never surpassed, until it won a supreme victory, the benefits and advantages of which we are enjoying to-day. I will lay down these propositions in the speech I propose to make, and risk the chance of winning a seat in the United States Senate, because I believe that the propositions are true and that ultimately we shall live to see, as Bryant says, " the victory of endurance born." [This was the closing incident of the caucus of Lincoln's friends to consider whether or not he should make his proposed speech. It was probably that speech which enabled Douglas to win the senatorship, but it was one of the great things that Lincoln did which placed him in the Valhalla of the Immortals. It warrants us in saying : "Thou art Freedom's now, and fame's; One of the few immortal names That were not born to die."] 130 SELECTED READINGS SELECTIONS FROM THE BIBLE GODLINESS WITH CONTENTMENT 1 Timothy BUT godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. And having food and raiment, let us be therewith content. But they that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil : which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows. But thou, man of God, flee these things ; and follow after righteousness, godli- ness, faith, love, patience, meekness. Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life, whereunto thou art also called, and hast professed a good profession before many witnesses. REMEMBER THY CREATOR ECCLESIASTES Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them ; while the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain: ... or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was : and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it. THE TONGUE St. James For in many things we offend all. If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body. Behold, we put bits in the horses' mouths, that they may obey us; and we turn about their whole body. PROSE SELECTIONS 131 Behold also the ships, which though they be so great, and are driven of fierce winds, yet are they turned about with a very small helm, whithersoever the governor listeth. Even so the tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth ! And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity: so is the tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire the course of nature ; and it is set on fire of hell. For every kind of beasts, and of birds, and of ser- pents, and of things in the sea, is tamed, and hath been tamed of mankind: but the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. CHAEITY St. Paul Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge ; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth ; beareth all things, belie veth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child : but when I became a man I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three ; but the greatest of these is charity. 132 SELECTED READINGS BE NOT DECEIVED St. Paul Be not deceived; . . . for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting. And let us not be weary- in well doing; for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not. THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM David The Lord is my shepherd ; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures : He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul : He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil : for thou art with me ; Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies : Thou anointest my head with oil : my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life : And I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. THE BEATITUDES St. Matthew Blessed are the poor in spirit : for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they that mourn : for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek : for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness : for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merci- ful : for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is PROSE SELECTIONS 133 the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Eejoice, and be ex- ceeding glad : for great is your reward in heaven : for so per- secuted they the prophets which were before you. II MONOLOGUES II — MONOLOGUES HER HUSBAND'S DINNER PARTY* (Mrs. John Trenton, the typical commuter, laden witU bundles, approaches the train-starter in the station. Mrs, Trenton speaks.) WHAT track is the 5 :20 on, guard? The farther one — the farthest track ? Why, when did they change it ? It always used to go out right here! Only one minute to make it in ? Well, my land ! why did n't you say so ? (She pushes a mere man aside and makes a dash for her train.) Look out, man, I want to make that 5:20! What? I dropped a letter? Why, no I didn't, did I? Well, I can't wait to get it — I 've got to get that train ! (She arrives at the gate to find it closed.) Is that the 5 :20 just pulling out? Well, stop it — stop it, I 've got to get on it ! (She tries to get through the gate.) Take your hands off me, sir ! Break my neck ? Well, it 's my own neck, is n't it ? Look at that train ! And I have a dinner-party at seven o'clock, for my husband's friends ! A what ? A 5 : 22 ? Well, why did n't you say so ? Where does it go out? Way over there? (She rushes back to the train-starter.) Guard, why did n't you tell me there was a train at 5:22? I did n't ask you? I told you I had to get the 5 :20 and you saw me miss it, so — what — going ? Wait — wait a minute — conductor — wait ! (She pursues the train down the track and is lugged aboard by the conductor, bag and baggage. She seats herself breathlessly beside a woman, placing the bundles in every available spot.) I hope I 'm not crowding you with these bundles ? That 'a the trouble with suburban life — every man his own delivery wagon ! Yes, I 'm winded ! I had to run for the train, be- cause my husband is having a stag dinner to-night, and there are a thousand things for me to see about. * Written especially for this collection* 138 SELECTED READINGS I do hope the second girl will remember the right number of forks, and the right temperature for the wine. The last dinner I gave I had a butler in for the occasion. I never supposed it was necessary to give a real butler instructions in serving, but would you believe it, when he got to Senator Black, the guest of honor, he tipped the champagne bottle over the Senator's glass and said in a loud whisper, " Say when ! " I nearly died of mortification, but my husband just roared right out and everybody else joined in, but I made up my mind no more extra-guaranteed butlers for me, so we just have a plain second girl and waitress now, and she does get so flustered. Why, the other day — Tuesday — no, it was Wednesday — Wednesday of last week, I had the ladies of my Bridge Club in to lunch, and Maggie got so flustered that she slipped on the newly polished floor and spilled a whole plate of rice soup over one of the ladies' hair ! Yes, it was awful, rice is so mean to get out of your hair. Of course, she took off all her top hair and took it home in a paper, but even then some of the rice was glued right to her scalp ! (The conductor interrupts her to get her ticket.) To Winnetka? Why, of course it is to Winnetka, that's where I'm going. This is an express to Lake Forest — does n't stop ? Well, but — it 's got to stop, I 've got to get off ; I don't care if it is a special, I 've got a dinner at seven o'clock for my husband's friends, and I 've got to get to Winnetka by 6:20! You can't? Why can't you? Can't you get the engineer to do it as a special favor ? Tell him I am Mrs. John Trenton, of Winnetka, and my husband will send him a box of cigars to-morrow, if he will ! But I can't make it from Lake Forest in time. There are so few trains going south at this time in the evening, and my dinner is at seven! I don't suppose you can help it, but that 's no comfort to me ! (She turns to her neighbor.) What would you do, if you were me? You'd stay right on, would you ? Well, if they won't stop, I suppose I '11 have to. I never could drop off, with all these bundles, could I ? I just had to bring out some things for the dinner — Roquefort cheese — and — you did — you smelled it? Well, my husband is so particular about the cheese and our grocer can't suit him, so I had to get it in town. He's so fond of it — no, not the grocer — my husband. My father was, too. MONOLOGUES 139 I remember once my father brought out some especially fine Roquefort for a dinner-party, and we had an old negro ser- vant who was waiting on the table. When the coffee was brought in, my father asked him where the cheese was, and old Robert said : " Fo' de land's sake, yo' did n't spec' me to put dat cheese on de table? Why — I f rowed it in de ash heap — dat cheese was no good, sah, it was a-workin' ! " Dear me, it is a long ride out to Lake Forest, is n't it ? I always carry a book to read, it is so improving I think, but 1 forgot it to-day. I never speak to any one on the trains, but, of course, you were so nice about my bundles and advis- ing me, and all. " The Shuttle " ? No, I have n't. Is that so ? I must get it. I 've been reading " Alice for Short " for ten or eleven months, and I 'm nearly half through, so I must look up something new. (Conductor again interrupts.) Oh, the next is Lake Forest? Two minutes to get on the south-bound ? Dear me, that is a close call. I 'm glad to have met you — Mrs. — a — a — I hope I '11 see you again. . . . Yes, yes, conductor, I 'm coming. (Conductor transfers her, bag and baggage, to the south- bound, and as it pulls out, Mrs. Trenton settles herself with a sigh.) I '11 have to pay my fare, conductor. When do we get to Winnetka? An express! First stop Chicago? Do you mean to tell me — why didn't that other conductor find out — you 've got to let me off at Winnetka, or I '11 jump and sue the Company for damages ! Don't get excited ? Well, would n't you get excited if the starter put you on an express to Lake Forest, when my ticket read to Winnetka and now that other man — he had a mean eye — I never trust a man with a green eye — he has put me on an express back to Chicago! But I tell you I have a dinner at seven o'clock for my husband's friends — What, ,7:15 now? (She goes into hysterics, during which conductor tries to soothe her. Innocent bystander aslcs what is the trouble, and conductor mutters, " Lunatic, I guess.") Lunatic ? Did you say lunatic ? I call upon all the pas- sengers in this car to give me their names and addresses as witnesses of how this man has insulted me ! (To anxious passenger.) No, I 'm not crazy. I 've got to get off at Winnetka — I 140 SELECTED READINGS belong there, that 's my home, and I 've got a dinner party at — You say you slow up at Glencoe ? Well, I '11 risk it, and take the electric down. I don't know — you '11 just have to throw them off after me — all but the cheese — you hold on to that until I light, and I '11 catch it. Yes, you let me know in time and I '11 have everything ready to jump. (Passenger continues to ask questions.) Of course, I did n't know it was an express to Lake Forest — how should I ? I did n't tell the starter where I was going, but he ought to know me by this time, all the hundreds of times I go in and out on these trains. (Conductor summons her to the fatal leap.) All right, conductor, now take the bundles, and throw them in this order — this one first, then this — yes, all right, I 'm coming. (Train slows down, and Mrs. Trenton drops off in a shower of bundles, stumbling forward on all fours, dislocating her hat and splitting her gloves. The cheese hits her in the left ear.) That is the last straw ! I shall add that in my suit — that the conductor hit me in the ear with a cheese ! (She hears electric car tooting, and scrambles to her feet, collects what bundles she can, and gets aboard of elec- trie, which slows down, but does not stop. Conductor comes in from front platform, stares at apparition, and explains that this is an empty running to Evanston for repairs.) I c — c — can't bear any more ! I have to g — g — get off at Winnetka — can't you let me off there ? I have a dinner- party — please — please — (Sobs interrupt her tale, and when the conductor promises to let her off at WinnetTca, she sobs on quietly, while he tells the gripman about the " funny old drunk " inside. At Winnetka she descends, and runs home. On enter- ing, she shouts for her husband. A maid appears, alarmed at the sight that greets her eye.) Where is Mr. Trenton ? Is the dinner over ? Are the guests all here? W-h-a-t? He called up at five o'clock to say he would have the party in town ? (With an agonized groan, Mrs. John Trenton collapsed into a comatose condition.) Marjorie Benton Cooke. MONOLOGUES 141 HER FIRST CALL ON THE BUTCHER* [She enters, shakes shirt free of sawdust, and wrinkles nose in disgust. She moves uncertainly, finally points at one man.} YOU, if you please. Good-morning. I want to look at something for dinner. . . . Oh, I don't know what I want — just show me what you have. ... Of course I can't tell what I want until I see what you have, and even then it 's very hard. . . . Yes, just us two. . . . Well, the platter we use ordinarily for dinner — I don't use the best set for every day, but this one is really very pretty, white with little pink roses — Well, it 's about so long and so wide, and I would like something to fill it nicely. ... I can't think of one thing. What are these? . . . Chops? Well, I never saw chops growing in bunches before. ... I don't care — when I was at home we often had chops, but they weren't like that, but sort of one and one, with little bits of parsley around them. . . . You cut them up? Oh — oh — oh — I sup- pose different butchers have different ways. . . . I don't think I care for that kind of chops, anyway — I mean those with the little tails. I like the ones with the long, thin bones. . . . French chops? Oh, no, they weren't im- ported — oh, no, because the cook used to go out any time and get them. . . . Oh — oh — oh — you do? . . . They are? ... I see. ... I '11 take some. ... How many ? — oh — I er — Why, about as many as you usually sell. . . . Well, let me see — Mr. Dodd generally eats about a dozen oysters at a time — I don't mean all at once, you know — so for both of us I think about two dozen. . . . Oh, I can send for more if that is n't enough. You are quite sure you have the best — best — description of chops? . . . Well, you see, our cook, Lillian — such an odd name for an Irish cook — I mean our cook at home be- fore I was married — she wanted me to employ the same butcher we had then, but as I told mamma then, I thought it was more a matter of sentiment with Lillian than meat. She was the most disobliging girl except when it came to buying chops, and she was always only too ready to run out after them. One afternoon I was just going up the steps — I had been to tea, I think — anyway, I know I 'd had an awfully * Stage and platform rights reserved by the author. 142 SELECTED READINGS stupid time. Well, there was Lillian at the area gate talking to a man who had " chops " written all over him. So when Lillian said — [ Turns.] I 'm in great haste myself, madam. [To butcher.'] You will kindly finish waiting on me before you attend to any one else. Where did I leave off ? Oh, yes. He was a little, thick-set man with black, curly hair and mus- tache. Do you know him? . . . Oh, I thought probably all butchers knew one another. . . . I would like to look at some chickens, please. . . . Why, it hasn't any feathers! ... It did? . . . You have? . . . It was? ... Oh — oh — oh. I don't like the color — it seems very yellow. . . . Because it 's fat ? Well, I don't want a fat chicken — neither Mr. Dodd nor myself eat a bit of fat. ... Oh — oh — oh. I can't help it — I don't like the color of that chicken — you'll pardon my saying so, but it does look very bilious. Why, what are you breaking its bones for ? I would n't take it now under any circumstances. . . . Per- haps, but Mr. Dodd wouldn't like me to buy a damaged chicken. There, I like those chickens hanging up. . . . No, no, not that one — farther along — no — yes, yes, that 's it — the blue-looking one with the large face. ... I don't care, I like its looks much better than the other one. Now, let me see — there was something I wanted to tell you about that chicken — wait a minute — I '11 have it directly — I 've been taking a course of memory lessons. M — m — m — some- thing about a boat — a tiller, a centre-board, a sheet, a sail, a mainsail — that 's almost it — a ji — ji — a jib — that 's it — giblets ! Be sure to send the giblets. Where 's my list ? I thought I put it in my bag, but — No, I can't find it. Is n't that exasperating ! I remember making it out, and then I laid a little sample of white silk with a black figure in it on the desk — yes, I remember per- fectly. Oh, yes, and then the sample or the list — you see, the sample with the thin, black figure really looked like the list. Well, one or the other must have fallen on the floor, for I remember, too, my little dog chewing something as I came out — yes, that must have been it. . . . It really does n't matter specially. Mr. Dodd says always have plenty of beef, so you might send a few steaks. . . . What? Porter-house or sirloin? I — er — I don't think we care for any of those fancy ones — just some plain steaks will do. Now please send the things very early this morning, MONOLOGUES 143 because we dine at seven, and Mr. Dodd does n't like to wait. . . . Yes, that 's all, I think — that 's all — Why, the idea — ■ it 's Friday, and our girl does n't eat a bit of meat on Friday — you will have to take all of those things back. Just send around a few nice fishes, and be sure and send their giblets ! Good-morning. May Isabel Fisk. BUYING HER HUSBAND A CHRISTMAS PRESENT * WHY howdy, Mis' Blakes — Howdy, Mis' Phemie — Howdy, all. I see yo' sto'e is fillin' up early. Great minds run in the same channel, partic'larly on Christmas Eve. My ole man started off this mornin' befo' day an' soon ez he got ou' o' sight I struck out fo' Washington, an' here I am. He thinks I 'm home seedin' raisins. He was out by starlight this mornin' with the big wagon, an' of co'se I know what that means. 'E 's gone fo' my Christmus gif an' I 'm put to it to know what tremenjus thing he's layin' out to fetch me — thet takes a cotton wagon to haul it. Of co'se I imagine everything, from a guyaskutus down. I always did like to get things too big fo' my stockin'. What yo' say, Mis' Blakes ? Do I hang up my stockin' ? Well I reckon I had n't quit when I got married, an' I think that's a poor time to stop, don't you? What do you think would be the nicest to give him, Mr. Lawson — this silver card-basket, or that Cupid vase, or — Ye need n't to wink. I seen you, Mis' Blakes. Ef I was to pick out a half-dozen socks like them you're buyin' fer Mr. Blakes, how much fun do you suppose we 'd have out of it ? Not much. I 'd jest ez lief 'twas n't Christmus, — an' so would he — though they do say his first wife give him a bolt of domestic once-t for Christmus, an' made it up into night shirts an' things fer him durin' the year. Think of it ! No, I 'm goin' to git him something that 's got some git-up to it, an' — an' it '11 be either — that — Cupid vase — or lordy — Mr. Lawson, don't fetch out that swingin' ice pitcher. I glimpsed it quick as I come in the door, an', says I, ' Git thee behind me, Satin,' an' turned my back on it * From "Moriah's MourninQ" Copyright, 1898, by Harper & Brothers. 144 SELECTED READINGS immejiate. But of co'se I ca'cultated to git you to fetch it out jes' for me to look at, after I 'd selected his present. Ain't it a beauty ? Seems to me they could n't be a more suitable present for a man — ef he did n't hate 'em so. No, Mis' Blakes, it ain't only that he don't never drink ice water. I would n't mind a little thing like that. How much is them wilier rockers, Mr. Lawson? I declare that one favors my old man ez it sets there, even without him in it. Mne dol- lars? That's a good deal for a pants-tearin' chair, seems to me which them wilier rockers is, every last one of 'em, an' I 'm a mighty poor hand to darn. Jest let me lay my stiches in colors, in the shape of a flower, an' I can darn ez well as the next one, but I despise to fill up holes jest to be a fillin'. Yes, ez as you say, them silver-mounted brierwood pipes is mighty pretty, but he smokes so much ez it is, I don't know ez I want to encourage him. Besides, it seems a waste o' money to buy a Christmus gif thet a person has to lay aside when company comes in, an' a silver-mounted pipe ain't no politer to smoke in the presence of ladies than a corncob is. An' ez for when we 're by ourselves — shucks ! Ef you don't mind, Mr. Lawson, I '11 stroll around through the sto'e an' see what you 've got while you wait on some o' them thet know their own minds. I know mine well enough. What I want is that swingin' ice pitcher, an' my judgment tells me thet they ain't a more suitable present in yo' sto'e for a man. That 's a mighty fine saddle blanket, indeed it is. He was talkin' about a saddle blanket the other day. But that 's a thing a person could pick up almost any day, a sad- dle blanket is. An' ice pitcher now — Say, Mr. Lawson, lemme look at that tiltin' pitcher again, please, sir. I jest want to see if the spout is gold lined. Yes, so it is — an' little holes down in the throat of it. It cert'n'y is well made, it cert'n'y is. I s'pose them holes is to strain out grasshop- pers or anything that might fall into it. . . . He's got a mighty keerless way o' drinkin' out o' open dippers. No tellin' what he '11 scoop up some day. They 'd be great safety for him in a pitcher like this — ef I could only make him see it. It would seem a sort o' awkward thing to pack out to the well every single time, an' he won't drink no water but what he draws fresh. An' I s'pose it would look sort o' silly to put it in here jest to drink it out again. Sir? Oh, yes, I saw them saddle bags hangin' up back there, an' they are fine, mighty fine, ez you say, an' his are MONOLOGUES 145 purty near wore out, but lordy, I don't want to buy a Christ- mus gif thet 's hung up in the harness room haf the time. What 's that you say ? Won't you all ever git done a runnin' me about that side saddle ? I got it for his pleasure if it was for my use ; an' come to think about it, I 'd be jest reversin' the thing on the pitcher. It would be fer his use an' my pleasure. I wish I could see my way to buy it fer him. Both goblets go with it, you say, an' the slop bowl? It cert'n'y is handsome — it cert'n'y is. An' it's expensive — nobody could accuse me o' stintin' him. Wonder why they didn't put some polar bears on the goblets, too. They 'd 'a' had to be purty small bears, but they could 'a' been cubs easy. I don't reelly believe, Mr. Lawson, indeed I don't, thet I could find a more suitable present for him ef I took a month, an' I don't keer what he 's a-pickin' out for me this minute, it can't be no handsomer 'n this. Th' ain't no use — I '11 haf to have it for 'im. Just charge it, please ; an' now I want it marked. I '11 pay cash for the markin', out of my egg money, An' I want his full name. Have it stamped on the iceberg right beside the bear. " Ephraim N. Trimble." No, you needn't spell out the middle name. I should say not. Ef you knew what it was you wouldn't ask me. Why, it's Nebuchadnezzar. It'd use up the whole iceberg. No, jest write it, " Ephraim N. Trimble, from his wife Kitty." Be sure to put in the " Kitty," so in after years it '11 show which wife give it to him. Of co'se, them thet knew us both would know which one. Mis' Mary Jane would n't never have ap- proved of it in the world. Why she used to rip up her old crocheted tidies an' things, an' use 'em over in bastin' threads, so they tell me. She little dremp' who she was a savin' for, poor thing. She was buyin' this pitcher then, but she did n't know it. Go on with the inscription, Mr. Lawson. What have you got ? " From his wife Kitty " — what 's the matter with " affectionate wife " ? You say " affectionate " is a purty expensive word ? But " lovin' " '11 do jest ez well an' comes cheaper, you say. An' plain " wife " comes cheapest of all ? An' I don't know but what it's more suitable, anyhow — at his age. Of co'se you must put in the date, an' make the " Kitty " nice an' fancy, please. Lordy, well the deed 's done, an' I reckon he '11 threaten to divorce me when he sees it — till he reads the inscription. Better put in the " lovin'," I reckon, an' put it in in capitals — they don't cost no more, do they ? Well, good-bye, Mr. Lawson. I reckon you '11 be glad 146 SELECTED READINGS to see me go. I've outstayed every last one thet was here when I come. Well, good-bye ! Have it marked immejiate, please, an' I '11 call back in an hour. Good-bye ! Ruth McEnery Stuart. Abridged by Anna Morgan. ABBIE'S ACCOUNTS* THERE is one comfort in being a married woman. Of course there is more than one, — a great many, — but one in particular, I mean, and that is — one has a right to some of the luxuries of married life. Now a husband is n't like an older sister. Of all the creatures that tyrannize over their kind an older sister is the worst. A husband is — well — rather " bossy." Alfred says I should keep accounts, now that I am married. I wonder where that account book is. 1 am sure I put it under this pile of invitations to those five o'clock nuisances. The impudence of that Hanson woman with her teas. She seems to regard tea as a sort of legal ten- der. Where is that book? Maybe it is in that blue serge; or is it in the pocket of my gray cashmere ? Let me see, — that's up in the closet. [Going to the door, and coming bach.'] No, it isn't. I tore it out. It must be in one of those drawers in the desk. Oh ! here it is. How I love the smell of Russian leather. I like red leather, it 's so business- like. [Goes to the desk.] Now, where 's the ink? [Turns bottle upside down.] It 's empty. Well, never mind, here 's a pencil — perhaps it would be better, if I should make a mistake. I wonder if I remember my multiplication table. Let me see ! 7X7 used to be a horror, 7 X 7 are 49 ; 8 X 7 are 50 — no, that's not right, 52 I guess. Let me see (counts on fingers) 49 — 50 — 51 — 52 — 53 — Oh, how glad I am I 'm married ! They did n't let us count on our fingers there — 49 — 50 — 51 — 52 — 53 — 54 — 55 — 56 — 57, yes, 7 X 9 are 57. Now, what do I put down first. Alfred is either my Dr. or my Cr. Yesterday morning he gave me thirty-five dollars, all in fives, — he gave them to me, you see, so he 's my D-r — C-r — Cr., I guess, and I'm his Dr. [Writes, holds up booh, and looks at it.] Now, does n't that look real sweet, — * By permission of the author and the Century Co, MONOLOGUES 147 Alfred Appleby on one page and Abbie Appleby, Dr., on the other? [Kisses them both.'] Now comes what I spent it for. I know they use only two pages — I heard papa talk about a trial balance, and you can't balance three things unless you 're a juggler. I think I'll tear these two pages out. No, I won't. It's only in pencil, I'll rub it out. [Bubs out.'] I don't wonder papa gets tired keeping his accounts. It must be awful to be a bookkeeper and get all covered with red ink. [Sees package.'] Oh! I forgot all about that silk I got for the curtains. I must look at it before I look at my ac- counts. I'm tired of figuring, anyway. How cheap these silks are nowadays! This was only 45 a yard and there's enough in it to make a dress. I wonder how I would look in it. [Throws it around her.] There, I look like a duchess at least. I wonder what real duchesses look like, anyway! Oh ! how I wish I could travel and see things. It would be splendid to be rich, real rich, so that you don't care how much money you spend, and you don't have to keep accounts. Oh! that reminds me, I must finish my account book. I promised Alfred I would have it ready for him. What a comfort it is that your husband is n't your father ! and how absurd it would be to be your own great-grandchild, or any- thing like that. Why, I thought I had done a lot. Oh! I remember, I rubbed it out. Yes, it was that Cr. and Dr. business that stopped me. After all, what difference does it make ? Alfred does n't care. Abbie Appleby, Dr. — Alfred Appleby, Cr. Then I put down what he gave me. He gave me — let me see — $35.00. It was before I bought that lace for trimming, and it cost $2.99 a yard, and I bought 2% yards. My ! that 's a puzzle ! How did we do it at school ? What a lot of money papa spent on my school bills, and how much good it has done me ! Let me see. If 2% yards of lace cost $2.99 a yard, and Alfred gave Abbie thirty-five dollars to start with, how much did Abbie have to start with ? Humph ! that 's easy enough — thirty-five dollars of course. After all, education is worth something. I suppose that's what we call logic. I think guessing is easier. Well, the answer is $35.00, and it goes down under Cr. That Alfred is my Cr. for $35.00 is plain. Next comes the lace. Alfred is n't Cr. for that, I know, so down it goes — Abbie Dr. to lace $2.99 X 2% yards. But 148 SELECTED READINGS I 'm not, I can't be Dr. when I paid for them ; and the idea of making Alfred Cr. for several yards of lace which he does n't know anything about ! It 's too absurd for any use — I sha'n't change it anyway. How much does it make. $2 X 2 yards is 4 — 4 what? It can't be done — You can't multiply dollars by yards — I am sure of that much. Why — Miss Gumption used to tease us dreadfully about that. She used to say — 'two oranges multiplied by two apples makes what ? But I must n't wander so. I wish I knew more about accounts. Alfred will think I 'm a perfect ignoramus. It 's his own fault. If he wanted somebody to keep his books he should have married Susan Brewer ; but he never could bear her — said it gave him the shivers to look at her. Still, it 's a good thing to be system- atic; but that reminds me, I wonder where my watch is. [Searches.] I know it fell out of my pocket when I was taking off my jacket. It must be on the floor. I hope it is n't hurt. No, none of the pearls are out. Now, what was it I wanted it for? Oh, yes, to wind it. I'm glad it's a stem-winder. Why, it must be wound — it won't go. Why, yes, it 's going — I guess I must have wound it some time or other; but it can't be so late. Yes, it's going — it's going. I must hurry on, or I won't have my accounts ready. Where was I? $2.99 X 2% yards— Oh! I never can do it in the world. My! it's fractions and decimals mixed. Oh! I wonder I didn't think of that before. Of course, $2.99 is practically the same as $3.00, and 2% is nearly three yards, so 3 X 3 are 9 yards — what a goose ! — dollars, I mean ; $9.00 — except what I spent for caramels and carfare is really all I spent. Call it ten dollars. [She writes.] There ! $35.00 less $10.00 is $25.00, and that is what is called the capital. No — that 's not the right word. I 've heard papa say it often and often — it 's bonus, I guess. No, it is n't. [Rubs it out] There, that 's better. To cash, $25.00. Now, where's my pocketbook? Here it is. Now, let's see! There, I knew she was a hateful thing, that girl at Brady's, — she gave me a fifty-cent piece with a hole in it. [Reflects.] Alfred says they take all kinds of money at the liquor store. I suppose they pass them off on drunken men. I might give it to Alfred, but what am I to do with it on my accounts? I can't put it down as a Dr. or Cr., for neither Alfred nor I have anything to do with it, and I 'm sure I can't put it down to that girl at Brady's. But I might, too; MONOLOGUES 149 I can open sort of an account with her. [Wntfes.] Brady's shop girl — one plugged fifty-cent piece, and then I should have to open an account on the opposite page with Abbie Appleby, Cr., fifty cents out. Oh! there's the bell. It's Alfred. I remember, I bor- rowed his latch key ; and I have n't my accounts. No mat- ter. I 've made a good beginning. He won't blame his little wife — bless him. He didn't marry me because I was a good bookkeeper. I hear his step. I '11 go to meet him. The darling ! Tudor Jenks. 'TWIXT CUP AND LIP * Z^IOME, Molly, wake up and give me some tea. Where 's \J Mina?" " She went to a luncheon with Mrs. Orme and has n't come in yet." " What 's the matter ? are you ill or only sleepy ? I 'm sorry I spoilt your nap." " Oh, don't apologize ; it was only a day dream." "A day dream; what have you got to dream about? I say, Molly, I 've been thinking a great deal about you lately. Why don't you get married? There's an absence of fuss and effort about your management that is altogether charm- ing and — " " Yes ? What is it you want ? " "Now, Molly, I want to see you properly appreciated, which can only be done by a husband. It is n't right that all your effort should be thrown away on a brother. Why don't you marry Bertram ? " " Oh, noble young man ! But I, too, can be generous. I '11 never desert you ; never ! " "Well, the fact is, Molly — er— - 1 want to get married myself." " Oh, that's it, is it? Well, Tom, I'm sure Daisy Mur- chison will make you a charming wife and me a very amiable sister." " How the deuce did you know it was Daisy ? " " Oh, Tom, the idea of your thinking I did n't know ! You can't keep that sort of a tiling away from a girl, especially if that girl happens to be your sister." 150 SELECTED READINGS " Yes, it is Daisy. She 's the sweetest woman I y ve eve? met. She 's almost masculine in her simple-mindedness, and she 's altogether so sweet and gentle and charming." " Oh, don't mind me." "Well, I declare, I had almost forgotten you were here; but then I always do forget when I — " "Oh, Tom!" " But why don't you get married, Molly ? Why don't you marry Bertram ? His family are very well off and very fond of you." " Mr. Bertram is very fond of & good dinner and as he generally gets that when he comes here, why, he looks upon me with a certain degree of favor. But we might be able to settle all this without Mr. Bertram's assistance. Who knows?" " Why ! How is this ? You seem to be very much in the light about my affairs. How is it I don't know about this ? " " I 've been more or less engaged for the last four years. Well, I may as well tell you now. You see, it was while you were abroad, and at the time father was so ill. He was go- ing abroad, but as he had no fortune, father would n't hear of a formal engagement and made me promise to hold no communication with him. Father was so ill, I could n't re- fuse him ; and then father died and — " " Do you mean that you never heard from the fellow ? " " Yes ; he said he would n't write until he could come for me." "Well, all I hope is that he is good enough, Molly — Don't make a mistake." " Oh, I have no fear of that. But let that pass now ; tell me about Daisy, Tom. Have you spoken to her yet? You know we meet at the Grays' to-night? " " No, I did n't know. No, I 've not spoken yet ; but I 'm as sure as a man can be. The last time I saw her was at the Ortens' ball, a fortnight ago, and then her mother took her away ten minutes too soon. Since then she has been down to Brighton. Ah, there's nothing that I would not do for her, and I really think she would do a great deal for me." " Yes, I really think she will marry you, Tom." " Now, Molly, what a speech. Well, suppose you give me some more tea. By the way, did I tell you that I ran up against an old acquaintance in Cheapside the other day? Yes, — Bob Maitland." MONOLOGUES 151 " Is he looking well ? Is he coming to see us soon ? " "Well, I hardly know. Steady, dear! Don't drop that cup. What was I saying ? Oh, yes, Maitland. Yes, he was flying along at a great pace, and I stopped and asked him what he meant by cutting his old friends in that fashion, and he hurried off a lot of words about just getting back from Eu- rope and having an appointment, and left me in the middle of a word to see a man. Vernon was with me at the time, and he laughed and said that he had a good joke on Mait- land : he just got back from Europe a short time ago and the other day became engaged to a girl on the strength of a week's acquaintance. Good joke, is n't it ? " "Yes — " " By the way, Molly, I wish you would n't sit so close to that lamp — it makes you look almost green. Hello, here 's Mina. Well, little one, what kind of a time did you have?" " Oh, lovely ! You know I went to luncheon with Mrs. Orme, and then we went to a Miss Somebody's concert, but that was awful slow, a perfect bore; but who do you think I saw there ? — Oh, don't go, Molly, this is the most inter- esting part — Daisy Murchison and her betrothed : the hand- somest man, a perfect love, a Mr. Mat — Maitland ; yes, that 's it — Maitland ; and she did look so sweet and happy end she had on the loveliest cloak you ever saw." " Mina, dear, a large box came for you to-day ; it looks as though there might be flowers in it — " " Oh, goody ! Where is it? " " In your room." " Hang it all, can't you say something to a fellow ? You might show some sympathy, I think. How am I to meet that girl?" "Oh, Tom, how am I to meet that man?" Anonymous. WIVES IN A SOCIAL GAME* BIGSBY and his wife went round to the Crosbys' the other night to spend the evening. They had been there only a short time when Crosby said, " Supposing we have a game of euchre ? " * From " A Modern Reader and Speaker" by George Riddle. Copyright, 1899, by Herbert S. Stone & Co., Duffleld & Company, Successors. 152 SELECTED READINGS Mrs. B. Oh, let 's ; I think euchre is perfectly lovely. C. All right ; we '11 have a game or two. So the cards were brought out and a table cleared for the game. Like most men Crosby and Bigsby liked to play cards as if it were a matter of life and death, but it was different with the women. Mrs. B. [Seating herself at table facing the audience, and waving to the others to sit also.] I like euchre because it 's such a sociable game. ISTow, in whist one has to give such close attention to the game that — C. Come, cut for deal ! Mrs. C. Hope I '11 get it. Mrs. B. You '11 be real mean if you do. I always like to. Oh, Mr. Crosby has the deal, and he 's my partner. Goodie ! goodie ! Mrs. C. You're horrid! Oh, by the way, I met May Griggson and her baby on the street this afternoon. She 'd been down getting the baby photographed. I'd never seen her baby before, although it 's five months old and — Mrs. B. I 've never seen it yet. Is it pretty ? Mrs. C. Well, it has May's eyes and nose to a T, but of course, one can't tell how such a young baby will look when — • Oh, are those my cards ? What 's trumps ? C. Hearts. Mrs. C. Oh, mercy ! I 've a perfectly awful hand. I hope my partner — Mr. C. Come ! come ! no talking across the table. What will you do ? Mrs. B. Oh, I pass. I have n't a single trump, and — Mrs. C. I 'm not much better off. But about May Grigg- son; they say that Tom, her husband, thinks that the sun rises and sets in that baby, and that May won't leave it for an hour, not even with her own mother, and — Oh, did you know that Jenny Traf t's engagement to Fred Hilton had been announced ? Mrs. B. No ! Mrs. C. It's so, and — Oh, is it my play? What's trumps ? Mr. C. Hearts! Mrs. B. Who led? Mr. B. Crosby. Mrs. B. Then I — Oh, dear, I don't know what to play. Let me see, I 've got to follow suit, have n't I ? I guess this MONOLOGUES 153 nine-spot will do. As I was saying, Jennie and Fred were engaged at last and they say that the wedding 's to be right away for — Is n't that a new waist you have on ? Mrs. C. Yes — you like it? Mrs. B. I think it 's lovely. Here, they said two years ago that fancy waists were going out, and I do believe ihat they are worn more than ever. Mrs. C. Of course they are for — What ? It 's my play ! What 's trumps — hearts ? I thought diamonds were trumps. Well, it doesn't make any difference, for I haven't any. What led — spades ? Who played that ten-spot. I have n't any spades, so I guess I 'd better trump it for — Oh, my partner's already trumped it with his right bower and I threw away that good left bower. Can't I take it back? I can't ? We.ll, it 's real mean. Well, as I was saying, my dress- maker says that she made more fancy waists this season than ever before. Mrs. B. I don't doubt it. I'm having me one made of black chiffon over orange silk with beautiful jet passemen- teries and — What ! It 's my play ? Let me see — What 's trumps. Mr. B. Hearts ! Mrs. B. You needn't be so cross about it, Mr. Bigsby. What led? Mr. B. Diamonds. Mrs. B. Diamonds ! And you say that hearts are trump. Hearts, hearts, — I have n't any hearts nor any trumps, so I '11 play this club for — Yes, it 's a fine black chiffon, and you can't think how lovely the orange taffeta silk looks under it. The chiffon tones the orange down to the loveliest tint of pinkish yellow, and I 'm having rows and rows of fine tucking in front and — Mrs. C. I should think it would be lovely. Aren't you glad that those cunning and pretty little boleros have come in again ? Oh, it 's my play. What 's trumps ? Mr. C. Hearts! Mrs. C. Mercy! don't take my head off, if hearts are trumps, Jack Crosby. That 's the way with men ; they play cards as if their lives were at stake, and I — Oh, say, maybe — supposing we let Jack and George finish the game, and you go upstairs with me and see a new hat I 've just had sent home. It 's the most fetching thing I 've had for years, and I 'm dying to show it to you. I don't care for euchre, anyhow. 154 SELECTED READINGS Mrs. B. Neither do I. Whist is my game. Mrs. C. Mine too. There ! [Throwing down her cards.] You horrid, cross men ; you can go on with the game by your- selves. Which they were glad to do, after changing the game from euchre to poker. Anonymous, Adapted oy Anna Morgan. \ III POETRY SHAKESPEARE He is above everybody of every time. No such man has been seen in the world; nothing so profound anywhere out of the Bible. Thomas Carltle. " Revolving years have flitted on; Corroding time has done its worst. Pilgrim and worshipper have gone From Avon's shrine to shrine of dust. But Shakespeare lives unrivalled still And unapproached by mortal mind, The giant of Parnassus hill, The pride and monarch of mankind." Ill — POETRY HAMLET'S INSTRUCTION TO THE PLAYERS Hamlet, Act III, Scene 2 SPEAK the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently ; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. 0, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the ground- lings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inex- plicable dumb-shows and noise. I could have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action ; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature ; for anything so overdone is from the pur- pose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ? t were, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. 0, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. 158 SELECTED READINGS HAMLET'S DECLARATION OF FRIENDSHIP From Act III, Scene 2 Hamlet. WHAT ho! Horatio! Horatio. Here, sweet lord, at your service. Hamlet. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man As e'er my conversation coped withal. Horatio. 0, my dear lord, — Hamlet. Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee That no revenue hast but thy good spirits, To feed and clothe thee ? Why should the poor be flatter'd? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her election Hath sealed thee for herself ; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en with equal thanks : and blest are those Whose blood and judgement are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. OTHELLO'S APOLOGY [Othello's apology is, as he himself declares, a plain unvarnished tale of his wooing of Desdemona. The speech calls for great dignity, simplicity, and power, in both speech and manner.] MOST potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her: The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Eude am I in my speech, And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used POETRY 159 Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of. broil and battle, And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, — - For such proceeding I am charg'd withal, — I won his daughter. Her father loved me ; of t invited me ; Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year, — the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd. I ran it through, even from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it : Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence And portance in my travels' history: This to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline : But still the house-affairs would draw her thence ; Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She ? ld come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse : which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively : I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : She swore, in faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange, 'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful : She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wished 160 SELECTED READINGS That heaven had made her such a man : she thank'd me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 1 should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake : She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd ; And I lov'd her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used. MERCUTIO'S DESCRIPTION OF QUEEN MAB Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 4 [These lines are the finest example in the language of a pure staccato movement of syllables, lightly and separately poised. Only a butter- fly could give adequately its grace and spring and airiness.] OH, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep ; Her wagon-spokes made of long spinners' legs, The cover of the wings of grasshoppers, The traces of the smallest spider's web, The collars of the moonshine's watery beams, Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film, Her wagoner, a small gray-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid : Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love ; O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees ; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are : Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime comes she with a tithe-p'ig's tail Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, POETRY 161 Then dreams he of another benefice : Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five-fathom deep ; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus frighted swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. THE SEVEN AGES As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7 [This is a succession of purely imaginative ideas which the voice should touch lightly. In this speech one meets always the question of impersonation: shall the mewling infant, the whining schoolboy, the sighing lover and the rest be imitated by the reader? It is in better taste not to impersonate these seven characters beyond certain almost imperceptible hints which the gayety of Jaques's mind might naturally throw off.] ALL the world 's a stage, And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits and their entrances ; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms : And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances ; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side ; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 11 162 SELECTED READINGS And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. THE MOTLEY FOOL As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7 [Jaques quotes from the fool with direct and intended imitation, even exaggeration of the latter's voice and manner. Here we find a good example of uncontrolled laughter.] A FOOL, a fool ! I met a fool i' the forest, A motley fool ; a miserable world \ As I do live by food, I met a fool ; Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms, and yet a motley fool. " Good morrow, fool," quoth I. " No, sir," quoth he, " Call me not fool till Heaven hath sent me fortune." And then he drew a dial from his poke, And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, " It is ten o'clock : Thus we may see," quoth he, " how the world wags : ? T is but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more ? t will be eleven ; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear The motley fool thus moral on the time, My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep-contemplative, And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. noble fool ! A worthy fool ! Motley 's the only wear. POETRY 163 BENEDICK'S SOLILOQUY Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, Scene 3 [The soliloquy is about Claudio in love. Although it is directed against matrimony, we see that Benedick has his own marriage in mind. His wife must be fair, mild, noble, witty, rich, wise, virtuous, and musical. He afterwards confesses to have all these things com- bined in Beatrice.] BOY! In my chamber-window lies a book: bring it hither to me in the orchard. ... I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love ; and such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armor; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier ; and now is he turned orthography : his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with these eyes ? I cannot tell ; I think not. I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster ; but I '11 take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; an- other virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Kich she shall be, that 's certain ; wise, or I '11 none ; virtuous, or I '11 never cheapen her ; fair, or I '11 never look on her ; mild, or come not near me ; noble, or not I for an angel ; of good dis- course, an excellent musician, and he.7 hair shall be of what color it please God. LIFE'S REVELS The Tempest, Act IV, Scene 1 UR revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air: o 164 SELECTED READINGS And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-eapp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on ; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. JULIET'S WOOING OF THE NIGHT From Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene 2, Capulet's orchard Enter Juliet Jultet. GALLOP apace, you fiery-footed steeds Towards Phoebus' lodging : such a wagoner As Phaethon would whip you to the west, And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaways' eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen. Come night ; come Romeo ; come, thou day in night ; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow on a raven's back. Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night Give me my Romeo ; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. Act II Scene 5. Capulet's orchard Enter Juliet Juliet. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse ; In half an hour she promised to return. Perchance she cannot meet him ; that 's not so. POETRY 165 0, she is lame ! love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams, Driving back shadows over lowering hills ; Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day's journey and from nine till twelve Is three long hours, yet she is not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift in motion as a ball ; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me : [Nurse is seen approaching. Heaven, she comes! [Running to her.} honey nurse, what news? Nurse. [Irritated.] 1 am a-weary [Looks at Juliet], give me leave awhile: [Juliet takes nurse's cane, rests it against a tree. Nurse walks towards rustic seat. Tie, how my bones ache! [Puts both hands on her knees: sinks on seat.'] what a jaunt have I had ! Juliet. [Buns to her and kneels at her left side.] I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. Nay, come, I pray thee, speak ; good, good nurse, speak. [Puts arms about her neck. Nurse. [Unclasping Juliet's hands and casting her aside.] Jesu, what haste ? can you not stay awhile ? [Fanning herself with her hands. Do you not see that I am out of breath ? Juliet. [In graceful attitude on the floor, leaning on her hands, behind her.] How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath ? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. [Rises to her knees, puts arms around nurse's neck. Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that; Say either, and I '11 stay the circumstance. [Puts her cheek against the nurse's cheek. Let me be satisfied, is 't good or bad ? Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice ; You know not how to choose a man, [Juliet rises and pouts. 166 SELECTED READINGS Go thy ways, wench ; serve God. [During this dialogue the nurse delights in teas* ing Juliet, being a little jealous of Juliet's anxiety to hear from Romeo. What, have you dined at home ? Juliet. No, no ; but all this did I know before. [Goes behind nurse, putting her arms about her neck, coaxingly. What says he of our marriage ? What of that ? Nurse. Lord, how my head aches ! [Juliet tenderly rubs one side of nurse's head.] what a head have I ! [Juliet rubs other side. It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. [Juliet rubs both sides at same time; makes pantomime of impatience. My back [Juliet kneels and rubs her right side.] o' t' other side, [Juliet rises and goes to the other side; kneels, and rubs other side. [Rocking back and forth.] 0, my back, my back ! [Looks at Juliet severely. Beshrew your heart for sending me about, To catch my death with jaunting up and down ! Juliet. [Embracing nurse.] I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love ? Nurse. Your love says [Juliet jumps up, clapping her hands, delighted that she is at last to be told the neius.], like an honest gentleman, [Juliet nods in approval. And a courteous, [Juliet nods again.] and a kind, [Juliet nods again.] and a handsome, [Juliet nods ecstatically. And, I warrant, a virtuous, — [Juliet looks disapproval. Where is your mother? Juliet. [Slowly goes behind the nurse, to her left.] Where is my mother ! why, she is within ; Where should she be ? How oddly thou repliest ! " Your love says, like an honest gentleman, Where is your mother ? " Nurse. God's lady dear ! Are you so hot ? marry, come up, I trow ; [Juliet goes to her. Is this the poultice for my aching bones ? POETRY 167 Henceforward do your messages yourself, Juliet. [Retires slowly up stage, pouiingly.~\ Here 's suoh a coil ! [Juliet, in pantomime, indicates to the audi- ence that she will coax the nurse; she goes on tiptoe to her right side, and attempts to kiss her on right cheelc. The nurse hastily turns her head, looking at the audience as much as to say, " I 11 Iceep this up for awhile/' Juliet resolves to make a second attempt. She tiptoes around softly to the nurse's left side and stoops to hiss her. The nurse again turns her head. Juliet hesi- tates; then resolves to make a third effort; she tiptoes in a wide circle, round right, down in front of the nurse, who can no longer withstand her. She extends both arms to Juliet, who flies into them, and is clasped in a warm embrace. come, what says Romeo? Nurse. [Looking at Juliet fondly.] Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day ? Juliet. [Jumping up and clapping her hands.] I have. Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell ; There stays a husband to make you a wife. [Juliet stands in bashful attitude, blushing, covers her cheek with her hand, the fingers of which are spread widely apart. Nurse observing. Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, . . . Hie you to church, [Rising and going to right.] I must an- other way, [Juliet runs, fetches the nurse's cane, which she places in her right hand, at the same time throwing her left arm affectionately around the nurse, as they go up right. To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a bird's nest soon [Turning around left and facing Juliet; speak- ing in low tone. when it is dark; Go ; I '11 to dinner : hie you to the cell. 168 SELECTED READINGS Juliet. [Joyously.] Hie to high fortune ! Honest nurse, farewell. [As Juliet is rushing off left, the nurse gives a slight cough; Juliet turns, rushes bach, and hisses the nurse on her left cheeh; then hur- riedly leaves the stage, left. The nurse leaning on her cane, stands watching her, nods her head, sighs, and goes off right. Shakespeabe. Arranged by Anna Morgan. THE POTION SCENE From Romeo and Juliet, Act IV, Scene 3 Scene: Juliet's chamber Enter Juliet and Nurse, who bears wedding garments Juliet. [Loohing at garments.'] AY, those attires are best : but, gentle nurse, I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin. Enter Lady Capulet Lady Cap. What, are you busy, ho ? need you my help ? Juliet. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries As are behovef ul for our state to-morrow : So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you; For, I am sure, you have your hands full all, In this so sudden business. Lady Cap. [Crossing and hissing Juliet on the fore' head.] Good night ; Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need. [Exit Lady Capulet, right, followed by nurse, who pauses, loohs at Juliet, comes bach, embraces her, and exit hurriedly. Juliet. [Loohing after them.] Farewell ! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, POETRY 169 That almost freezes up the heat of life : I '11 call them back again to comfort me. [Running to right. Nurse ! What should she do here ? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. [Taking vial from her bosom, holding it in left hand and referring to it with right hand. What if this mixture do not work at all ? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? No, no : [Drawing dagger with right hand from girdle left.~\ this shall forbid it. [Advances three steps and lays the dagger on a small table.'] Lie thou there. [Again referring to the vial. What if it be a poison, which the Friar Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonored Because he married me before to Eomeo ? I fear it is ; and yet, methinks, it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. [Puts vial in her bosom. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Eomeo Come to redeem me ? there 's a fearful point ! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Eomeo comes ? Or, if I live, is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place, — As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where, for these many hundred years, the bones Of all my buried ancestors are packed; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies festering in his shroud ; where, as they say, ^ At some hours in the night spirits resort; . . . 0, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears? And madly play with my forefathers' joints ? And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud? And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ? 170 SELECTED READINGS 0, look ! methinks I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo, . . . Stay, Tybalt, stay ! — Romeo, I come ! [Drawing vial from bosom with left hand and withdrawing cork with right hand. this do I drink to thee. [Throws away the vial. She is overcome, sinks to the couch or floor. [Note. Neither the vial nor the dagger should be used except when the scene is given with costumes and scenery.] UP AT A VILLA — DOWN IN THE CITY [An Italian of quality who is bored to death in his country residence, but cannot afford the town, contrasts the dulness of the villa with the amusements of the city.] HAD I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city- square ; Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there ! Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least ! There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast ; While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. Well now, look at our villa ! stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull ! — I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair 's turned wool. But the city, oh the city — the square with the houses ! Why ? They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there 's something to take the eye ! Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry ; You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. POETRY 171 What of a villa ? Though winter be over in March by rights, 'T is May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights : You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive- trees. Is it better in May, I ask you? You 've summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. Is it ever hot in the square ? There 's a fountain to spout and splash ! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam- bows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Kound the lady atop in her conch — fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted fore- finger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months of the fever and chill. Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in : You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. 172 SELECTED READINGS By and by there 's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth ; Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture, — the new play, piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's ! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and- So, Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero, "And moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." Noon strikes, — here sweeps the procession ! our Lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart ! Bang-wliang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. No keeping one's haunches still : it 's the greatest pleasure in life. But bless you, it 's dear — it 's dear ! fowls, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city ! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still — ah, the pity, the pity ! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles ; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better pre- vention of scandals : Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life ! Robert Browning. POETRY 173 SUMMUM BONUM ALL the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee : All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and shine, — wonder, wealth, and — how far above them — Truth, that 's brighter than gem, Trust, that 's purer than pearl, Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe — all were for me In the kiss of one girl. Robert Browning. A TALE [A wife is recalling to her poet husband a tale which he once told her of a musician who was enabled to win a prize through the aid of a cricket, who sounded the wanting note when one of the strings of his lyre snapped in twain. She desires similar recognition from her husband for the encouragement and help she has given him.] WHAT a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time — Said you found it somewhere (scold me !) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin ? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. Anyhow there ? s no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre ; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that 's behind. 174 SELECTED READINGS There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, — Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss : such ears Had old judges, it appears ! None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile " In vain one tries Picking faults out : take the prize 1 " When, a mischief ! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir, — who had guessed Such ill luck in store ? — it happed One of those same seven strings snapped. All was lost, then ! No ! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) — Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music — flew With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat? Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly, — indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet. Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent, " Take the prize — a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument? POETRY 175 Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp ! " Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done? That 's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul development. No ! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning : (Sir, I hope you understand!) — Said " Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me ! " So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size ; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. That 's the tale : its application ? Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that 's — Oh, AH so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize ! If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue's built, Tell the gazer " 'T was a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? " For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played, — With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike, — one string that made ' Love ' sound soft was snapt in twain, Never to be heard again, — 176 SELECTED READINGS " Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered 6 Love, Love, Love/ whene'er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone." But you don't know music ! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a — poet? All I care for Is — to tell him that a girl's " Love " comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!) Robert Browning. ONE WAY OF LOVE [A lover has spent all "June" in gathering roses to strew on his love's path with the chance of her seeing them ; he has spent months mastering the difficulties of the lute. If Pauline had bidden him sing he would have been prepared. He throws his whole life into a love which is hers to accept or reject. Although she cares for none of these things, he can still say "Blest are they who win love."] ALL June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside ? Alas ! Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye. How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute ! To-day I venture all I know. She will not hear my music ? So ! Break the string; fold music's wing: Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion — heaven or hell ? She will not give me heaven ? 'T is well ! Lose who may — I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they ! Eobert Browning. POETRY 177 YOUTH AND ART ["Youth and Art" is a reminiscence of Bohemian days by a singer to a sculptor. Before they were famous they worked in garrets op- posite each other. Though they have succeeded in their artistic careers the singer feels that their lives have been incomplete because they missed one another.] IT once might have been, once only : We lodged in a street together, You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather. Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, Then laughed " They will see some day, Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 4 My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, " Kate Brown 's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered ! " I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster ; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master. We studied hard in our styles, Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, For air, looked out on the tiles, For fun, watched each other's windows. You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard too ; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth With fingers the clay adhered to. And I — soon managed to find Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind And be safe in my corset-lacing. "No harm ! It was not my fault If you never turned your eye's tail up As I shook upon E in alt., Or ran the chromatic scale up : 12 178 SELECTED READINGS For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare With bulrush and watercresses. Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling it ? Why did I not put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it? I did look, sharp as a lynx, (And yet the memory rankles), When models arrived, some minx Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles. But I think I gave you as good ! " That foreign fellow, — who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano ? " Could you say so, and never say, " Suppose we join hands and fortunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her piano, and long tunes and short tunes " ? No, no; you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over: You 've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover. But you meet the Prince at the Board, I'm queen myself at bals-pares, I 've married a rich old lord, And you 're dubbed knight and an R.A. Each life unfulfilled, you see ; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired, — been happy, And nobody calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever: This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever. Robert Browning. POETRY 179 CONFESSIONS ["Confessions" is a dying man's reply to a clergyman's inquiry: Does he view the world as a vale of tears now that he comes to die? In fancy he roves through past days, and is retracing the path by which he could creep unseen by any eyes but hers to the " rose-wreathed gate." The scene comes back to him in the arrangement of medicine bottles on a table at his bedside. He admits that their meetings were "sad and bad and mad. . . . But then, how it was sweet !"] WHAT is he buzzing in my ears ? " Now that I come to die, Do I view the world as a vale of tears ? " Ah, reverend sir, not I! What I viewed there once, what I view again Where the physic bottles stand On the table's edge, — is a suburb lane, With a wall to my bedside hand. That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, From a house you could descry O'er the garden wall ; is the curtain blue Or green to a healthy eye ? To mine, it serves for the old June weather Blue above lane and wall ; And that farthest bottle labelled " Ether " Is the house o'ertopping all. At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper, There watched for me, one June, A girl : I know, sir, it 's improper, My poor mind's out of tune. Only, there was a way . . . you crept Close by the side, to dodge Eyes in the house, two eyes except: They styled their house " The Lodge." What right had a lounger up their lane? But, by creeping very close, With the good wall's help, — their eyes might strain And stretch themselves to Oes, 180 SELECTED READINGS Yet never ca?teh her and me together, As she left the attic, there, By the rim of the bottle labelled " Ether," And stole from stair to stair, And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, We loved, sir — used to meet : How sad and bad and mad it was — But then, how it was sweet ! Kobert Browning. TIME'S REVENGES ["Time's Revenges" is a confession made in the form of a soliloquy. The speaker has a man friend whose devotion will stand any test, yet he cannot reciprocate. The friend is revenged by the fact that the man loves a woman for whom he has given up body and soul and peace and fame; yet she would see him " roast at a slow fire" if it would procure her an invitation to a certain ball.] I'VE a Friend, over the sea ; I like him, but he loves me. It all grew out of the books I write ; They find such favor in his sight That he slaughters you with savage looks Because you don't admire my books. He does himself, though, — and if some vein Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain, To-morrow month, if I lived to try, Round should I just turn quietly, Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand Till I found him, come from his foreign land To be my nurse in this poor place, And make my broth and wash my face And light my fire and, all the while, Bear with his old good-humored smile That I told him " Better have kept away Than come and kill me, night and day, With, worse than fever throbs and shoots, The creaking of his clumsy boots/' I am as sure that this he would do, As that St. Paul's is striking two. And I think I rather . . . woe is me ! — Yes, rather should see him than not see, If lifting a hand could seat him there POETRY 181 Before me in the empty chair To-night, when my head aches indeed, And I can neither think nor read, Nor make these purple fingers hold The pen ; this garret 's freezing cold ! And I 've a Lady — there he wakes, The laughing fiend and prince of snakes Within me, at her name, to pray Fate send some creature in the way Of my love for her, to be down-torn, TJpthrust and outward-borne, So I might prove myself that sea Of passion which I needs must be ! Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint, And my style infirm, and its figures faint, All the critics say, and more blame yet, And not one angry word you get. But, please you, wonder I would put My cheek beneath that lady's foot Rather than trample under mine The laurels of the Florentine, And you shall see how the devil spends A fire God gave him for other ends ! I tell you, I stride up and down This garret, crowned with Love's best crown, And feasted with Love's perfect feast, To think I kill for her, at least, Body and soul and peace and fame, Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, — So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, Filled dull, eaten out and in With the face of her, the eyes of her, The lips, the little chin, the stir Of shadow round her mouth; and she — I '11 tell you — calmly would decree That I should roast at a slow fire, If that would compass her desire And make her one whom they invite To the famous ball to-morrow night. There may be heaven ; there must be hell ; Meantime, there is our earth here — well ! Robert Browning. 182 SELECTED READINGS PORPHYRIAS LOVER v [A man wishes to immortalize the moment when Porphyria, hia love, realized the supreme wish of her life to be completely his, and so murders her. God seems to justify the act, because no inner voice tells him it was wrong.] THE rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm ; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me forever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain : So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good : I found POETRY 183 A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck ; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still : The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead ! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now. And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word ! Eobeet Browning. MY LAST DUCHESS [Here we find a jealousy, a selfishness which exceeds that of Leontes. The Duke of Ferrara is exhibiting the portrait of his first wife to the envoy of a nobleman, whose daughter he purposes to marry. He is indignant because his wife was promiscuous in her admirations, and did not esteem his gift of a nine-hundred-year-old name above that of others. He has pride in possession, he cares more for the fact that he has a picture painted by Fra Pandolf than that it is a faithful portrait of his wife. He also boasts that he has a bronze especially cast for him by Claus of Innsbruck. This may be called a perfect monologue, telling as it does a com- plete story in fifty-six lines.] THAT ? s my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now : Fra Pandolf s hands "Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you sit and look at her ? I said " Fra Pandolf " by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 184 SELECTED READINGS The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek : perhaps Era, Pandolf chanced to say, " Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or " Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-blush that dies along her throat : " such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart — how shall I say ? — too soon made glad, Too easily impressed : she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 't was all one ! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the west, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace — all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good ! but thanked Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who 'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling ? Even had you skill In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, " Just this Or that in you disgusts me ; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark " — and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, — E'en then would be some stooping ; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without Much the same smile ? This grew ; I gave commands ; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will 't please you rise ? We '11 meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence POETRY 185 Of mine for dowry will be disallowed ; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we '11 go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me ! Robert Browning. GENTLEMEN-RANKERS TO the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned, To my brethren in their sorrows overseas, Sings a gentleman of England, cleanly bred, machinery crammed, And a trooper of the Empress, if you please. Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses, And faith he went the pace and went it blind, And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin, But to-day the Sergeant 's something less than kind. We 're poor little lambs who 've lost our way, Baa ! Baa ! Baa ! We 're little black sheep who 've gone astray, Baa-aa-aa ! Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree Damned from here to Eternity, God ha' mercy on such as we, Baa! Yah! Bah! Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops, And it 's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell, To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops, And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well. Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be Rider to your troop, And branded with a blasted worsted spur, When you envy, oh, how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanly Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you " Sir." If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep, And all we know most distant and most dear, Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep, Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer ? 186 SELECTED READINGS When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard- lantern gutters, And the horror of our fall is written plain, Every secret, self-revealing on the aching whitewashed ceiling, Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain? We have done with Hope and Honor, we are lost to Love and Truth, We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung, And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth, God help us, for we knew the worst too young ! Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence, Our pride it is to know no spur of pride, And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds ua And we die, and none can tell Them where we died. We 're poor little lambs who 've lost our way, Baa ! Baa ! Baa ! We 're little black sheep who 've gone astray, Baa-aa-aa ! Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree, Damned from here to Eternity, God ha' mercy on such as we, Baa! Yah! Bah! Rudyard Kipling. CHANT-PAGAN ME that 'ave been what I 've been, Me that 'ave gone where I 've gone, Me that 'ave seen what I Ve seen — 'Ow can I ever take on With awful old England again, An 'ouses both sides of the lane, And the parson an' gentry between, An' touchin' my 'at when we meet — Me that 'ave been what I 've been ? Me that 'ave watched 'arf a world 'Eave up all shiny with dew, Kopje on kop to the sun, An' as soon as the mist let 'em through POETRY 187 Our 'elios winkin' like fun — Three sides of a ninety-mile square, Over valleys as big as a shire — Are ye there ? Are ye there ? Are ye there ? An' then the blind drum of our fire — An' I'm rollin' 'is lawns for the Squire, Me! Me that 'ave rode through the dark Forty mile often on end, Along the Ma'ollisberg Kange, With only the stars for my mark An' only the night for my friend, An' things runnin' off as you pass, An' things jumpin' up in the grass, An' the silence, the shine an' the size Of the 'igh, inexpressible skies — I am takin' some letters almost As much as a mile, to the post, An' " mind you come back with the change ! " Me! Me that saw Barberton took When we dropped through the clouds on their 'ead An' they 'ove the guns over an' fled -~ Me that was through Di'mond '111, An' Pieters an' Springs an' Belfast — From Dundee to Vereeniging all ! Me that stuck out to the last (An' five bloomin' bars on my chest) I am doin' my Sunday-school best, By the 'elp of the Squire an' 'is wife (Not to mention the 'ousemaid an' cook), To come in an' 'ands up an' be still, An' honestly work for my bread, My livin' in that state of life To which it shall please God to call Me! Me that 'ave followed my trade In the place where the lightnin's is made, 'Twixt the Eains and the Sun and the Moon ; Me that lay down an' got up 188 SELECTED READINGS Three years an' the sky for my roof — That 'ave ridden my 'unger an' thirst Six thousand raw mile on the 'oof, With the Vaal and the Orange for cup, An' the Brandwater Basin for dish, — . Oh ! it 's 'ard to be'ave as they wish, (Too 'ard, an' a little too soon), I'll 'ave to think over it first — Me! I will arise an' get 'ence; I will trek South and make sure If it 's only my fancy or not That the sunshine of England is pale, And the breezes of England are stale, An' there 's somethin' gone small with the lot ; For I know of a sun an' a wind, An' some plains and a mountain be'ind, An' some graves by a barb- wire fence ; An' a Dutchman I 've fought 'oo might give Me a job were I ever inclined, To look in an' off saddle an' live Where there 's neither a road nor a tree -— But only my Maker an' me, An' I think it will kill me or cure, So I think I will go there an' see. Rudyard Kipling. MY RIVAL I GO to concert, party, ball — What profit is in these ? I sit alone against the wall And strive to look at ease. The incense that is mine by right They burn before her shrine ; And that's because I'm seventeen And she is forty-nine. I cannot check my girlish blush, My color comes and goes; I redden to my finger tips, And sometimes to my nose. POETRY 189 But she is white where white should be, And red where red should shine. The blush that flies at seventeen Is fixed at forty-nine. I wish I had her constant cheek; I wish that I could sing All sorts of funny little songs, Not quite the proper thing. I 'm very gauche and very shy, Her jokes are n't in my line ; And, worst of all, I 'm seventeen, While she is forty-nine. The young men come, the young men go, Each pink and white and neat, She's older than their mothers, but They grovel at her feet. They walk beside her 'rickshaw wheels — They never walk by mine ; And that 's because I 'm seventeen, And she is forty-nine. She rides with half a dozen men (She calls them "boys" and "mashes") I trot along the Mall alone; My prettiest frocks and sashes Don't help to fill my programme-card, And vainly I repine From ten to two a. m. Ah me ! Would I were forty-nine. She calls me " darling," " pet," and " dear," And " sweet retiring maid." I 'm always at the back, I know, She puts me in the shade. She introduces me to men, " Cast " lovers, I opine, For sixty takes to seventeen, Nineteen to forty-nine. But even she must older grow And end her dancing days, She can't go on for ever so At concerts, balls, and plays. 190 SELECTED READINGS One ray of priceless hope I see Before my footsteps shine : Just think, that she '11 be eighty-one When I am forty-nine ! Eudyard Kipling. BOOTS WE 'RE foot — slog — slog — slog — sloggin' over Africa ! Foot — foot — foot — sloggin' over Africa — (Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again) ; There 's no discharge in the war ! Seven — six — eleven — five — nine-an'-twenty mile to-day — Four — eleven — seventeen — thirty-two the day before — (Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again) ; There 's no discharge in the war ! Don't — don't — don't — don't — look at what 's in front of you (Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again) ; Men — men — men — men — men — go mad with watchin' 'em, An' there 's no discharge in the war. Try — try — try — try to think o' something different — Oh — my — God — keep — me from goin' lunatic ! (Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin'. up an' down again) ; There 's no discharge in the war. Count — count — count — count — the bullets in the bandoliers ; If — your — eyes — drop — they will get atop o' you (Boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again) ; There 's no discharge in the war ! 'T ain't — so — bad — by — day because o' company, But night — brings — long — strings — o' forty thousand million (Boots — boots — boots — -boots, movin' up an' down again) ; There 's no discharge in the war ! I — 'ave — marched — six — weeks in 'ell an' certify It — is — not — fire — devils, dark, or anything But boots — boots — boots — boots, movin' up an' down again, An' there 's no discharge in the war ! Rudyard Kipling. POETRY 191 THE DREAM-SHIP* WHEN" the world is fast asleep, Along the midnight skies — As though it were a wandering cloud — The ghostly dream-ship flies. An angel stands at the dream-ship's helm, An angel stands at the prow, And an angel stands at the dream-ship's side With a rue-wreath on her brow. The other angels, silver-crowned, Pilot and helmsman are, And the angel with the wreath of rue Tosseth the dreams afar. The dreams they fall on rich and poor; They fall on young and old; And some are dreams of poverty, And some are dreams of gold. And some are dreams that thrill with joy, And some that melt to tears; Some are dreams of the dawn of love, And some of the old dead years. On rich and poor alike they fall, Alike on young and old, Bringing to slumbering earth their joys And sorrows manifold. The friendless youth in them shall do The deeds of mighty men, And drooping age shall feel the grace Of buoyant youth again. The king shall be a beggarman — The pauper be a king — In that revenge or recompense The dream-ship dreams do bring. * From" Songs and Other Verse" Copyright, 1896, by Eugene Field; published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 192 SELECTED READINGS So ever downward float the dreams That are for all and me, And there is never mortal man Can solve that mystery. But ever onward in its course Along the haunted skies — As though it were a cloud astray — The ghostly dream-ship flies. Two angels with their silver crowns Pilot and helmsman are, And an angel with a wealth of rue Tosseth the dreams afar. Eugene Field. THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH* I'D like to be a cowboy, an' ride a fiery hoss Way out into the big an' boundless West; I 'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across, An' I 'd pluck the bal' head eagle from his nest ! With my pistol at my side, I would roam the prarers wide, An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride — If I darst; but I darsen't! I 'd like to go to Af riky an' hunt the lions there, An' the biggest ollyf unts you ever saw ! I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw ! I 'd chase the pizen snakes An' the 'pottimus that makes His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes — If I darst ; but I darse n't ! I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, With a big black flag a-flyin' overhead ; I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew, An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red ! * From " Songs and Other Verse." Copyright, 1896, by Eugene Field; published by Charles Scribner's Sons, POETRY 193 With my cutlass in my hand On the quarterdeck I 'd stand And to deeds of heroism I 'd incite my pirut band — If I darst; but I darsen't! And, if I darst, I 'd lick my pa for the times that he 's licked me! 1 'd lick my brother an 5 my teacher, too ! I 'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, An' I 'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through ! You bet ! I 'd run away From my lessons to my play, An' I 'd shoo the hens, an' tease the cat, an' kiss the girls all day — If I darst ; but I darse n't ! Eugene Field. LONG AGO* I ONCE knew all the birds that came And nested in our orchard trees; For every flower I had a name — My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees; I knew where thrived in yonder glen What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe — Oh, I was very learned then; But that was very long ago ! I knew the spot upon the hill Where checkerberries could be found, I knew the rushes near the mill Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound ! I knew the wood, — the very tree Where lived the poaching, saucy crow, And all the woods and crows knew me — But that was very long ago. And pining for the joys of youth, I tread the old familiar spot Only to learn this solemn truth : I have forgotten, am forgot. * From "A Little Book of Western Verse." Copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field j published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 13 194 SELECTED READINGS Yet here 's this youngster at my knee Knows all the things I used to know; To think I once was wise as he — But that was very long ago. I know it 's folly to complain Of whatsoever the Fates decree; Yet were not wishes all in vain, I tell you what my wish should be : I 'd wish to be a boy again, Back with the friends I used to know ; For I was, oh ! so happy then — But that was very long ago ! Eugene Field. THE OLD MAN AND JIM* OLD man never had much to say — 'Ceptin' to Jim, — And Jim was the wildest boy he had — And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! Never heard him speak but once Er twice in my life, — and the first time was When the army broke out, and Jim he went, The old man backin' him, f er three months ; And all 'at I- heerd the old man say Was, jes' as we turned to start away, — " Well, good-bye, Jim : Take keer of yourse'f ! " 'Peared-like, he was more satisfied Jes' locikm' at Jim And likin' him all to hisse'f like, see ? — 'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him ! And over and over I mind the day The old man come and stood round in the way While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim — And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say, "Well, good-bye, Jim: Take keer of yourse'f ! " * By permission of the author and the publishers of James Whitcomb Riley's verse, Messrs. Bobbs-Merrill Co. POETRY 195 Never was no thin' about the farm Distinguished Jim; Neighbors all used to wonder why The old man 'peared wrapped up in him : But when Cap. Biggler he writ back 'At Jim was the bravest boy we had In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, And his iightin' good as his f armin' bad — 'At he had led, with a bullet clean Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen, — The old man wound up a letter to him 'At Cap. read to us, 'at said : " Tell Jim Good-bye, And take keer of hisse'f ." Jim come home jes' long enough To take the whim 'At he 'd like to go back in the calvery — And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! Jim 'lowed 'at he 'd had sich luck afore, Guessed he 'd tackle her three years more. And the old man give him a colt he 'd raised, And followed Mm over to Camp Ben Wade, And laid around fer a week or so, Watchin' Jim on dress-parade — Tel finally he rid away, And last he heerd was the old man say, — " Well, good-bye, Jim : Take keer of yourse'f ! " Tuk the papers, the old man did, A-watchin' fer Jim — Fully believin' he 'd make his mark Some way — jes' wrapped up in him ! — And many a time the word u'd come 'At stirred him up like the tap of a drum — At Petersburg, fer instunce, where Jim rid right into the cannons there, And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, And socked it home to the boys in gray, As they scooted fer timber, and on and on — 196 SELECTED READINGS Jim a lieutenant and one arm gone, And the old man's words in his mind all day, " Well, good-bye, Jim : Take keer of yourse'f ! " Think of a private, now, perhaps We '11 say like Jim, 'At 's clumb clean up to the shoulder-straps — And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! Think of him — with the war plum* through, And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue A-laughin' the news down over Jim, And the old man bendin' over him — The surgeon turnin' away with tears 'At had n't leaked f er years and years, As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to His father's, the old voice in his ears, — " Well, good-bye, Jim : Take keer of yourse'f ! " James Whitcomb Riley. OUT TO OLD AUNT MARY'S* WAS N'T it pleasant, brother mine, In those old days of the lost sunshine Of youth — when the Saturday's chores were through, And the " Sunday's wood " in the kitchen, too, And we went visiting, "me and you," Out to Old Aunt Mary's? It all comes back so clear to-day! Though I am as bald as you are gray — Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, We platter along in the dust again, As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, Out to Old Aunt Mary's! We cross the pasture, and through the wood Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, * By permission of the author and the publishers, Messrs, Bobbs-MerriU Co. POETRY 197 Where the hammering red-heads hopped awry, And the buzzard raised in the clearing sky, And lolled and circled, as we went by, Out to Old Aunt Mary's. And then in the dust of the road again; And the teams we met, and the countrymen } And the long highway, with sunshine spread As thick as butter on country bread, Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead Out to Old Aunt Mary's. Why, I see her now in the open door, Where the little gourds grew up the sides, and o'er The clapboard roof ! — And her face — ah, me ! Was n't it good for a boy to see — And was n't it good for a boy to be Out to Old Aunt Mary's? • ■ ■ And 0, my brother, so far away, This is to tell you she waits to-day To welcome us : — Aunt Mary fell Asleep this morning, whispering, " Tell The boys to come ! " And all is well Out to Old Aunt Mary's. James Whitcomb Riley. THE LIFE LESSON* THERE! little girl don't cry! They have broken your doll, I know; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago ; But childish troubles will soon pass by. — There! little girl, don't cry! There! little girl, don't cry! They have broken your slate, I know; And the glad, wild ways Of your school-girl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by. — There! little girl, don't cry! By ■permission of the author and the publishers, Messrs. Bobbs-MerriU Co. 198 SELECTED READINGS There! little girl, don't cry! They have broken your heart, I know; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But Heaven holds all for which you sigh. — There! little girl, don't cry! James Whitcomb Eiley. JANE JONES JANE JONES keeps a-whisperin' to me all the time, An' says: "Why don't you make it a rule To study your lessons, an' work hard, an' learn, An' never be absent from school? Eemember the story of Elihu Burritt, How he dumb up to the top; Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had Down in the blacksmithin' shop." Jane Jones she honestly said it was so; Mebby he did — I dunno ; 'Course, what 's a-keepin' me 'way from the top Is not never havin' no blacksmithin' shop. She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, But full o' ambition and brains, An' studied philosophy all 'is hull life — An' see what he got for his pains. He brought electricity out of the sky With a kite an' the lightnin' an' key, So we 're owin' him more 'n anyone else Fer all the bright lights 'at we see. Jane Jones she actually said it was so. Mebby he did — I dunno ; 'Course, what 's allers been hinderin' me Is not havin' any kite, lightnin', or key. Jane Jones said Columbus was out at the knees When he first thought up his big scheme; An' all of the Spaniards an' Italians, too, They laughed an' just said 'twas a dream; POETRY 199 But Queen Isabella she listened to him, An' pawned all her jewels o' worth, An' bought 'im the Santa Marier 'n said: "Go hunt up the rest of the earth." Jane Jones she honestly said it was so ; Mebby he did — I dunno; 'Course, that may all be, but you must allow They ain't any land to discover just now. Ben King. SHE DOES NOT HEAR SH-SH-SH-SH-SHE does not hear the r-r-r-r-robin sing, Nor f-f-f-f-feel the b-b-b-b-balmy b-b-breath of Spring; Sh-sh-sh-she does not hear the p-p-pelting rain B-b-b-beat ta-ta-tat-t-t-toos on the w-w-winder p-p-pane. Sh-sh-sh-she cuc-cuc-cannot see the Autumn s-s-sky, Nor hear the wild geese s-s-s-stringing b-b-by; And, oh ! how happy 't-t-t-'tis to know Sh-sh-she never f-f -feels an earthly woe ! I s-s-spoke to her; sh-sh-she would not speak. I kuk-kuk-kissed her, but c-c-cold was her cheek. I could not twine her w-w-w-wondrous hair — It w-w-was so wonderf-f-f-fully rare. B-b-beside her s-s-stands a v-v-v-vase of flowers, A gilded cuc-cuc-cuc-clock that t-t-tells the hours; And even now the f-f -fire-light f-f -f-f alls On her, and d-d-dances on the walls. Sh-sh-she 's living in a p-p-pup-purer life, Where there 's no tu-tuh-turmoil or no strife ; No t-t-t-tongue can m-m-m-mock, no words embarrass Her b-b-b-b-by g-g-gosh ! she 's p-p-plaster Paris ! Ben King. IF I CAN BE BY HER I D-D-DO N'T c-c-c-are how the r-r-r-obin sings, Er how the r-r-r-ooster f-f-flaps his wings, Er whether 't sh-sh-shines, er whether it pours, Er how high up the eagle s-s-soars, If I can b-b-b-be by her. 200 SELECTED READINGS I don't care if the p-p-p-people s-say, 'At I'm weak-minded every-w-way, An' n-n-never had no cuh-common sense, I 'd c-c-c-cug-climb the highest p-picket fence If I could b-b-b-be by her. If I can be by h-h-her, I '11 s-s-swim The r-r-r-est of life thro' th-th-thick an' thin; I '11 throw my overcoat away, An' s-s-s-stand out on the c-c-c-oldest day, If I can b-b-b-be by her. You s-s-see sh-sh-she weighs an awful pile, B-b-b-but I d-d-d-don't care — sh-she 's just my style, An' any f-f-fool could p-p-p-lainly see She'd look well b-b-b-by the side of me, If I could b-b-b-be by her. I b-b-b-braced right up, and had the s-s-s-and To ask 'er f-f-f -father f-f-f er 'er hand ; He said: "Wh-wh-what p-p-prospects have you got?" I said : " I gu-gu-guess I 've got a lot, If I can b-b-b-be by her." It's all arranged f-f-f er Christmas Day, Per then we 're goin' to r-r-r-run away, An' then s-s-some th-th-thing that cu-cu-could n't be At all b-b-b-efore will then, you s-s-see, B-b-b-because I '11 b-b-b-be by her. Ben King. BUT THEN JOHN OSWALD McGUFFW he wanted to die 'Nd bring his career to an end; 0' course, well — he did n't say no thin' to me — But that 's what he told every friend. So one afternoon he went down to the pier, 'N"d folks saw him actin' most terribly queer; He prayed 'nd he sung, put his hand up to cough 'An every one thought he was goin' to jump off — POETRY 201 But he did n't. He may jump to-morrer Mornin' at ten — Said he was goin' to Try it again. But then — John Oswald he said he was tired of the earth — Of its turmoil and struggle and strife, 'Nd he made up his mind a long time ago He was just bound to take his own life ; 'Nd the very next time 'at he started to shave, Determined to die, he was goin' f be brave ; So he stood up 'nd flourished the knife in despair, 'Nd every one thought 'at he 'd kill himself there — But he did n't. He says 'at to-morrer Mornin' at ten He has a notion to Try it again. But then — He went and bought arsenic, bought Paris green, 'Nd cobalt 'nd all kinds of stuff 'Nd he took great delight in leaving it 'round — Of course that was done for a bluff. Then he rigged up his room with a horrible thing, That would blow his head off by pullin' a string. Folks heard the explosion — rushed up — on his bed John Oswald was lyin'. They whispered, "He 's dead" — But he was n't. He riz up an' said: He could n't say when He 'd fully decide to Try it again. But then — Ben King. ACCOUNTABILITY * FOLKS ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits; Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' de rabbits. * Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. 202 SELECTED READINGS Him dat built de great big mountains hollered out de little valleys, Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to make de alleys. We is all constructed diff'ent, d' ain't no two of us de same ; !We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we 'se bad we ain't to blame. Ef we'se good, we needn't show off, case you bet it ain't ouah doin' We gits into suttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin'. But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could fill, An' we does the things we has to, big er little, good er ill. John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally ain't alike; Bass ain't nuthin' like a suckah, chub ain't nuthin' like a pike. When you come to think about it, how it 's all planned out it 's splendid. Nuthin's done er evah happens, 'dout hit's somefin' dat's intended ; Don't keer whut you does, you has to, an' hit sholy beats de dickens, — Viney, go put on de kittle, I got one o' mastah's chickens. Paul Laurence Dunbar. WHEN MALINDY SINGS* G'WAY an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy — ■ Put dat music book away; What 'd de use to keep on tryin' ? Ef you practise twell you 're gray, You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin' Lak de ones dat rants and rings E'om de kitchen to de big woods When Malindy sings. You ain't got de nachel o'gans Fu' to make de soun' come right, You ain't got de tu'ns an' twistin's Fu to make it sweet an' light. * Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. POETRY 203 Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy, An' I 'm tellin' you f u' true, When hit comes to raal right singin', 'Tain't no easy thing to do. Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah, Lookin' at de lines an' dots, When dey ain't no one kin sense it, An' de chune comes in, in spots; But fu' real melojous music, Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings, Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me When Malindy sings. Ain't you nevah hyeah'd Malindy? Blessed soul, tek up de cross ! Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey? Well, you don't know whut you los\ Y' ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin', Bobins, la'ks, an' all dem things, Hush dey moufs an' hides dey faces When Malindy sings. Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin', Lay his fiddle on de she'f ; Mockin'-bird quit tryin' to whistle, 'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f. Folks a-playin' on de banjo Draps dey fingahs on de strings — Bless yo' soul — f u'gits to move 'em, When Malindy sings. She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs, " Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah Sinnahs' tremblin' steps and voices, Timid-lak a-drawin' neah; Den she tu'ns to " Bock of Ages," Simply to de cross she clings, An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin' When Malindy sings. Who dat says dat humble praises Wif de Master nevah counts? Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music, Ez hit rises up an' mounts — 204 SELECTED READINGS Floatin' by de hills an' valleys, - Way above dis buryin' sod, Ez hit makes its way in glory To de very gates of God! Oh, hit 's sweetah dan de music Of an edicated band; An' hit's dearah dan de battle's Song of triumph in de Ian'. It seems holier dan evenin' When de solemn chu'ch bell rings, Ez I sit an' ea'mly listen While Malindy sings. Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me! Mandy, mek dat chile keep still; Don't you hyeah de echoes callin' Fom de valley to de hill? Let me listen, I can hyeah it, Th'oo de bresh of angels' wings, Sof an' sweet, " Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," Ez Malindy sings. Paul Laurence Dunbar. ANGELINA * WHEN" de fiddle gits to singin' out a oP Vahginny reel, An' you 'mence to feel a ticklin' in yo' toe an' in yo' heel; Ef you t'ink you got 'uligion an' you wants to keep it, too, You jes' bettah tek a hint an' git yo'self clean out o' view. Case de time is mighty temptin' when de chune is in de swing Fu' a darky, saint or sinner man, to cut de pigeon-wing. An' }'ou couldn't he'p fom dancin' ef yo' feet was boun' wif twine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. Don't you know Miss Angelina? She's de da'lin of de place. W'y, de ain't no high-toned lady wif sich mannahs and sich grace. * Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. POETRY 205 She kin move across de cabin, wif its planks all rough an' wo', Jes' de same 's ef she was dancin' on ol' mistus' ball-room flo'. Fact is, you do' see no cabin — evaht'ing you see look grand, An' dat one ol' squeaky fiddle soun' to you jes' lak a ban'; Cotton britches look lak broadclof an' a linsey dress look fine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. Some folks say dat dancin' 's sinful, an' de blessed Lawd, dey say, Gwine to punish us fu' steppin' w'en we hyeah de music play. But I tell you I don't b'lieve it, fu' de Lawd is wise an' good, An' he made de banjo's metal an' he made de fiddle's wood, An' he made de music in dem, so I don' quite t'ink he'll keer Ef our feet keep time a little to de melodies we hyeah. Wy, dey's somep'n' downright holy in de way our faces shine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. Angelina steps so gentle, Angelina bows so low, An' she lif huh sku't so dainty dat huh shoetop skacely show: An' dem teef o' huh'n a-shinin', ez she tek you by de han' — Go 'way, people, d'ain't anothah sich a lady in de Ian' ! When she's movin' thoo de figgers er a-dancin' by huhse'f, Folks jes' stan' stock-still a-sta'in', an' dey mos' nigh hols' dey bref; An' de young mens, dey's a-sayin', "I's gwine mek dat damsel mine," When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' down de line. Paul Laurence Dunbar. IN THE MORNIN'* LIAS! 'Lias! Bless de Lawd! Don't you know de day's erbroad? If you don' git up, you scamp, 'De/ll be trouble in dis camp. Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. 206 SELECTED READINGS T'ink I gwine to let you sleep Wile I maks yo' boa'd an' keep? Dat's a putty howdy-do. Don' you hyeah me, 'Lias — you ? Bet ef I come 'crost dis no' You won't find no time to sno\ Da3 r light all a-shinin' in Wile you sleep — w'y hit's a sin! Ain't de can'le light enough To bu'n out widout a snuff, But you go de mo'nin' thoo Bu'nin' up de daylight too? 'Lias ! Don' you hyeah me call ? No use tu'nin' to'ds de wall, I kin hyeah dat mattuss squeak; Don' you hyeah me w'en I speak? Dis hyeah clock done struck off six — Car'line, bring me dem ah sticks. Oh, you down, suh; huh! you down — Look hyeah — don' you daih to frown. Ma'ch yo'se'f an' wash yo' face; Don' you splattah all de place; I got somep'n else to do 'Sides jes' cleanin' afteh you. Tek dat comb an' fix yo' haid — Looks jes' lak a feddah baid. Look hyeah, boy ! I let you see, You sha'n't roll yo' eyes at me. Come hyeah; bring me dat ah strap! Boy ! I '11 whup you 'twell you drap ; You done felt yo'se'f too strong; An' you sholy got me wrong. Set down at dat table, thaih; Jes' you whimpah ef you daih! Evah mo'nin' on dis place Seem lak I mus' lose my grace. Fol' yo' han's an' bow yo' haid — Wait until de blessin' 's said ; " Lawd have mussy on ouah souls " (Don' you daih to tech dem rolls — ) POETRY 207 " Bless de food we 'se gwine to eat " (You set still, I see yo' feet; You jes' try dat trick agin!) " Gin us peace an' joy. Amen ! " Paul Laubence Dunbar. ENCOURAGEMENT * WHO dat knockin' at de do'? Why, Ike Johnson, — yes, f u' sho' ! Come in, Ike. I's mightly glad You come down. I fought you 's mad At me 'bout de othah night, An' was stayin' way fu spite. Say, now, was you mad fu' true Wen I kin' o' laughed at you? Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. 'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad, An' a-mekin' out you 's mad ; Ef you's gwine to be so glum, Wondah why you evah come. I don't lak nobidy 'roun' Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown, — Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce ! Cain't you talk ? I tol' you once, Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night? Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right. I's done all dat I kin do, — Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you; Reckon I'd 'a' bettah wo' My ol' ragged calico. Aftah all de pains I 's took, Can't you tell me how I look? Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. Bless my soul ! I 'mos' f u'got Tellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott. Don't you know, come Thu'sday night, She gwine ma'y Lucius White? * Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. 208 SELECTED READINGS Miss Lize say I alius wuh Heap sight laklier 'n huh; An' she '11 git me somep'n new, Ef I wants to ma'y too. Speak up, Ike, an' spress yo'se'f. I could ma'y in a week, Ef de man I wants 'ud speak. Tildy's presents '11 be fine, But dey wouldn't ekal mine. Him whut gits me fu' a wife ? L1 be proud, you bet yo' life. I's had offers; some ain't quit; But I has n't ma'ied yit ! Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. Ike, I loves you, — yes, I does; You 's my choice, and alius was. Laffin' at you ain't no harm. — Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm? Hug me closer — dali, dat's right! Was n't you a awful sight, Havin' me to baig you so? Now ax whut you want to know, — Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f. Paul Laurence Dunbar. A COQUETTE CONQUERED* YES, my ha't's ez ha'd ez stone — Go 'way, Sam, an' lemme 'lone. No ; I ain't gwine to change my min' — Ain't gwine ma'y you — nuffin' de kin\ Phiny loves you true an' deah? Go ma'y Phiny; whut I keer? Oh, you needn't mou'n an' cry — I don't keer how soon you die. Got a present! Whut you got? Somef'n fu' de pan er pot! Huh! yo' sass do sholy beat — Think I don't git 'nough to eat? Copyrighted by Dodd, Mead & Company. Used by permission. POETRY 213 "The ill-timed truth we might have kept — Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say — Who knows how grandly it had rung ? " Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all ; But for our blunders — oh, in shame Before the eyes of Heaven we fall. "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! " The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, " Be merciful to me, a fool ! " Edwabd Rowland Sill. OPPORTUNITY * THIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:—- There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, " Had I a sword of keener steel — That blue blade that the king's son bears — but this Blunt thing — ! " he snapped and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle shout Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day. Edward Rowland Sill. * By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. 214 SELECTED READINGS OPPORTUNITY MASTEE of human destinies am I! Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait. Cities and fields I walk ; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and passing by Hovel and mart and palace — soon or late I knock unbidden once at every gate! " If sleeping, wake — if feasting, rise before I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore. I answer not, and I return no more ! " John James Ingalls. « SWEET-THING" JANE WHEN somebody comes a-tripping down, The winds all at play with her hair and gown; The very same winds that are just too lazy To lift a leaf or swing a daisy, — Then hold your heart with might and main; She is crossing the meadow, " Sweet-Thing " Jane. She always chooses the cool of the day, The way down to Lovetown, that ? s her way ; She knows very well (what is well worth knowing) There 's only one road — the road she is going ; And she knows she is sweet as a rose in the rain, And she knows — she will tell you — " Sweet-Thing " Jane. A light will burn in the blue of her eye, Like the star lit first in the evening sky ; And over her lips will bubble the laughter The brooks in the sun go running after; You will see, you will hear, at the gate in the lane, While slowly it opens to " Sweet-Thing " Jane. POETRY 215 You will open it wide, then what will you do? Why, you will be off for Lovetown too. The cool of the day is your lovers' weather, And all go to Lovetown two together. You may hold your heart with might and main, She will have it at last, will " Sweet-Thing " Jane. John Vance Cheney. THE HAPPIEST HEART WHO drives the horses of the sun Shall lord it but a day; Better the lowly deed were done, And keep the humble way. The rust will find the sword of fame, The dust will hide the crown; Ay, none shall nail so high his name Time will not tear it down. The happiest heart that ever beat Was in some quiet breast That found the common daylight sweet, And left to Heaven the rest John Vance Cheney. EL CAMINO REAL ALL in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day, You and I together on the King's Highway, The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea; There's many a road to travel, but it's this road for me. It's a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world. There are peaks that rise above it in their snowy mantles curled. And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of charparral, Down to the waters where the sea gulls call. It 's a long road and sunny, it 's a long road and old, And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold; They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk that trod From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God. 216 SELECTED READINGS They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk of old; Now the flocks they are scattered and death keeps the fold; But you and I together we will take the road to-day, With the breath in our nostrils, on the King's Highway. We will take the road together through the morning's golden glow, And we '11 dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago; We will stop at the missions where the sleeping padres lay, And we '11 bend a knee above them for their souls' sake to pray. We'll ride through the valleys where the blossom's on the tree, Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and the bee, And we '11 take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow, Past the gray trails of waterfalls where blue violets blow. Old Conquistadores, brown priests, and all, Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall ; There 's many a road to travel, but it 's this road to-day, With the breath of God about us on the King's Highway. John S. M'Groarty. A THEME* "i^l IVE me a theme," the little poet cried, VX " And I will do my part." " 'T is not a theme you need," the world replied, "You need a heart." Richard Watson Gilder. THE TWO MYSTERIES! WE know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill; The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all. * By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co., publishers of Mr. Gilder's works. t From "Poems and Verses.". Used by permission. POETRY 217 We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain ; This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go, Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. But this we know : Our loved and dead, if they should come this day — Should come and ask us, "What is life ? " — not one of us could say. Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be ; Yet oh, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see ! Then might they say, — these vanished ones, — and blessed is the thought, " So death is sweet to us, beloved ! though we may show you naught ; We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death — Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, So those who enter death must go as little children sent. Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. Maky Mapes Dodge. THE CHEER OF THOSE WHO SPEAK ENGLISH THE playground is heavy with silence, The match is almost done, The boys in the lengthening shadows Work hard for one more run — It comes ; and the field is a-twinkle With happy arms in air, While over the ground Rolls the masterful sound Of victory revelling there : Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers, and a tiger, too, For the match we have won And each sturdy son Who carried the victory through ! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! 218 SELECTED READINGS With clear voices uptossed For the side that has lost, And one cheer more For those winning before And all who shall ever win : The cry that our boys send in — The cheer of the boys who speak English I The ships-of-the-line beat to quarters, The drum and bugle sound, The lanterns of battle are lighted, Cast off! Provide! goes round; But ere the shrill order is given For broadsides hot with hate, Far over the sea Eings hearty and free Defiance to every fate: Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Three cheers, and a tiger, too, For the fight to be won And each sturdy son Who '11 carry the victory through ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! With the shout of the fleet For foes doomed to defeat, And one cheer more For those winning before, And all who shall win again: This is the cry of the men — The cheer of the men who speak English I The blare of the battle is over; The Flag we love flies on; The sailors in sorrowful quiet Look down on comrades gone ; The tremulous prayers are ended; The sea obtains its dead ; — Or ever the wave Eipples over their grave, One staunch good-bye is said : Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! POETRY 219 Three cheers, and a tiger, too, For the men who have won, For each sturdy son Who gave up his life to be true! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! With the shout of the host For the brothers we 've lost, And one cheer more For those falling before And those who have yet to fall: This is the cry of us all — The cheer of the folk who speak English! Wallace Kice. NASTURCHUMS I LIKE to watch nasturchums grow Where nothin' else '11 raise a bud ! They fight the fiercest winds that blow An' don't care if it 's sand or mud They 're growing in. They 're there to make Somebody glad, an' so they just Keep spreadin' out, an' laugh an' shake Themselves to bloom, because they must ! That 's why I like 'em ! Take a rose, You got to tend it like a child — • Excep' the brier ones, an' those Don't do so well, if they are wild. An' hollyhocks '11 shrivel up If they don't get enough o' rain — An' give 'em too much by a cup An' they act like this life 's in vain. But them nasturchums ! Say, they wear A sort o' smile, that seems to say Come sun, come rain, they never care, They got to grow up anyway ! No coaxin' needed — not a mite. They bloom the same for me as you, An' it 's a mighty pretty sight To see 'em noddin' howdy do. 220 SELECTED READINGS Well, there 's folks like 'em — just the same As them nasturchums is, I say, There 's plenty people I could name That live nasturchums lives to-day, Not hollerin' for sun or rain, But goin' cheerfully ahead, Like them nasturchums down the lane All understands they 've got to spread. You pull a pansy off, an' then That ends the pansy for all time, Nasturchums, though, they bloom again An' look for windows they can climb Up to, an' tap again' the pane An' beg some one to take 'em in. Well, in life's sunshine or its rain Some people is nasturchums' kin. The more you take, the more they give An' get the gladder all the while ; It seems as if they only live To give their blossoms with a smile. I like to watch nasturchums grow With blossoms noddin' from each stem, An', as I say, most of us know A lot o' folks that 's just like them. Wilbur D. Nesbit. WITH A POSY FROM SHOTTERY [The flowers named in this poem are all sung of by Shakespeare and all grow about Anne Hathaway's cottage.] IN" Shottery the posies nod and blow And marigolds and phlox stand all arow, The fields with daisies pied Eeach out on either side Just as they did those years and years ago. The banks with spicy wild thyme thickly set, The cowslips and the nodding violet, And daffodils that rise Before the swallow flies Delight us with their olden beauty yet. POETRY 221 Across the fields comes drifting fair and fine The fragrance of some dew-kissed, flowering vine, And at the meadow's edge There grows a scented hedge Of sweet musk-roses and of eglantine. Here in the heart of all the bud and bloom, Through drowsy summer days of rare perfume, The little cottage stands Where once her fair white hands Mocked sunbeams that had strayed into the room. And on the step whereby this posy grew Will Shakespeare often sat himself to woo, Or humming soft refrains Strolled through the winding lanes While dreaming of the deeds that he would do. This posy — withered now, and dead and brown — May well have sprung from those that Anne flung down From out her casement there, For Will to catch and wear What time he fared away to London Town. In Shottery are narrow, flowered ways Where cuckoo buds glow in the twilight haze — But one stands, musing on The flowers that are gone, The ones that bloomed in Shakespeare's yesterdays. Wilbur D. Nesbit. THE MAN WITH THE HOE* BOWED by the weight of centuries he leans Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground, The emptiness of ages in his face, And on his back the burden of the world. Who made him dead to rapture and despair, A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox ? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw ? Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow ? Whose breath blew out the light within this brain ? * By permission of the author and the publishers, Doubleday, McClure & Co. %&% SELECTED READINGS Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land ; To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And pillared the blue firmament with light? Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this — More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed- More filled with signs and portents for the soul — More fraught with menace to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim \ Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long stretches of the peaks of song, The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, Cries protest to the Judges of the World, A protest that is also prophecy. masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched? How will you ever straighten up this shape ; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Eebuild in it the music and the dream ; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes ? masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, How will the Future reckon with this Man ? How answer his brute question in that hour AVhen whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — • With those who shaped him to the thing he is — When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, After the silence of the centuries ? Edwin Markham. POETRY 223 DE HABITANT* DE place I get born, me, is up on de reever Near foot of de rapide dat 's call Cheval Blanc. Beeg mountain behin' it, so high you can't climb it An' whole place she 's meebe two honder arpent. De fader of me, he was habitant farmer, Ma gran'fader too, an' hees fader also. Dey don't mak' no monee, but dat is n't f onny For it 's not easy get ev'ryt'ing, you mus' know — All de sam' dere is somet'ing dey got ev'ryboddy, Dat 's plaintee good healt', wat de monee can't geev, So I 'm workin' away dere, an' happy for stay dere On farm by de reever, so long I was leev. ! dat was de place w'en de spring tarn she 's comin', Wen snow go away, an' de sky is all blue — Wen ice lef ' de water, an' sun is get hotter An' back on de medder is sing de gou-glou — Wen small sheep is firs' comin' out on de pasture, Deir nice leetle tail stickin' up on deir back, Dey ronne wit' deir moder, an' play wit' each oder An' jomp all de tarn jus' de sam' dey was crack. An' ole cow also, she 's glad winter is over, So she kick herse'f up, an' start off on de race Wit' de two-year-ole heifer, dat 's purty soon lef her, Wy ev'ryt'ing 's crazee all over de place ! An' down on de reever de wil' duck is quackin' Along by de shore leetle san' piper ronne — De bullfrog he 's gr-rompin' an' dore is jompin' — Dey all got deir own way for mak' it de fonne. But spring 's in beeg hurry, an' don't stay long wit' us, An' firs' f ing we know, she go off till nex' year, Den bee commence hummin', for summer is comin', An' purty soon corn 's gettin' ripe on de ear. Dat 's very nice tarn for wake up on de morning An' lissen de rossignol sing ev'ry place, Feel sout' win' a-blowin', see clover a-growin', An' allde worl' laughin' itself on de face. * Copyright G. P. Putnam's Sons. Used by permission. 224. SELECTED READINGS Mos' ev'ry day raf it is pass on de rapide, De voyageurs singin' some ole chanson 'Bout girl down de reever — too bad dey mus' leave her, But comin' back soon wit' beaucoup d'argent. An 5 den w'en de fall an' de winter come roun' us An' bird of de summer is all fly away, Wen mebbe she 's snowin' an' nort' win' is blowin* An' night is mos' free tarn so long as de day, You fink it was bodder de habitant farmer? Not at all — he is happy an' feel satisfy, An' cole may las' good w'ile, so long as de wood-pile Is ready for burn on de stove by-an'-by. Wen I got plaintee hay put away on de stable So de sheep an' de cow, dey got no chance to freeze, An' de hen all togedder — I don't min' de wedder — De norf win' may blow jus' so moche as she please. An' some cole winter night how I wish you can see us, Wen I smoke on de pipe, an' de ole woman sew By de stove of T'ree Eeever — ma wife's fader geev her On day we get marry, dat 's long tarn ago — De boy an' de girl, dey was readin' it 's lesson, De cat on de corner she 's bite heem de pup, Ole " Carleau " he 's snorin' an' beeg stove is roarin' So loud dat I 'm scare purty soon she bus' up. Philomene — dat 's de oldes' — is sit on de winder An' kip jus' so quiet lak wan leetle mouse, She say de more finer moon never was shiner — Very fonny, for moon is n't dat side de house. But purty soon den, we hear foot on de outside, An' some wan is place it hees han' on de latch, Dat 's Isidore Goulay, las' fall on de Brule He 's tak' it firs' prize on de grand ploughin' match. Ha ! ha ! Philomene ! — dat was smart trick you play us. Come help de young feller tak' snow from hees neck, Dere 's not' ing for hinder you come off de winder W'en moon you was look for is come, I expec' — POETRY 225 Isidore, he is tole us de news on de parish 'Bout hees Lajeunesse Colt — travel two-forty, sure, 'Bout Jeremie Choquette, come back from Woonsocket, An' free new leetle twin on Madame Vaillancour. But nine o'clock strike, an' de chil'ren is sleepy, Mese'f an' ole woman can't stay up no more ; So alone by de fire — 'cos dey say dey ain't tire — We lef' Philomene an' de young Isidore. I s'pose dey be talkin' beeg lot on de kitchen 'Bout all de nice moon dey was see on de sky, For Philomene 's takin' long tarn get awaken Nex' day, she 's so sleepy on bote of de eye. Dat's wan of dem tings, ev'ry tarn on de fashion, An' 'bout nices' t'ing dat was never be seen. Got no t'ing for say, me — I spark it sam' way, me Wen I go see de moder ma girl Philomene. We leev very quiet 'way back on de contree, Don't put on sam' style lak de big village, W'en we don't get de monee you t'ink dat is fonny An' mak' plaintee sport on de Bottes Sauvages. But I tole you — dat 's true — I don't go on de city If you geev de fine house an' beaucoup d'argent — I rader be stay, me, an' spen' de las' day, me On farm by de rapide dat 's call Cheval Blanc. William Henry Drummond. MY SHIPS IP all the ships I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well ! the harbor could not hold So many sails as there would be In all my ships now out at sea. If half the ships I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well ! I should have wealth as great As any king who sits in state, So rich the treasures there would be In half my ships now out at sea. 15 226 SELECTED READINGS If just one ship I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well ! the storm clouds then might frown; For, if the others all went down, Still rich, and proud, and glad I 'd be If that one ship came home to me. If that one ship went down at sea, And all the others came to me Weighted down with wealth untold, "With glory, honor, riches, gold; The poorest soul on earth I ? d be If that one ship came not to me. Oh, skies be calm, oh, winds blow free, Blow all my ships safe home to me; But if thou sendest some a-wreck, To nevermore come sailing back, Send any, all that skim the sea, But bring that one ship home to me. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. CARCASSONNE Translated from the French HOW old I am ! I ? m eighty year ! I 've worked both hard and long. Yet, patient as my life has been, One dearest sight I have not seen, — It almost seems a wrong : A dream I had when life was new — Alas, our dreams ! they come not true ; I thought to see fair Carcassonne ! I have not seen fair Carcassonne ! One sees it dimly from the height Beyond the mountain blue ; Fain would I walk five weary leagues — I do not mind the road's fatigues — Through morn and evening dew; But bitter frosts would fall at night, And on the grapes that yellow blight; I could not go to Carcassonne, I never went to Carcassonne. POETRY 227 They say it is as gay all times As holidays at home ; The gentles ride in gay attire, And in the sun each gilded spire Shoots up like those of Eome ! The Bishop the procession leads, The generals curb their prancing steeds — Alas ! I know not Carcassonne ! Alas ! I saw not Carcassonne ! Our Vicar 's right ; he preaches loud, And bids us to beware. He says : " 0, guard the weakest part, And most the traitor in the heart, Against ambition's snare ! " Perhaps in autumn I can find Two sunny days with gentle wind; I then could go to Carcassonne, I still could go to Carcassonne. My God and Father ! pardon me If this my wish offends ! One sees some hope more high than he, In age, as in his infancy, To which his heart ascends ! My wife, my son, have seen Narbonne, My grandson went to Perpignan; But I have not seen Carcassonne, I never have seen Carcassonne. Thus sighed a peasant, bent with age, Half dreaming in his chair. I said, " My friend, come go with me To-morrow; then your eyes shall see Those sights that seem so fair." That night there came, for passing soul, The church bell's low and solemn toll I He never saw gay Carcassonne. Who has not known a Carcassonne? M. E. W. Sherwood. 228 SELECTED READINGS "ONE, TWO, THREE"* IT was an old, old, old, old lady And a boy who was half -past three, And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see. She could n't go romping and jumping, And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin little twisted knee. They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree, And the game that they played I '11 tell you, Just as it was told to me. It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing, Though you 'd never have known it to be — With an old, old, old, old lady And a boy with a twisted knee. The boy would bend his face down On his one little sound right knee And he 'd guess where she was hiding, In guesses One, Two, Three. " You 're in the china closet ! " He would laugh and cry with glee. It was n't the china closet, But he still had Two and Three. " You are up in papa's big bedroom, In the chest with the queer old key " ; And she said, " You are warm and warmer, But you are not quite right," said she. " It can't be the little cupboard Where mamma's things used to be, So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma ! " And he found her with his Three. * Reprinted by permission from " Poems of H. C. Bunner" Copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, 1899, by Charles Scribner's Sons. POETRY 229 Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three. And they never had stirred from their places Right under the maple tree — This old, old, old, old lady And the boy with the lame little knee — This dear, dear, dear, old lady And the boy who was half -past three. H. C. Bunner. PROVENQAL LOVERS* WITHIN" the garden of Beaucaire He met her by a secret stair, — The night was centuries ago. Said Aucassin, " My love, my pet, These old confessors vex me so ! They threaten all the pains of hell Unless I give you up, ma belle "; Said Aucassin to Nicolette. " Now, who should there in heaven be To fill your place, ma tres-douce mie? To reach that spot I little care ! There all the droning priests are met; All the old cripples, too, are there That unto shrines and altars cling To filch the Peter-pence we bring " ; Said Aucassin to Mcolette. " There are the barefoot monks and friars With gowns well tattered by the briars, The saints who lift their eyes and whine; I like them not — a starveling set ! Who 'd care with folk like these to dine ? The other road 'twere just as well That you and I should take, ma belle! " Said Aucassin to Mcolette. * By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co, 230 SELECTED READINGS " To purgatory I would go With pleasant comrades whom we know, Eair scholars, minstrels, lusty knights Whose deeds the land will not forget, The captains of a hundred fights, The men of valor and degree ; We '11 join that gallant company ! " Said Aucassin to Mcolette. " There too, are jousts and joyance rare, And beauteous ladies debonair, The pretty dames, the merry brides, Who with their wedded lords coquette And have a friend or two besides, — And all in gold and trappings gay, With furs, and crests in vair and gray " ; Said Aucassin to Mcolette. " Sweet players on the cithern strings, And they who roam the world like kings, Are gathered there, so blithe and free ! Par die ! I M join them now, my pet, If you went also, ma douce mie! The joys of heaven I ? d forgo To have you with me there below ! " Said Aucassin to Mcolette. Edmund Clarence Stedman. MY ANGEL AND I AN angel was born in the soul of my soul ; His forehead shone like a lucent gem In its setting of golden hair; I felt his angelic pulses roll; Like the floor of the new Jerusalem, His bosom was white and fair. I said, " My angel, my youth's ideal, I will hold to you, though men call you unreal! The world said, " Let go ! " But I answered, "No!" POETRY 231 My life, when cast on his glittering breast, Broke into rainbow hues whose glow Was marvel Ions to behold, — Like a sunbeam drawn from its golden rest, And dashed on a prism, and shattered so Into violet, red, and gold. Men said, " A dream, a fantasy wild, Has ravished his soul and his reason beguiled." '&■ The world said, " Let go ! " But I answered, " No ! " We slipped — my angel and I — and fell; The star-beams blazed from his jostled crown Down, down — Heaven ! how low We slipped together in that dark well! The world, passing by, looked solemnly down With its wise " I told you so ! " My angel's robe looked draggled and torn; But I clung to him, spite of human scorn. The world said, " Let go ! " But I answered, " No ! " A jar, a crash! Did a thunderbolt fall From the throne of God with a lightning pace, And strike the earth to her heart? My angel reeled from his castle wall, And fold over fold clouds muffled his face, Forcing us wide apart. I clung to his white robe with a grip Too strong with the strength of despair to slip. The world said, "Let go!" But I answered, " No ! " We swept through strange darks together so; Clouds big with thunder about us crashed, And the lightning shook its wings; Through all the blackness and lurid glow God's face — though I did not know it — flashed, And his hand kept the balance of things. 232 SELECTED READINGS My angel, my angel, I clung to you then, Despite the pitiless gibes of men. The world said, "Let go!" But I answered, " No ! " Like the birth of a star from God's word in the night, The earth flashed out of the storm, all clad In the fresh robes of His love; We stood together on the height, — My angel and I, — serene and glad, With the hush of stars above. The world looked up with sapient eyes, And said, " I thought so ; you were wise ! " World, shall I let go? But the world cried, " No ! " Blanche Fearing. THE SHADOW CHILD* WHY do the wheels go whirring round, Mother, mother? Oh, mother, are they giants bound, And will they growl forever? Yes; fiery giants underground, Daughter, little daughter, Forever turn the wheels around And rumble-grumble ever. Why do I feel so tired each night, Mother, mother? The wheels are always buzzing bright — Do they grow sleepy never? Oh, baby thing, so soft and white, Daughter, little daughter, The big wheels grind us in their might And tire of grinding never. Why do I pick the threads all day, Mother, mother, While sunshine children are at play ? And must I work forever? * By permission of the Century Co. POETRY 233 Yes, shadow child, the livelong day! Daughter, little daughter, Your hands must pick the threads away And feel the sunshine never. Why do the birds sing in the sun, Mother, mother, While all day long I run and run — Run with the wheels forever? The birds may sing till day is done, Daughter, little daughter — But with the wheels your feet must run From dark till dark forever. And is the white thread never spun, Mother, mother? And is the white cloth never done — For you and me done never? Oh yes, our threads will all be spun, Daughter, little daughter, When we lie down out in the sun And work no more forever. And when will come that happy day, Mother, mother? Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play Out in the sun forever? Nay, shadow child, we '11 rest all day, Daughter, little daughter, Where green grass grows and roses gay Out in the sun forever. Harriet Monroe. THE WHOLE CREATION GROANETH ART glad with the gladness of youth in thy veins, In thy hands, for the spending earth's joys and its gains? Lo! winged with storm shadows, the torturers come; And to-night or to-morrow thy lips shall be dumb, Thy hands wet with pain-thrills, thy nerves, that were strung Of fineness of sense, by earth's pleasures be wrung 234 SELECTED READINGS With pangs the beast knows not, nor he who in tents Lives lone in the desert, and knoweth not whence The bread of to-morrow. Pain like to a mist Goeth up from the earth and is lost, and none wist Why ever it cometh, why ever it waits In the heart of our loves, like a foe in our gates. Lo! summer and sunshine are over the land, — Who marshalled yon billows ? What wind of command Drives ever their merciless march on the strand? Thus, dateless, relentless, the children of strife, None have seen, on the sun-lighted beaches of life. March ever the ravening billows of pain. heart that is breaking, go ask of the brain If aught of God's spending is squandered in vain? Yea, where is the sunshine of centuries dead? Yea, where are the raindrops of yesterday shed? God findeth anew his lost light in the force That holdeth the world on its resolute course, And surely, as surely the madness of pain Shall pass into wisdom, and come back again An angel of courage, if thou art the one That knoweth to deal with the lightnings that stun To blindness the many. A thousand shall fall By the waysides of life, and in helplessness call For the death-alms which nature gives freely to all ; And one, like the jewel, shall break the fierce light That blindeth thy vision, and flash through the night The colors that read us its meaning aright. S. Weir Mitchell. THE LUTE PLAYER* SHE was a lady great and splendid, I was a minstrel in her hall; A warrior like a prince attended And stayed his steed at her castle wall. Far had he fared to gaze upon her. " Oh, rest thee now, Sir Knight ! " she said. The warrior wooed, the warrior won her, In time of snowdrops they were wed. * By permission of the author and the publisher, John Lane Company, The Bodley Head. POETRY 235 I made sweet music in his honor — And longed to strike him dead. I passed at midnight from her portal, Throughout the world till death I roam. Oh, let me make this Lute immortal With rapture of my hate and love ! William Watson". THE DAY IS DONE* THE day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist ! A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time: For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; * By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. 236 SELECTED READINGS Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. Heney W. Longfellow. MARGUERITE * Whittier's Favorite among His own Poems [It is not generally known that Whittier had intended publishing a long poem on the French neutral ; but before he had collected suffi- cient material, Longfellow's "Evangeline" appeared, dealing with the same characters.] THE robins sang in the orchard, the buds into blossoms grew; Little of human sorrow the buds and the robins knew! Sick, in an alien household, the poor French neutral lay; Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the April day, Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider's warp and woof, On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribs of roof, The bedquilt's faded patchwork, the teacups on the stand, The wheel with flaxen tangle, as it dropped from her sick hand! * By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. POETRY 237 What to her was the song of the robin, or warm morning light, As she lay in the trance of the dying, heedless of sound or sight ? Done was the work of her hands, she had eaten her bitter bread ; The world of the alien people lay behind her dim and dead. But her soul went back to its child-time; she saw the sun o'erflow With gold the basin of Minas, and set over Gasperau. She saw the face of her mother, she heard the song she sang ; And far off, faintly, slowly, the bell for vespers rang! By her bed the hard-faced mistress sat, smoothing the wrinkled sheet, Peering into the face so helpless, and feeling the ice-cold feet. With a vague remorse, atoning for her greed and long abuse, By care no longer heeded and pity too late for use. Up the stairs of the garret softly the son of the mistress stepped, Leaned over the head-board, covering his face with hia hands, and wept. Outspake the mother, who watched him sharply, with brow a-f rown : " What ! love you the Papist, the beggar, the charge of the town?" "Be she Papist or beggar who lies here, I know and God knows I love her, and fain would go with her wherever she goes! "0 mother! that sweet face came pleading, for love so athirst. You saw but the town-charge; I knew her God's angel at first." 238 SELECTED READINGS Shaking her gray head, the mistress hushed down a bitter cry; And awed by the silence and shadow of death drawing nigh, She murmured a psalm of the Bible; but closer the young girl pressed, With the last of her life in her fingers, the cross to her breast. " My son, come away," cried the mother, her voice cruel grown. " She is joined to her idols, like Ephraim ; let her alone ! " But he knelt with his hand on her forehead, his lips to her ear, And he called back the soul that was passing : " Marguerite, do you hear ? " She paused on the threshold of heaven; love, pity, surprise, Wistful, tender, lit up for an instant the cloud of her eyes. With his heart on his lips he kissed her, but never her cheek grew red, And the words the living long for he spake in the ear of the dead. And the robins sang in the orchard, where buds to blossoms grew; Of the folded hands and the still face never the robins knew ! John GL Whittier. BILL AND JOE* COME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by, The shining days when life was new, And all was bright with morning dew, — The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe. Your name may flaunt a titled trail, Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail; * By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. POETRY 239 And mine as brief appendix wear As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare; To-day old friend, remember still That I am Joe and you are Bill. You 've won the great world's envied prize, And grand you look in people's eyes, With HON. and LL.D. In big brave letters, fair to see, — Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! How are you Bill? How are you Joe? You've won the judge's ermined robe; You 've taught your name to half the globe ; You 've sung mankind a deathless strain ; You've made the dead past live again: The world may call you what it will But you and I are Joe and Bill. The chaffing young folks stare and say, " See those old buffers, bent and gray ; They talk like fellows in their teens ! Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means," — And shake their heads; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe! How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? A fitful tongue of leaping flame; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust : A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe? The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go, — How vain it seems, this empty show! 'Till all at once his pulses thrill, ? T is poor old Joe's " God bless you, Bill ! " 240 SELECTED READINGS And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears, — In some sweet lull of harp and song, For earth-born spirits none too long, — Just whispering of the world below, Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? No matter; while our home is here No sounding name is half so dear; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say? Eead on the hearts that love us still, Eic jacet Joe. Hie jacet Bill. Oliver W. Holmes. AUF WIEDERSEHEN* THE little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; She pushed it wide, and, as she passed, A wistful look she backward cast, And said, — " Auf wiedersehen! " With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said, — " Auf wiedersehen! " The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she, " Auf wiedersehen!" 'T is thirteen years : once more I press The turf that silences the lane ; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and — ah yes, I hear, "Auf wiedersehen!" * By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. POETRY 241 Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! The English words had seemed too fain, But these — they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said, " Auf wiedersehen ! " James E. Lowell. IDENTITY * SOMEWHERE — in desolate wind-swept space — In Twilight-land — in No-man's-land — Two hurrying Shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand. " And who are you ? " cried one a-gape, Shuddering in the gloaming light. " I know not," said the second Shape, " I only died last night ! " Thomas B. Aldrich. ULYSSES IT little profits that an idle king By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea. I am become a name ; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known, — cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honor' d of them all, — And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Par on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; * By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. 16 242 SELECTED READINGS Yet all experience is an arch where-through Gleams that untravelPd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains; but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things ; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle, — AVell loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and through soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me, That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and I are old ; Old age hath yet his. honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes ; the slow moon climbs ; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, ? T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order, smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths POETRY 243 Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are, — One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Alfred Tennyson*. THE FIRST QUARREL "TT7AIT a little," you say. Wait! ... I work an' I VV wait to the end. I am all alone in the world, an' you are my only friend. Doctor, if you can wait, I '11 tell you the tale o' my life. When Harry an' I were children, he call'd me his own little wife; I was happy when I was with him, an' sorry when he was away, An' when we play'd together, I loved him better than play; He workt me the daisy chain — he made me the cowslip ball, He fought the boys that were rude, an' I loved him better than all. Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at home in disgrace, I never could quarrel with Harry — I had but to look in his face. There was a farmer in Dorset of Harry's kin, that had need Of a good stout lad at his farm; he sent, an' the father agreed ; So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire farm for years an' for years ; I walk'd with him down to the quay, poor lad, an' we parted in tears. The boat was beginning to move, we heard them a-ringing the bell, " I '11 never love any but you, God bless you, my own little Nell." 244 SELECTED READINGS And years went over till I that was little had grown so tall The men would say of the maids, " Our Nelly 's the flower of 'em all." I did n't take heed o' them, but I taught myself all I could To make a good wife for Harry, when Harry came home for good. Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as happy too, For I heard it abroad in the fields, "I'll never love any but you " ; " I '11 never love any but you," the morning song of the lark, " I '11 never love any but you," the nightingale's hymn in the dark. And Harry came home at last, but he look'd at me sidelong and shy, Yext me a bit, till he told me that so many years had gone by, I had grown so handsome and tall — that I might ha' forgot him somehow — For he thought — there were other lads — he was fear'd to look at me now. Hard was the frost in the field, we were married o' Christ- mas day, Married among the red berries, and all as merry as May — Those were the pleasant times, my house an' my man were my pride, We seem'd like ships i' the Channel a-sailing with wind an' tide. But work was scant in the Isle, tho' he tried the villages round, So Harry went over the Solent to see if work could be found ; An' he wrote : " I ha' six weeks' work, little wife, so far as I know; I '11 come for an hour to-morrow, an' kiss you before I go." So I set to righting the house, for wasn't he coming that day? An' I hit on an old deal-box that was push'd in a corner away, It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a letter along wi' the rest, I had better ha' put my naked hand in a hornets' nest. POETRY 245 " Sweetheart " — this was the letter — this was the letter I read — " You promised to find me work near you, an' I wish I was dead — Did n't you kiss me an' promise ? You have n't done it, my lad, An' I almost died o' your going away, an' I wish that I had." I too wish that I had — in the pleasant times that had past, Before I quarrell'd with Harry — my quarrel — the first an' the last. For Harry came in, an' I flung him the letter that drove me wild, An' he told me all at once, as simple as any child, "What can it matter my lass, what I did wi' my single life? I ha' been as true to you as ever a man to his wife; An' she wasn't one o' the worst." "Then," I said, "I'm none o' the best." An' he smiled at me, "Ain't you, my love? Come, come, little wife, let it rest! The man isn't like the woman, no need to make such a stir." But he anger'd me all the more, an' I said, " You were keep- ing with her, When I was a-loving you all along an' the same as before." An' he didn't speak for a while, an' he anger'd me more and more. Then he patted my hand in his gentle way, "Let bygones be!" "Bygones! you kept yours hush'd," I said, "when you married me ! Bjrgones ma' be come-agains! ... I hate her — an' I hate you!" Ah, Harry, my man, you had better ha' beaten me black an' blue Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, when I were so crazy wi' spite, " Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill all come right." An' he took three turns in the rain, an' I watch'd him, an' when he came in 246 SELECTED READINGS I felt that my heart was hard; he was all wet thro' to the skin, An' I never said "off wi' the wet," I never said "on wi' the dry," So I knew my heart was hard, when he came to bid me good-bye. "Yon said that you hated me, Ellen, hut that isn't true, you know; I am going to leave you a bit — you '11 kiss me before I go ? " " I had sooner be cursed than kissed ! " — I did n't know well what I meant, But I turn'd my face from him, an' he turned Ms face an' he went. And then he sent me a letter, " I 've gotten my work to do ; You wouldn't kiss me, my lass, an' I never loved any but you; I am sorry for all the quarrel, an' sorry for what she wrote, I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey, an' go to-night by the boat." An' the wind began to rise, an' I thought of him out at sea, An' I felt I had been to blame; he was always kind to me. " Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill all come right " — An' the boat went down that night — the boat went down that night. Alfred Tennyson. Abridged by Anna Morgan. THE DAFFODILS IWAKDEBED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. POETRY 247 The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed, and gazed, but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. Eor oft, when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth. ABOU BEN ADHEM ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) -Z~jL Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, " What writest thou ? " The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord/' " And is mine one ? " said Abou. " Nay, not so," Eeplied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one who loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great awakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blest, And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. Leigh Hunt. CUPID SWALLOWED T' OTHEE day, as I was twining Eoses for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, midst the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, 248 SELECTED READINGS But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor, — Love himself! By the wings I pinched him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him ; And what d ? ye think I did ? — I drank him ! Faith, I thought him dead. Not he ! There he lives with tenfold glee; And now this moment, with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings. Leigh Hunt. O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! [Written as a funeral poem for Lincoln, and one of the great poems of the nineteenth century.] O CAPTAIN" ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring ; But heart! heart! heart! the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ; Here Captain, dear father! This arm beneath your head ! It is some dream that on the deck You Ve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor' d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won. POETRY 249 Exult, shores, and ring, bells ! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Walt Whitman. A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER Excerpt from "Endymion," Book I A THING of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such, too, is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. John Keats. GOOD-NIGHT GOOD-NIGHT ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good-night. 250 SELECTED READINGS How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood — Then it will be — good-night. To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night. Percy Bysshe Shelley. A' VERSES ON A CAT CAT in distress, Nothing more, nor less; Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye, As I am a sinner, It waits for some dinner To stuff out its own little belly. You would not easily guess All the modes of distress Which torture the tenants of earth; And the various evils, Which like so many devils, Attend the poor souls from their birth. Some a living require, And others desire An old fellow out of the way; And which is the best I leave to be guessed, For I cannot pretend to say. One wants society, Another variety, Others a tranquil life; Some want food, Others, as good, Only want a wife. But this poor little cat Only wanted a rat, To stuff out its own little maw ; And it were as good Some people had such food, To make them hold their jaw! Percy Bysshe Shelley. POETRY 251 DRINK TO ME ONLY WITH THINE EYES DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I '11 not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me ; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee! Translated by Ben Jonson from Philostratus. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT NOVEMBER chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The shortening winter-day is near a close ; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through To meet their Dad, wi' flitcherin' noise an' glee, And makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 252 SELECTED READINGS Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey; An' mind their labors wi' an' eydent hand, An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play: " An' ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might; They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!'' But hark! a rap comes gently to the door. Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye ; She, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. POETRY 253 They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps " Dundee's " wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive " Martyrs/' worthy of the name. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage v With Amalek's ungracious progeny. Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, " An honest man 's the noblest work of God." Eobert Burns. Abridged by Anna Morgan. THE CHILD MUSICIAN HE had played for his lordship's levee, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor little head was heavy, And the poor little brain would swim. 254 SELECTED READINGS And the face grew peaked and eerie, And the large eyes strange and bright, And they said, — too late, — " He is weary ! He shall rest for, at least, to-night ! " But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent gloom, With the sound of a strained cord breaking A something snapped in the room. 'T was a string of his violoncello, And they heard him stir in his bed : — " Make room for a tired little fellow, Kind God ! " was the last that he said. Austin Dobson. SOMEWHERE SOMEWHERE the spirit will come to its own, Through tear-mist or star-dust, from circle to zone; In the scent of dead roses, in winds, or in waves, From the gold of the sunset to flower-kissed graves. Sing on, and trust ever ! be steadfast ! for see ! The true and the lovely are allies with thee. Stretch up to the heights the brave toilers have trod; Somewhere there is recompense — everywhere God ! Helen Hinsdale Rich. ON A GRAY BIRTHDAY YEARS are flying! Even so As o'er others, must they go Over your dear head, and streak With Time's pencil your loved cheek. Gray must take the place of gold, Limbs grow feeble, passion cold; Through it all, dear, you and I Will be lovers till we die. And if lovers, spite of years, What care we for Time or tears? Time takes not tbe essential thing. Bears not love upon his wing. POETRY 255 Tears are for the foolish young, Hearts unchastened, nerves unstrung: We have wept, but weep no more ; What's to weep for, at threescore? We have learned that, good or ill, Naught in life can quite fulfil What we hope or what we fear, Nothing 's quite worth laugh or tear. What seemed ill proves not so bad, Haply good, in russet clad; And the things that promised best Oft prove plague-gifts, gaily drest. Deep below the waves of fate — Lust, ambition, greed, and hate — We have found the tideless sea Where perpetual peace may be. Peace of hearts that beat as one, Fearing nothing, hating none, Closer nestling, as their day Slowly fades to night away. John Marshall. AMERICA MY country, 't is of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing; Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride, Prom every mountain-side Let freedom ring. My native country, thee, Land of the noble free, — Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills; My heart with rapture thrills Like that above. 256 SELECTED READINGS Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees, Sweet freedom's song; Let mortal tongues awake, Let all that breathe partake, Let rocks their silence break, — ■ The sound prolong. Our father's God, to Thee, Author of liberty, To Thee I sing; Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light, Protect us by thy might, Great God our King. S. F. Smith. THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER OH, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming ? — Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly stream- ing! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 'T is the star-spangled banner ; long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollu- tion. POETRY 257 No refuge can save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! Blest with vicf ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto — " In God is our trust: " And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. Francis Scott Key. HOME, SWEET HOME! MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home ; A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ; ! give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! The birds singing gayly, that came at my call, — Give me them, — and the peace of mind, dearer than all ! Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! How sweet 't is to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile ! Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam, But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home ! Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! To thee I '11 return, overburdened with care ; The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there ; No more from that cottage again will I roam; Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home. Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! There 's no place like Home ! there 's no place like Home ! John Howard Pat- & 258 SELECTED READINGS SELF-DEPENDENCE WEARY of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears mc Forward, forward, o'er the starlit sea. And a look of passionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send : " Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end ! " Ah, once moTe," I cried, " ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew ; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! " From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer : " Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they. " Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 91 And with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long moon-silverM roll ; For self -poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul. " Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see." air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : " Resolve to be thyself ; and know that he^ Who finds himself, loses his misery ! " Matthew Arnold. POETRY 259 TO SHAKESPEARE'S LOVE O SWEET dead woman, who were you For whom my Shakespeare sighed In sonnets that would hold you true Although you lied? In lips that burned upon your own Did you not feel his breath Melodious with Juliet's moan And Egypt's death ? Perhaps his dream within your arms Gave Venus back to Greece, Or consecrated wanton charms To pure Lucrece. Alas, we may not know your name, Your station high or low; We hold the dead secure from blame; , Yet this I know : Your passion found some common clod For your embrace more meet; The heart that hymned a world You trod beneath your feet. And still he held his poet's pen To the ideal true — Lo, he created Imogene And God made you. Edwabd J. McPhelim. CLEOPATRA HERE, Charmian, take my bracelets; They bar with a purple stain My arms ; turn over my pillows — They are hot where I have lain : Open the lattice wider, A gauze o'er my bosom throw, And let me inhale the odors That over the garden blow." 260 SELECTED READINGS I dreamed I was with my Antony, And in his arms I lay ; Ah, me ! the vision has vanished — » The music has died away : The flame and the perfume have perished — • As this spiced aromatic pastille That wound the blue smoke of its odor Is now but an ashy hill. Scatter upon me rose leaves, They cool me after my sleep, And with sandal odors fan me Till into my veins they creep ; Reach down the lute, and play me A melancholy tune, To rhyme with the dream that has vanished And the slumbering afternoon. There, drowsing in golden sunlight, Loiters the slow, smooth Nile, Through slender papyri, that cover The wary crocodile. The lotus lolls on the water, And opens its heart of gold, And over its broad leaf pavement Never a ripple is rolled. The twilight breeze is too lazy Those feathery palms to wave, And yon little cloud is as motionless As a stone above a grave. Ah, me! this lifeless nature Oppresses my heart and brain ! Oh ! for a storm and thunder — For lightning and wild fierce rain ! Fling down that lute — I hate it ! Take rather his buckler and sword, And crash and clash them together Till this sleeping world is stirred. Hark ! to my Indian beauty — My cockatoo, creamy white, With roses under his feathers: — That flashes across the light. POETRY 261 Look ! Listen ! as backward and forward To his hoop of gold he clings, How he trembles with crest uplifted, And shrieks as he madly swings ! Oh, cockatoo, shriek for Antony ! Cry, " Come, my love, come home ! " Shriek, " Antony ! Antony ! Antony ! " Till he hears you even in Rome. There — leave me, and take from my chamber That stupid little gazelle, With its bright black eyes so meaningless, And its silly tinkling bell ! Take him, — my nerves he vexes — The thing without blood or brain, Or, by the body of Isis, I '11 snap his thin neck in twain ! Leave me to gaze on the landscape Mistily stretching away, Where the afternoon's opaline tremors O'er the mountains quivering play ; Till the fiercer splendor of sunset Pours from the west its fire, And melted, as in a crucible, Their earthly forms expire ; And the bald blear skull of the desert With glowing mountains is crowned, That burning like molten jewels Circle its temples round. I will lie and dream of the past time, iEons of thought away, And through the jungle of memory Loosen my fancy to play ; When, a smooth and velvety tiger, Ribbed with yellow and black, Supple and cushion-footed I wandered, where never the track Of a human creature had rustled The silence of mighty woods, And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom, I knew but the law of my moods. 262 SELECTED READINGS The elephant, trumpeting, started, When he heard my footstep near, And the spotted giraffes fled wildly In a yellow cloud of fear. I sucked in the noontide splendor, Quivering along the glade, Or yawning, panting, and dreaming, Basked in the tamarisk shade, Till I heard my wild mate roaring, As the shadows of night came on. To brood in the trees' thick branches, And the shadow of sleep was gone ; Then I roused, and roared in my answer, And unsheathed from my cushioned feet My curving claws, and stretched me, And wandered my mate to greet. We toyed in the amber moonlight, Upon the warm flat sand, And struck at each other our massive arms — How powerful he was and grand ! His yellow eyes flashed fiercely As he crouched and gazed at me, And his quivering tail, like a serpent, Twitched .curving nervously. Then like a storm he seized me, With a wild triumphant cry, And we met, as two clouds in heaven When the thunders before them fly. We grappled and struggled together, For his love like his rage was rude ; And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck At times, in our play, drew blood. Often another suitor — For I was flexile and fair — Fought for me in the moonlight, While I lay couching there, Till his blood was drained by the desert ; And, ruffled with triumph and power, He licked me and lay beside me To breathe him a vast half-hour. POETRY 263 Then down to the fountain we loitered, Where the antelopes come to drink; Like a bolt we sprang upon them, Ere they had time to shrink. We drank their blood and crushed them, And tore them limb from limb, And the hungriest lion doubted Ere he disputed with him. That was a life to live for ! Not this weak human life, With its frivolous bloodless passions, Its poor and petty strife! Come to my arms, my hero ! The shadows of twilight grow, And the tiger's ancient fierceness In my veins begins to flow. Come not cringing to sue me ! Take me with triumph and power, As a warrior storms a fortress, I will not shrink or cower. Come, as you came in the desert, Ere we were women and men, When the tiger passions were in us, And love as you loved me then! W. W. Story. THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL HE did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved. And murdered in her bed. He walked amongst the Trial Men In a suit of shabby gray ; A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay ; But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. 264 SELECTED READINGS I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by. I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, " That fellow 's got to swing" Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel. I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye ; The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die. Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword ! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold : The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. POETRY Z§5 Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die. He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty space. He does not sit with silent men Who watch him night and day ; Who watch him when he tries to weep, And when he tries to pray ; Who watch him lest himself should rob The prison of its prey. He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room, The shivering Chaplain robed in white, The Sheriff stern with gloom, And the Governor all in shiny black, With the yellow face of Doom. He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose, Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows. He does not know that sickening thirst That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Slips through the padded door, And binds one with three leathern thongs, That the throat may thirst no more. 266 SELECTED READINGS He does not bend his head to hear The Burial Office read, Nor, while the terror of his soul Tells him he is not dead, Cross his own coffin, as he moves Into the hideous shed. He does not stare upon the air Through a little roof of glass: He does not pray with lips of clay For his agony to pass; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek The kiss of Caiaphas. Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard, In the suit of shabby gray ; His cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay, But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every wandering cloud that trailed' Its ravelled fleeces by. He did not wring his hands, as do Those witless men who dare To try to rear the changeling Hope In the cave of black Despair : He only looked upon the sun, And drank the morning air. He did not wring his hands nor weep, Nor did he peek or pine, But he drank the air as though it held Some healthful anodyne ; With open mouth he drank the sun As though it had been wine ! POETRY 267 And I and all the souls in pain, Who tramped the other ring, Forgot if we ourselves had done A great or little thing, And watched with gaze of dull amaze The man who had to swing. And strange it was to think that he With a step so light and gay, And strange it was to see him look So wistfully at the day, And strange it was to think that he Had such a debt to pay. At last the dead man walked no more Amongst the Trial Men, And I knew that he was standing up In the black dock's dreadful pen, And that never would I see his face In God's sweet world again. » • • • • In Reading gaol by Reading town There is a pit of shame, And in it lies a wretched man Eaten by teeth of flame, In a burning winding-sheet he lies, And his grave has got no name. And there, till Christ call forth the dead, In silence let him lie : No need to waste the foolish tear, Or heave the windy sigh: The man had killed the thing he loved, And so he had to die. And all men kill the thing they love, By all let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword ! Oscak Wilde. Abridged by Anna Morgan, IV VERSE I IV — VERSE OLD CHUMS* IS it you, Jack ? Old boy, is it really you ? I should n't have known you but that I was told You might be expected ; — pray, how do you do ? But what, under heavens, has made you so old ? Your hair ! why, you 've only a little gray fuzz ! And your beard's white! but that can be beautifully dyed; And your legs aren't but just half as long as they was; And then — stars and garters! your vest is so wide. Is this your hand ? Lord, how I envied you that In the time of our courting, — so soft, and so small, And now it is callous inside, and so fat, — Well, you beat the very old deuce, that is all. Turn round! let me look at you! isn't it odd How strange in a few years a fellow's chum grows ! Your eye is shrunk up like a bean in a pod, And what are those lines branching out from your nose ? Your back has gone up and your shoulders gone down, And all the old roses are under the plough; Why, Jack, if we 'd happened to meet about town, I would n't have known you from Adam, I vow ! You 've had trouble, have you ? I 'm sorry ; but, John, All trouble sits lightly at your time of life. How 's Billy, my namesake ? You don't say he 's gone To the war, John, and that you have buried your wife ? Poor Katherine ! so she has left you — ah me ! I thought she would live to be fifty, or more. What is it you tell me ? She was fifty-three ! no, Jack ! she was n't so much by a score. Well, there 's little Katy, — was that her name, John? She'll rule your house one of these days like a queen. That baby ! good Lord ! is she married and gone ? With a Jack ten years old ! and a Katy fourteen ! * By permission of Houghton Mifflin RING him not here, where our sainted feet JD Are treading the path to glory ; Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet Repeats for us his story. Go, take him where such things are done (For he sat in the seat of the scorner), To where they have room, for we have none, — , To the little church round the corner." So spake the holy man of God, Of another man, his brother, Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod, Had only asked that a Christian rite Might be read above them by one whose light Was, " Brethren, love one another " ; Had only asked that a prayer be read Ere his flesh went down to join the dead, While his spirit looked with suppliant eyes, Searching for God throughout the skies. But the priest frowned " No," and his brow was bare Of love in the sight of the mourner, And they looked for Christ and found him — - where ? In that little church round the corner. Ah ! well, God grant when, with aching feet, We tread life's last few paces, That we may hear some accents sweet, And kiss, to the end, fond faces. God grant that this tired flesh may rest ('Mid many a musing mourner), While the sermon is preached and the rites are read In no church where the heart of love is dead, And the pastor's a pious prig at best, But in some small nook where God's confessed, — Some little church round the corner. A. E. Lancaster. VERSE 281 ANNE HATHAWAY ONCE on a time, when jewels flashed, And moonlit fountains softly splashed, And all the air was sweet and bright With music, mirth, and deft delight, A courtly dame drew, laughing, near A poet — greatest of his time, And chirped a question in his ear, With voice like silver bells in chime: " Good Mr. Shakespeare, I would know The name thy lady bore, in sooth, Ere thine. Nay, little time ago It was — for we still mark her youth ; Some highborn name, I trow, and yet, Altho' I've heard it, I forget." Then answered he, with dignity, Yet blithely — for the hour was gay — " My lady's name — Anne Hathaway." " And good, sweet sir," the dame pursued, Too fair and winsome to be rude, " ? T is whispered here and whispered there, By doughty knights and ladies fair, That — that — well, that her royal lord Does e'en obey her lightest word. Now, my good spouse — I pledge my word — Tho' loving well doth heed me ill; How art thou conquered, prithee, tell," She pleaded with her pretty frown ; " I fain would know what mighty spell Can bring a haughty husband down." She ceased, and raised her eager face To his, with laughing, plaintive grace. Then answered he, with dignity, Yet blithely, — for the hour was gay, — " Ah, lady, I can only say Her name again — Anne Hath-a-way." Anonymous. 282 SELECTED READINGS THE GATE AGATE. Two lovers. A father mad. The hour is late. Two hearts are glad. II A growl. A leap. A nip. A tear. A cry. A sigh. And then — A swear. Ill Finale A gate. No lovers. A father glad. A dog triumphant. A maiden sad. Moral: If it took two hours to say good-night, It served him right if the dog did bite. Bessie Cahn. "SPACIALLY JIM"* IWTJS mighty good-lookin' when I was young, Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Specially Jim. * By permission 0/ The Century Co. VERSE 283 The likeliest one of ? em all was he, Chipper an' han'som' an' trim, But I tossed up my head an* made fun o' the crowd, 'Spatially Jim. I said I had n't no 'pinion o' men, An' I would n't take stock in him ! But they kep' up a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 'Spatially Jim. I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun', 'Spatially Jim, I made up my mind I 'd settle down An' take up with him. So we was married one Sunday in church, 'T was crowded full to the brim ; 'T was the only way to get rid of 'em all, 'Spatially Jim. Bessie Morgan. A SIMILAR CASE JACK, I hear you 've gone and done it, — Yes, I know ; most fellows will ; Went and tried it once myself, sir, Though you see I'm single still. And you met her — did you tell me — Down at Newport, last July, And resolved to ask the question At a soiree? So did I. I suppose you left the ball-room, With its music and its light; For they say love's flame is brightest In the darkness of the night. Well, you walked along together, Overhead, the starlit sky ; And I '11 bet — old man, confess it — You were frightened. So was I. So you strolled along the terrace, Saw the summer moonlight pour All its radiance on the waters, As they rippled on the shore, 284 SELECTED READINGS Till at length you gathered courage, When you saw that none was nigh — * Did you draw her close and tell her That you loved her? So did I. Well, I needn't ask you further, And I 'm sure I wish you joy. Think I '11 wander down and see you When you 're married — eh, my boy ? When the honeymoon is over And you 're settled down, we '11 try — What ? the deuce you say ! Rejected — You rejected? So was I. Anonymous. THE USUAL WAY THERE was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, " I '11 go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met — in the usual way. Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie ; " I thought," she shyly whispered, " you 'd be fishing all the day ! " And he was — in the usual way. So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out; And he said, " Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not stay, . But she did — in the usual way. Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by; "We must say good-bye," she whispered by the alders old and gray. And they did — in the usual way. VERSE 285 And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below, Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much — in the usual way. And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do ? Does he cherish her and love her ? does she honor and obey ? Well, they do — in the usual way. Anonymous. THE FAITHFUL LOVERS I'D been away from her three years, — about that, And I returned to find my Mary true; And thought I 'd question her, I did not doubt that It was unnecessary so to do. 'Twas by the chimney-corner we were sitting: " Mary," said I, " have you been always true ? " " Frankly/' says she, just pausing in her knitting, " I don't think I 've unfaithful been to you : But for the three years past I '11 tell you what I 've done ; then say if I 've been true or not. "When first you left my grief was uncontrollable; Alone I mourned my miserable lot; And all who saw me thought me inconsolable, Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershot. To flirt with him amused me while 't was new : I don't count that unfaithfulness — do you? " The next — oh ! let me see — was Frankie Phipps ; I met him at my uncle's, Christmas-tide, And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips met lips, He gave me his first kiss — " And here she sighed. " We stayed six weeks at uncle's — how time flew ! I don't count that unfaithfulness — do you? " Lord Cecil Fossmore — only twenty-one — Lent me his horse. 0, how we rode and raced ! We scoured the downs — we rode to hounds — such fun ! And often was his arm about my waist, — That was to lift me up and down. But who Would call just that unfaithfulness? Would you? 286 SELECTED READINGS " Do you know Reggy Vere ? Ah, how he sings ! We met, — 't was at a picnic. 0, such weather ! He gave me, look, the first of these two rings When we were lost in Clief den woods together. Ah, what a happy time we spent, — we two ! I don't count that unfaithfulness to you. " I 've yet another ring from him ; d' ye see The plain gold circlet that is shining here ? " I took her hand : " Mary ! can it be That you — » Quoth she, " That I am Mrs. Vere ? I don't call that unfaithfulness — do you?" " No," I replied, " for I am married too." Anonymous. PLATONIC I HAD sworn to be a bachelor, she had sworn to be a maid, For we quite agreed in doubting whether matrimony paid; Besides, we had our higher loves, — fair science ruled my heart; And she said her young affections were all wound up in art. So we laughed at those wise men who say that friendship cannot live 'Twixt man and woman, unless each has something more to give: We would be friends, and friends as true as e'er were man and man — I 'd be a second David, and she Miss Jonathan. We scorned all sentimental trash, — vows, kisses, tears, and sighs; High friendship, such as ours, might well such childish art despise; We liked each other, that was all, quite all there was to say, So we just shook hands upon it in a business sort of way. We shared our secrets and our joys, together hoped and feared, With common purpose sought the goal that young Ambition reared; VERSE 287 We dreamed together of the days, the dream-bright days to come; We were strictly confidential, and we called each other "chum."' And many a day we wandered together o'er the hills, I seeking bugs and butterflies, and she the ruined mills And rustic bridges, and the like, that picture-makers prize To run in with their waterfalls, and groves, and summer skies. And many a quiet evening, in hours of silent ease We floated down the river, or strolled beneath the trees, And talked, in long gradation, from the poets to the weather, While the western skies and my cigar burned slowly out together. Yet through it all no whispered word, no tell-tale glance or sigh Told aught of warmer sentiment than friendly sympathy. We talked of love as coolly as we talked of nebulae And thought no more of being one than we did of being three. " Well, good-bye, chum ! " I took her hand, for the time had come to go. My going meant our parting, when to meet, we did not know; I had lingered long, and said farewell with a very heavy heart; For although we were but friends, 'tis hard for honest friends to part. " Good-bye, old fellow ! don't forget your friends beyond the sea, And some day when you 've lots of time, drop a line or two to me." The words came lightly, gayly, but a great sob, just behind, Welled upward with a story of quite a different kind. And then she raised her eyes to mine, great liquid eyes of blue, Filled to the brim, and running o'er, like violet cups of dew ; 288 SELECTED READINGS One long, long glance, and then I did what I never did before — Perhaps the tears meant friendship, but I'm sure the kiss meant more. William B. Terrett. LIFE HOW beautiful it is to be alive! To wake each morn as if the Maker's grace Did us afresh from nothingness desire, That we might sing, How happy is our case ! How beautiful it is to be alive! To read in God's great book until we feel Love for the love that gave it; then to kneel Close unto Him whose truth our souls will shrive While every moment's joy doth more reveal How beautiful it is to be alive! Eather to go without what might increase Our worldly standing, than our souls deprive Of frequent speech with God ; or than to cease To feel, through having wasted health or peace, How beautiful it is to be alive. Not to forget, when pain and grief draw nigh, Into the ocean of time past to dive For memories of God's mercies, or to try To bear all sweetly, hoping yet, to cry How beautiful it is to be alive! Thus ever toward man's height of nobleness Strive still some new profession to contrive, Till, just as any other friend's, we press Death's hand; and having died, feel none the less How beautiful it is to be alive. Thomas Shelley Sutton. SHE LIKED HIM RALE WEEL THE Spring had brought out the green leaf on the trees, An' the flowers were unfolding their sweets tae the bees, When Jock says tae Jenny, "Come, Jenny, agree, An' say the bit word that ye '11 marry me." VERSE 289 She held do-on her heid like a lily sae meek, An' the blush o' the rose fled awa' frae her cheek. But she said, " Gang awa' man ! Your heid 's in a creel." She didna let on that she liked him rale weel — Oh! she liked him rale weel — Aye, she liked him rale weel ! But she didna let on that she liked him rale weel. Then Jock says, " Oh, Jenny, for a twalmonth an' mair, Ye ha'e kept me just hangin' 'twixt hope an' despair. But, oh! Jenny, last night something whispered tae me That I'd better lie doon at the dyke-side an' dee." Tae keep Jock in life, she gave in tae be tied; An' soon they were booked, an three times they were cried. Love danced in Jock's heart, an' hope joined the reel — He was sure that his Jenny did like him rale weel — Oh! she liked him rale weel! Aye, she liked him rale weel! But she never let on that she liked him rale weel. When the wedding day cam', tae the manse they did stap, An' there they got welcome frae Mr. Dunlap, Wha chained them to love's matrimonial stake, Syne they took a dram an' a mouthfu' o' cake. Then the minister said, "Jock, be kind tae your Jenny, Nae langer she 's tied to the string o' her minnie ; Noo, Jenny, will ye aye be couthie an' leal ? " " Yes, sir ; oh, yes, for I like him rale weel ! " Aye, she liked him rale weel ! Oh ! she liked him rale weel ! At last she owned up that she liked him rale weel ! Andrew Wauless. THE HINDOO'S PARADISE A HINDOO died, — a happy thing to do When twenty years united to a shrew. Released, he joyously for entrance cries Before the gates of Brahma's paradise. " Hast been through purgatory," Brahma said. " I have been married," — and he hung his head. 290 SELECTED READINGS " Come in, come in, and welcome, too, my son ! Marriage and purgatory are as one." In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, And knew the peace he ne'er had known before. Scarce had he entered in the garden fair, Before another Hindoo asked admission there. The selfsame question Brahma asked again : " Hast been through purgatory ? " " No — what then ? " " Thou canst not enter," did the god reply. " He who went in was there no more than I." " All that is true, but he hath married been, And so on earth has suffered for all sin." " Married ? 'T is well ; for I 've been married twice ! " " Begone ! We '11 have no fools in paradise ! " Anonymous. A DEAR LITTLE GOOSE WHILE I am in the ones, I can frolic all the day; I can laugh, I can jump, I can run about and play. But when I 'm in my tens, I must get up with the lark, And sew and read, and practise, from early morn till dark. But when I 'm in my twenties, I '11 be like sister Joe. I '11 wear the sweetest dresses, and maybe have a beau ; I '11 go to balls and parties, and wear my hair up high, And not a girl in all the town shall be as gay as I. When I am in my thirties, I '11 be just like mamma ; And maybe I '11 be married to a splendid big papa. I '11 cook, and bake, and mend, and mind, and grow a little fat. But mother is so sweet and nice, I '11 not object to that. Oh, what comes after thirty? The forties! Mercy! My! When I grow as old as forty, I think I '11 have to die. But like enough the world won't last until we see that day, It's so very, very, very, very, very far away. Anonymous. VERSE 291 MATTIE'S WANTS AND WISHES I WANTS a piece of talito To make my doll a dress; I doesn't want a big piece — A yard '11 do I guess. I wish you 'd f red my needle, And find my fimble, too — I has such heaps o' sewin' I don't know what to do. My Hepsy tored her apron A tum'lin' down the stair; And Caesar's lost his pantaloons, And needs anozzer pair. I wants my Maud a bonnet, She has n't none at all ; And Fred must have a jacket, His uzzer one's too small. I wants to go to grandma's, You promised me I might; You know she'll like to see me — I wants to go to-night. She lets me wash the dishes, And see in grandpa's watch — Wish I 'd free, four pennies, To buy some butter-scotch. I wants some newer mittens, I wish you 'd knit me some, 'Cause 'most my fingers freezes, They leak so in the fum. I wored it out last summer A-pullin' George's sled; I wish you wouldn't laugh so — It hurts me in my head. I wish I had a cooky — I 'm hungry 's I can be ; If you has n't pretty large ones, You 'd better bring me free. Grace Gordon - . SELECTIONS V — SELECTIONS THE CATECHIST* TF! WAS a man, and a maid, and a little gray cat sitting -l on a wall. I will tell you just what the three were at; I know, though I didn't see all. The man was scratching a puzzled head; the girl, with a troubled air, "Was playing the Catechist, blushing red; the cat was wash- ing his hair. " Now, don't you know it is wrong ? " said the maid. " I don't see why," said the man. "We haven't been acquainted long." "I am getting on fast as I can." " Now, don't be stubborn," the Catechist said — and the rest was the part that I missed; But the man kissed one of the two that were there. Do you think 't was the Catechist? Anonymous. C'LUMBUS A Boy's Composition C'LUMBTTS was a man who could make an egg stand on end without breaking it. The King of Spain said to C'lumbus, " Can you discover America ? " " Yes," said he, "if you will give me a ship." So he had a ship and sailed over the sea in the direction in which he thought America ought to be found. The sailors had a fight and said they believed there was no such place; but after awhile the pilot came and said, " C'lumbus, I see land." " Then that must be America," said C'lumbus. When they drew near the land they saw it was full of black men and C'lumbus said, " You must be niggers." Then the chief said, " You must be C'lumbus." "You are right," said he; "I am." Then the chief turned to his men and said: "There is no help for it. We are discovered at last." Anonymous. * By permission of The Smart Set. 296 SELECTED READINGS MADAME EEF MONSIEUR ADAM was all alone in ze garden. He have plenty for eat and plenty for drink and ees very con- fortable, but he 'ave not much clothes. Von evening he lie down on ze ground for take a nap. In ze morning he wake wiz wan pain in hees side. He say : " Oh, mon Dieu, vat ees ze matter, eh ? Ah ! diable, ees wan rib gone. I shall make von promenade in ze open air. It will make me feel bettair." He promenade. Mme. Eef she approach. It is ze first lady zat M. Adam haf ever met ; it is Mme. Eef s entree to society. Zhey approach each other and both are very much attract. M. Adam he say, " I 'ave ze plaisair for promenade wiz you ? " Mme Eef respond, "I shall be mos' happy"; and zhey walk together. Zhey promenade under von tree wiz ze pretty appel on it; ze pretty appel wiz ze red streak. Monsieur le serpent he sit in ze arbre. He 'ave pretty mask all over hees face — look like elegant gentilhomme. Mme. Eef she see Monsieur le serpent wiz ze pretty mask and ze appel wiz ze red streak and she is very much at- tract. Monsieur le serpent he say, " Mme. Eef, shall I 'ave ze plaisair for peek you von appel?" Mme. Eef, she reach out her hand for take ze appel. Monsieur Adam he say, "Hola, hola, voila. Vat you do, eh? You do not know it ees prohibit? You must not touch ze appel. If you eat ze appel you shall be like von God — you shall know ze good from ze evil." Monsieur le serpent take von pinch of snuff. He say, " Monsieur Adam, it ees prohibit for you. If you eat ze appel you shall become like von Dieu — you shall know ze good from ze evil. Mut Mme. Eef, she cannot become more like von goddess zan she ees now." And zat finish Mme. Eef. Anonymous. SELECTIONS 297 AN ITALIAN'S VIEWS ON THE LABOR QUESTION ONE man looka at da labor quest' one way, 'noder man looka 'noder way. I looka deesa way : Longa time ago I gitta born in Italia. Pret' queck I gitta big 'nough to know mya dad. I find him one worka man. Him worka hard in da hotta sun — sweat lika da wetta rag to maka da 'nough mon' to gitta da grub. Mya moth' worka too — work lika da dog. Dey make alia da kids work — mea too. Dat maka me tired. I see da king, da queen, and da richa peop' driva by in da swella style. It maka me sick. I say, " Da world alia wrong. Da rich have too mucha mon', too mucha softa snap. Da poor have too mucha work, too mucha dirt, too mucha tougha luck." Dat maka me one dago anarchista. I hear 'bout Amer- ica, da f reea countra, where da worka man eata da minca pie an' da roasa beef. I taka da skip — taka da ship — sail ova da wat' — reaeha Newa York. Va! It reminds me of Naples — beautifula bay, blue sky, da plenty lazaroni and mucha dirta streets. I looka 'r-round for da easy job. It noa go. Da easy jobs alia gone. It mora work to gitta da work dan da work itself. I gitta down on da richa peop' more anda more alia da time. Geea Whiz! Dat freea countra maka me sick! Well, aft' while I strika da job — pounda da stone on da railroad. It neer keela, but I eata da ver' lit' grub, weara da olda clothes, and socka da mon' in mya sock eacha day. I learna da one ting — da mon' maka da mare go. I catcha da spirit of a da town: I maka what you calla da progress. I find da man what maka da mon' nev' do da harda work. I quit. I buya da buncha banan', putta da banan' ina da bask ona my arm, sella him ona da street. Hulla Gee ! I maka da twenty-fi' cent a day clear. Ver' soon I have da gr-rata lotta mon'. I buya one handa org 5 ; maka da mus', playa Ta-ra-ra Boom all ova da coun- try; maka mor' mon'; den I buy Jocka da monk'. Da monk' is lika da businessa man — ver' smart. I maka him my cashier. Him passa da contribution box lika da deacon in da church. Him maka da face, him dance. 298 SELECTED READINGS Da biz grow. We sella da hand or^ — buy one streeta piano. I hira one distant. Da 'sistant pusha da piano, I grinda da crank, da monk' taka da mon'. We gitta da ver' wella off. I gitta mar-r-red. Buya me one home, sweeta home. I investa ma mon' — buya da fruita stands on da side- walk — hire da cheapa dago chumps to runna da stands. Da labor quest' ver' simp' — ver 5 plain. When I poor I say : — " Shoota da monopola ! Keela da richa man ! " Alia da same when you in Eoma do lika da Eoma peop'. Now I one r-richa man. I weara da fine clothes — picka my teeth with da golda pick — weara da diamond stud — driva ma team — and snappa ma fingers. It maka alia da dif in da world which side da fence you stana on. Joe Kerr. h THE MEETING OF THE CLABBERHUSES * E was the Chairman of the Guild Of Early Pleiocene Patriarchs ; He was chief Mentor of the Lodge Of the Oracular Oligarchs. He was the Lord High Autocrat And Vizier of the Sons of Light, And Sultan and Grand Mandarin Of the Millennial Men of Might. He was Grand Totem and High Priest Of the Independent Potentates; Grand Mogul of the Galaxy Of the Illustrious Stay-out-lates ; The President of the Dandydudes; The Treasurer of the Sons of Glee; The Leader of the Clubtown Band And Architects of Melody. She was Grand Worthy Prophetess Of the Illustrious Maids of Mark; Of Vestals of the Third Degree She was Most Potent Matriarch; She was High Priestess of the Shrine Of Clubtown's Culture Coterie, And First Vice-President of the League Of the Illustrious G.A.B. * By permission of the author and the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. SELECTIONS 299 She was the First Dame of the Club For teaching Patagonians Greek; She was Chief Clerk and Auditor Of Club town's Anti-Bachelor Clique; She was High Treasurer of the Fund For Borrioboolaghalians, And the Fund for sending Browning's Poems To Native-born Australians. Once to a crowded social fete Both these much titled people came, And each perceived, when introduced, They had the selfsame name. Their hostess said when first they met : " Permit me now to introduce My good friend Mr. Clabberhuse To Mrs. Clabberhuse." " 'T is very strange," said she to him, " Such an unusual name, A name so very seldom heard, That we should bear the same." " Indeed, 't is wonderful," said he, " And I 'm surprised the more, Because I never heard the name Outside my home before. " But now I come to look at you," Said he, "upon my life, If I am not indeed deceived, You are — you are — my wife." She gazed into his searching face And seemed to look him through: " Indeed," said she, " it seems to me You are my husband, too." " I 've been so busy with my clubs, And in my various spheres, I have not seen you now," she said, " For over fourteen years." "That's just the way it's been with me, These clubs demand a sight — " And then they both politely bowed, And sweetly said, " Good-night." Sam Walter Foss. 300 SELECTED READINGS A CLUB MEETING OF SOLOMON'S WIVES* A WOMAN'S club meeting of Solomon's wives Was quite an important affair; It brought a fresh interest into their lives And drove Mr. S. to despair. They had deep discussion on things of the hour, And argued on topical lines Till they made such a racket you 'd hear them all clack it As far as King Solomon's mines. The first Mrs. S., quite a dowager stout, Presided at three each club day, When she always began, " Let us try to find out What Kipling intended in ' They ' — And let 's have a paper on Dooley and James And The Ethical Conscience of Poe, On Byron and Shelley and Marie Corelli — Such topics are helpful, you know." Then a blond Mrs. S. shyly rose to her feet, And said, showing . symptoms of scare As she fitfully read from a typewritten sheet, " I have n't had time to prepare — The man Henry James — I mean Poe — let me see — I think he was born in the year — I 'm horridly nervous ! Sweet Heaven, preserve us, I 've got the wrong paper — oh, dear ! " Then a dark Mrs. S. said, with withering scorn, " How can such a talk be presented When Byron and Shelley have never been born And Kipling is not yet invented? We have Hebrew poets as great as that Poe — Mrs. President I have the floor — I think it much harder — " Here the chair rapped for order, And the meeting merged into a roar. Then, dropping the poets, there rose a debate 'Twixt feminine disputants able, 'Midst witty retorts and finance reports, Till trie question was laid on the table. * By permission of the author and the publishers, The Macmillan Company. SELECTIONS 301 But when a refreshment committee was formed, The talk grew as mild as could be, Sweet quiet returned, and the meeting adjourned To Solomon's temple for tea. Wallace Irwin. WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA* OH ! they 've swept the parlor carpet, and they 've dusted every chair, And they've got the tidies hanging just exactly on the square. And the whatnot's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, And the pantry's brimming over with bully things to eat. Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she 's frizzing up her bangs, Ma 's got on her best alpaca, and she 's asking how it hangs. Pa 's shaved as slick as can be and I 'm all rigged up in & ; And it 's all because we 're goin' to have the minister to tea. Oh ! the table 's fixed up gaudy with the gilt-edged china set, And we'll use the silver teapot and the company spoons, you bet. And we 're goin' to have some fruitcake, and some thimble- berry jam, Eiz' biscuits, and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham. Ma '11 pologize like fury and say everything is bad, And such awful luck with cookin' she 's sure she never had. But of course she's only bluffin', for it's as prime as it can be, And she 's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister 's to tea. Everybody '11 be a-smilin' and as good as ever was, Pa won't growl 'bout the vituals like he generally does. An' he '11 ask me — would I like another piece of pie ? But sho ! That of course is only manners and I 'm supposed to answer no. * From "Cape Cod Ballads and Other Verse," by Joseph Crosby Lincoln. Copy- right, 1902, by Albert Brandt, Trenton, N. J. 302 SELECTED READINGS Sis '11 talk about the church work, and 'bout the Sunday school. Ma '11 say how she liked that sermon that was on the golden rule. And if I upset my tumbler, they won't say a word to me. Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister to tea v Say! a minister you'd reckon wouldn't say what wasn't true, But that is n't so with ours, and I just can prove it, too ; For when Sis plays on the organ so 's it makes you want to die, Why he sets and says its lovely, and that seems to me a He u But I. like him all the samey, and I only wish he 'd stay At our house for good and always and eat with us every day. Only think of havin' goodies every evenin', Giminee ! And I 'd never get a scoldin' with the minister to tea. Joseph Crosby Lincoln. AUNT 'MANDY* OUE Aunt 'Mandy thinks that boys Never ought ter make a noise, Or go swimmin', or play ball, Or have any fun at all; Thinks a boy had ought ter be Dressed up all the time, and she Hollers jest as if she 's hurt At the littlest mite er dirt On a feller's hands or face, Or his clothes, or any place. Then at dinnertime she's there, Sayin', " Must n't kick the chair! " Or, " Why don't yer sit up straight ? " " 'T ain't perlite to drum yer plate." An' yer got ter eat as slow, 'Cause she 's dingin' at yer so. Then, when Chris'mas comes, she brings Nothin' only useful things: Han'kershi'fs an' gloves an' ties, Sunday stuff yer jest despise. * From " Cape Cod Ballads and Other Verse," by Joseph Crosby Lincoln. Copy- right, 1902, by Albert Brandt, Trenton, N. J. SELECTIONS 303 She's a ole maid, all alone, 'Thout no children of her own, An' I s'pose that makes her fuss 'Bound our house a-bossin' us. If she'd had a boy, I bet, 'Tween her bossin' and her fret She'd a-killed him, jest about; So God made her do without, For he knew no boy could stay With Aunt 'Mandy every day. Joseph Ceosbt Lincoln. A STUDY IN NERVES* A SMALL door at the right of the pulpit opened, and he walked to his place before the altar. It had already been indicated by an inconspicuous chalk mark on the floor. His best man followed a little behind him at an interval which had required frequent rehearsing the evening before. He did not catch his chalk mark for an instant, and overstepped it, but he retreated cautiously, still facing the enemy, and carefully covered it with his foot. People had been pouring into the church for the last half -hour. At last all those who had been invited had been given the front seats. There was a slight flutter in the audience when the bride's mother and her two married sisters were escorted to their seats on the opposite side of the aisle from that set apart for the bridegroom's family, in the suggestively antagonistic manner which is customary when two houses are about to be united. From his chalk mark by the altar he gazed rather unin- telligently at the blur of faces turned toward him. Why should they all be staring at him? Was his cravat slipping up over his collar ? Only a hoarse but reassuring " You're all right, old man ! " brought his wandering hand back to his side again. But why didn't the music begin? Why did n't they open those doors ? Had anything gone wrong ? Had any one arrived at the last moment to announce some good cause why they two should not be joined together in holy wedlock? No, thank Heaven, he could face the world on that score. None the less, he felt that it must be fearfully * By permission of Life Publishing Co. 304 SELECTED READINGS late. Yet he had been told that everything was all ready, and that it was time for him to take his place on his chalk mark. What were they waiting for? If he could only look at his watch and see what time it really was, it would relieve his mind. He remembered that he had never seen it done, and kept his hands fast at the seams of his trousers, out of temptation. Suddenly the doors were pushed back and the bridal party appeared in the opening. Behind the double file of sombre- hue d ushers his eye caught a bit of color from the dress of one of the bridesmaids, and then rested for a moment upon a little cloud of pure swanlike white. Thank Heaven, there she was. And as she was there, why did n't the music begin? The tallest usher changed his position, and the little white cloud disappeared behind his broad black shoulder. Confound him, why could n't he stand still, when that was the first glimpse he had had of her for goodness knew how long! He saw the black back of the organist suddenly fill out as with the responsibility of his exalted position, and the next instant the familiar Mendelssohn Wedding March pealed through the church. He felt that his troubles were over, for anything was better than that silent staring. Eor a moment he could not make out what had all at once changed the appearance of things so much. Then he discovered that the sea of faces had turned into an equally bewildering exhibition of black hair. What was the matter with his mind, anyway? WTiy couldn't he stop thinking? " Tum-tum-ti-tum." The music not only had begun, but it seemed to him as if it had always been playing. Why did they not start? It seemed an easy matter for eight grown men to walk up a broad aisle together, two by two, a certain distance apart. They had done it half a dozen times the night before. It was perfectly simple. They were to be two pews apart. Or was it three pews? "Ti- tum-tum-ti-tum." He didn't know which it was, but it was no affair of his, anyway. All he had to do was to stay on his chalk mark until it was time for him to go to that other chalk mark over there to receive her. There it was, a little rubbed out, to be sure, but seeming to him like the guiding star to the path of matrimony. A scarcely breathed, 9^es after Mm; moon- light streams upon her form and face. She slowly re- enters; droningly picks up purseS V Witch. I love to look at you, for when I see you I feel that I am indeed of power. Twenty years' longer of life! . Edwabd Buxwer-Lytton Arranged by Anna Morgan. 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