>««H WrP THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES SELECTED READINGS Uniform with this Volume THE ART OF SPEECH AND DE- PORTMENT. By Anna Morgan. 12rao. $1.50 we^ A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers SELECTED READ I NGS 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" {FOURTH EDITION) CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1918 Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1909 Published May, 1909 W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO MS2.S ^In^cribfH TO jHartan, ^tia, anU 3^c66te AND TO i\IY MANY OTHER ACTUAL AND WOULD-BE PUPILS WHO ARE INTERESTED IN THE ART OF READING WELL CONTENTS Pagk 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 Elia W. Peattie 32 Mrs. Ripley's Trip Hamlin Garland 37 A Red-haired Cupid Henry Wallace Phillips 42 The Making of a Comedienne . . . Clara E. Latighlin 50 A Social Promoter Wilbur 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 86 A Passion in the Desert Honore de Balzac 90 Frederick op the Alberighi and his Falcon Boccaccio 94 DoMiNi's Triumph Robert Hichens 97 The Man without a Country . . . Edward Everett Hale 104 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 McEnery Stuart 143 Abbie's Accounts Tudor Jenks 146 'TwiXT Cup and Llp 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 of Friendship 158 Othello's Apology 158 Mercutio's Description of Queen Mab 160 The Seven Ages IGl The Motley Fool 162 Benedick's Soliloquy 163 Life'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 of Love 176 Youth and Art 177 Confessions 179 Time's Revenges 180 Porphyria's Lover 182 My Last Duchess 183 RUB YARD KIPLING Gentlemen-Rankers 185 Chant-Pagan 186 My Rival 188 Boots 190 EUGENE FIELD The Dream-Ship 191 The Limitations of Youth 192- Long Ago 193 JAMES WHIT COMB 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 C-\N 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 Sill 212 OppoRTtJNiTY Edward Rowland Sill 213 Opportunity John James Ingalls 214 " Sweet-Thing " Jane John Vance Cheney 214 The Happiest Heart John Vance Cheney 215 El Gaming Real -. . . . John S. M'Groarty 215 A Theme Richard Watson Gilder 216 The Two Mysteries Mary Mapes Dodge 21G The Cheer of 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 22G "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 ls Done Henry W. Longfellow 235 Marguerite John G. Whittier 236 Bill and Joe Oliver Wendell Holmes 238 Auf Wiedersehen James Russell Lowell 24P 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 Johi Howard Payne 257 Self-dependence Matthew Arnold 258 To Shakespeare's Love Edward J. McPhelim 259 Cleopatra W.W. Story 259 The Ballad op Reading Gaol Oscar Wilde 263 IV— VERSE Old Chums Alice Gary 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. Lampion 277 Out of Arcadia Harry Romaine 277 Mammy's Lullaby Strickland W. Gillilan 278 Kitty of Coleraine Charles Datoson Shanly 279 The Little Church round the Corner . A. E. Lancaster 280 Anne Hathaway Anonymous 281 The Gate Bessie Cahn 282 " Spacl^lly 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 2S8 The Hindoo's Paradise AnonymoTxs 289 A Dear Little Goose Anonymous 290 JL^ttie's Wants and Wishes Grace Gordon 291 V— SELECTIONS The Catechist Anonymous 295 A Boy's Composition on Columbus .... Anonymous 295 Madame Eef Anonymous 296 An Italian's Views on the Labor Question . . Joe Kerr 297 The Meeting of the Clabberhuses . . Sam Walter Foss 298 A Club Meeting op 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 Aria 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 Csesar") . . 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 364 Dialogue from "Twelfth Night" Shakespeare 368 Scene from "Coriolanus" Shakespeare 371 Scene from " King John " Shakespeare 374 Dialogue from "The Merchant of Venice". . Shakespeare 377 3airey Gamp and Betsey Prig (From "Martin Chuzzlewit") Charles Dickens 382 Little Em'ly (From "David Copperfield") Charles Dickens 386 Xil 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 "The Critic of the School for Wives" Holier e 415 Selections from "The Last Days of Pompeii" Bulwer-Lyiton 419 INDEX TO TITLES PAGE Abbie's Accounts. Tudor Jeyiks 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 Wicdersehen. 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 23S Boots. Rudyard Kipling . 190 Bravest Battle, The. Joa- quin Miller 211 Brutus and Cassius, Dia- logue between. Stiake- speare 357 But Then. Ben King . . 200 PAGE Buying her Husband a Christmas Present. Ruth McEnery Stuurt .... 143 Camino Real, EI. John S. M'Groarty 215 Captain ! My Captain ! O. Walt Whitman . . .. . 248 Carcassonne. M. E. W. Sherwood (Tx&i\s.) . . . 226 Catechist, The. Anonymou.'^ 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 'now head's Bell, The. J. M. Barrie . 72 "Critic of the School for Wives, The," Dialogue from. Molikre 415 Cup and Lip, 'Twixt. Anonymotis 149 Cupid Swallowed. Leigh Hunt 247 xui XIV INDEX TO TITLES PAGE Daffodils, The. William Wordsworth 246 "Da\dd Coppei-field," Selec- tion from (Little Em'ly). Charles Dickens .... 386 "Davad 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. Elia W. 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-sliip, 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 his Falcon. Boccaccio 94 Gamp, Sairey, and Betsey Prig, Dialogue between. Charles Dickens .... 382 97 77 282 "Garden of Allah, The," Selection from (Domini's Triumph). Robert Hich- ens Gate of the Hundred Sor- rows, The. Rudyard Kip- ling Gate, The. Bessie Cahn . . Gentlemen-Rankers. Rud- yard Kipling 185 Gift of the Magi, The. O. Henry 67 Good-night. Percy Bysshe Shelley 249 Gran'ma Al'us 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 . . 15? 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 "Jvilius Csesar," Selection from (Dialogue between Brutus and Cassius) Shakespeare 357 "King John," Selection from (Act IV, Scene 1). SJiakespeare 374 INDEX TO TITLES XV PAGE Kitty of Coleraine. C. D. Shanhj 279 "Last Days of Pompeii, The," Selections from. Bulwer Lytton 419 Last Duchess, My. Robert Broioning 183 Life. Thomas Shelley Sut- ton 288 Life Lesson, The. James Whitcomh 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 Lute 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. GillUan 278 "Man of Destiny, The," Selection from (Dialogue between Napoleon and a Strange Lady). G. Ber- nard Shaw 315 Man ^-ith 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 Sairoy Cramp and Betsey Prig). Charles Dickens 382 PAGE Mattie's Wants and Wishes. Grace Gordon 291 IMeeting of the Clabber- huses, The. Sam Walter Foss 298 "Merchant of Venice, The," Selections from. Shake- speare 377 Mercutio's Description of Queen Mab. Shakespeare 160 "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 162 "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 Whitcomh Riley . 196 Old Cluuns. Alice Gary . . 271 Old Coat, The. George Baker 272 Old Man and Jim, The. James Whitcomb Riley . 194 XVI INDEX TO TITLES PAGE "One, Two, Tlii-ee." H. C. Bunner 228 One Way of Love. Robert Browning 176 Opportunity. John J. In- galls 214 Opportunity. Edward Row- land SiU 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 "Pickmck Papers, The," Selection from (Sam and Tony Weller). Charles Dickens 400 Platonic. William B. Ter- rett 286 PorphjTia's Lover. Robert Browning 182 Posy from Shottery, With a. Wilbur D. Nesbit .... 220 Potion Scene, The. Shake- speare 168 Provengal Lovers, The. Ed- mund Clarence Stedinan . 229 Red-haired Cupid, A. Henry Wallace Phillips . 42 Ripley's, Mrs., Trip. Ham- lin Garland 37 Rival, My. Rudyard Kipling 188 "Rivals, The," Scene from. Richard Brinsley Sheridan 412 f Romeo and Juliet," Selec- tion from (Mercutio's De- PAGE scription of Queen Mab). Shakespeare 160 "Romeo and Juliet," Selec- tion from (JuUet's Wooing of the Night). Shakespeare 164 "Romeo and Juliet," Selec- tion from (The Potion Scene). Sliakespeare . . 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 Cliild, The. Harriet Monroe 232 Shakesyjeare's Love, To. Edward J. McPheiim . . 259 She does not Hear. Ben King 199 She Liked Him Rale Weel. Andrew Waulcss .... '288 Ships, My. Ella Wheeler Wilcox 225 Similar Case, A. Anony- moxis 283 Sir Peter and Lady Teazle. Richard Brinsley Sfieridan 409 Social Promoter, A. Wilbur D. Nesbit 58 Somewhere. Helen Hinsdale Rich 254 Spacially 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 xvil Tallcin' 'bout Trouble. Car- rie Jacobs- Bond .... 275 "Tempest, The," Selection from (Life's Revels). Shakespeare 163 Theme, A. Ricfiard Watso7i Gilder 216 Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever, A. Joh7i Keats . 249 Tiger Lily, The. Joaquin MiUer 209 Time's Revenges. Robert Browning 180 Tu Quoque. Austin Dobson 350 "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 aTid Two Tele- grams. Clyde Filch . . 113 Two Mysteries, The. Manj Mapcs Dodge 216 PAGE Ulysses. Alfred Tennyson 241 Uncle Remus on an Electric Car. Joel Clmndler Harris 125 Unexpected, The. Will J. Lampto7i 277 Up at a Villa — Down in the City. Robert Browning . 170 Usual Way, The. Anony- mous 284 Verses on a Cat. Percy Bysslie Shelley 250 When Malindy Sings. Paid Laivrence Dunbar .... 202 Whole Creation Groaneth, The. S. Weir Mitchell . . 233 Wives in a Social Game. Anonymous 151 Yes and No. Arlo Bates . . 333 Youth and Art.' Robert Browning 177 INDEX TO AUTHORS on Aldrich, Thomas Bailey Identity Anonymous 'Twixt Cup and Lip Wives in a Social Game The Dead Piissy Cat Anne Hathaway . . A Similar Case . . . The Usual Wav . . The Faitliful Lovers The Hindoo's Paradise A Dear Little Goose The Catechist . _._ . A Boy's Composition Columbus .... Madame Eef .... A Study in Nerves . At the Ferry .... "Come Here!" . . . Arnold, M.\tthew Self-dependence . . Baker, George The Old Coat ^ B.VLZAC, HONORE DE A Passion in the Desert . Barrie, J. M. The Courtin' of T'now- hcad's Bell Bates, Arlo Yes and No Boccaccio Frederick of the Alberiglii and his Falcon .... Browning, Robert Up at a Villa — Dow^l in the City .... Sumnvum Bonum . A Tale One Way of Love Youth and Art . . Confessions . . . Time's Revenges . 241 149 151 273 281 283 284 285 289 290 295 295 296 303 344 346 258 272 90 72 333 94 170 173 173 176 177 179 ISO PAGE 182 183 228 Porphyria's Lover . . My Last Duchess . . . Bunner, H. C. "One, Two, Three" . . 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 . . . The Happiest Heart . . Cooke, Majorie Benton Her Husband's Dinner Party Crawford, F. Marion A Tale of Old Madrid . . 214 215 137 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 Tu Quoque 350 XLX XX INDEX TO AUTHORS Dodge, Mary Mapes The Two Mysteries ... 216 Drumsiond, 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. Yv^. Mammy's I>ullaby ... 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 Nature and Philosophy Hunt, Leigh Abou Ben Adhem . . Cupid Swallowed . . . PAGE 329 247 247 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 Tiling of Beauty is a Joy Forever 249 Kerr, Job 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 T!ie Gate of the Hundred Sorrows 77 Gentlemen-Rankers . . . 185 Chant-Pagan 186 My Rival 188 Boots 190 LA\n'TON, Will J. The Unexpected .... 277 Lancaster, A. E. The Little Church around the Corner 280 Laughlin, Clara E. The Making of a Comedi- enne 50 Lincoln, Joseph Crosby When the Minister Comes to Tea 301 Aimt 'Mandy 302 INDEX TO AUTHORS XXI 235 240 419 422 424 Longfellow, Henry W. The Day is Done .... Lowell, James Russell Auf Wiedersehen .... Lytton, Bulwer lone and Nydia .... Julia and her Slaves . . The Witch's Cavern . . (Selections from "The Last Days of Pom- peii") 419 Markham, Eo'mN The Man with the Hoe . 221 Marshall, John On a Gray Birthday . . 254 M'Groarty, John S. P:1 Camino Real .... 215 McPhelim, Edward J. To Shakespeare's Love . 259 Miller, Joaquin The Tiger Lily 209 The Bravest Battle ... 211 Mitchell, S. Weir The Whole Creation Groaneth 233 MOLIERE Dialogue from "Critic of the School for Wives" 415 Monroe, Harriet The Shadow Child . . . 232 Morgan, Bessie Spacially Jim 282 Moseley, Litchfield Love in a Balloon ... 305 Nesbxt, Wilbur D. A Social Promoter ... 58 Nasturchurns 219 With a Posy from Shot- tery 220 Payne, John Howard Home, Sweet Home . . 257 Peattie, Elia W. Their Dear Little Ghost . 32 Phillips, Henry Wallace A Red-haired Cupid . . 42 Phillips, Stephen Scene from "Paola and Francosca" 351 Poe, a. H. Granma 'Al'us Does . . 274 Rice, Wallace The Cheer of Those Who Speak English .... 217 Rich, Helen Hinsdale Somewhere 254 Riley, James Wiiitcomb The Old Man and Jim . . 194 Out to Old Aunt IMary'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 .... 101 The Motley Fool .... 162 Benedick's Solilocjuy on Love 163 Life's Revels 163 Juliet's Wooing of the Night 164 Tlie Potion Scene .... 168 Brutus and Cassius . . . 357 Scene from "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 Larly Teazle (From "The School for Scandal") ...... 409 Scene from "The Rivals" 412 XXll 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 Provengal 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 I 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 I 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 Avith 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, wliich 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 unfallen rod 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 modem 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 vermission 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 hmnan 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. EicHARD Watson Gilder. PASQUALE'S PICTURE* (( BUT supposing he were not to come, after all ? " asks old 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 everj'body 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, wliile everybody, flocking 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 — Dio 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. ISTot 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. Vfhj, 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 tAvo 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 nostra hravo Pasquale I " 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 siich 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. '"■ 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 ]\Iurano ? 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, — PROSE SELECTIONS 29 humbl}^ tlianlvfiil, 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. II 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 ]\rurano ; 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 lirst glance. Ah, the picture ! In her gi-eat distress she had all but for- gotten it, and new her Pasquale, dead and buried though he be, smiles gravely and fondly down upon her. A thousand blessings upon the good JVladonna 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 first. But no matter ; it is still our Pasquale — cwo ! " 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 lihrajo, 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 lib raj o comes blinking PROSE SELECTIONS 31 to the front of his ding}^ 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 coiirtyard, 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 IMadonna 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 stilfening 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 dovm. her back ; there was not a flaw in her soft bro'\\Ti 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 m}^ 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, m}' 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. Tliere 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 imdertone. " 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. T 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 mo. 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 girl's 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 shadow}^ 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 bo3'S, 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. " Are n'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 (|uite 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 sliould think. Can you arrange to keep me somehow till after then ? ' We could not ' arrans^e ' 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 coui'se of Eg^'ptian history, and determined to con- cern myself with nothing this side the Ptolemies. Her mother has told me how, on Christmas eve, as usual, slie 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 ihe treasures they thought would appeal to thein. Thev asked themselves how thev 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 6e 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 f'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 " finis^hed the su})per 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 tlieir 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 permiasion 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 Kipley, you '11 half 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 half 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 ! I 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 — " " 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' 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 Eipley, 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 Eoach is paid, an' the interest paid, we ain't got no hundred dollars to spare, Jane, not by a jugful." " \Val, don't you lay awake nights studyin' on w^here I 'm a-goin' to get the money." " Come, Tewky, you better climb the wooden hill," Mrs. Eipley 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 boj^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 1 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 Eipley. 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 T wait till J 'm able to send her, she won't never so." The next night as Mrs. liipley was clearing tlie 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' think that ? " "Well, y' ain't told us 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." Eipley 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-mori-ow. I calc'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 ol' 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 ealc'lated you 'd need. An' here's a ticket to Georgetown, and ten dollars. Why, ma, what 's up ? " Mrs. Eipley 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 tliree 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 ealc'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 da/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. ^Irs. Eipley 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 ve could go with me; but ye can't, so do the best ye can."" 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, wliich was blocked here and there with drifts. " Why ! it 's Gran'ma Eipley, just getting back from her trip. Vfhy ! how do you do ? Come in. Why ! you must be nearly frozen. Let me take ofl:' your hat and veil." " No, thanlc ye kindly, but I can't stop. I must be gittin' back to Eipley. 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 Eipley. He '11 want his supper on time." And oft' up the road the indomitable little figure trudged, head held dowTi 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 Eipley an' the boy." Eipley 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, crj'ing 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 Eipley 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 oF Grumpy 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 hy 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 tliink, and says they, " We '11 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 ! " thinlvs 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 '11 give that Eastern blossom an idea of the quality of this country, anyhow," thinks I. So I togs myself up in the awf ullest 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. Eed, 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 was n'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 was n't her stylo. 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 1 know I says to myself that first day, " If I was ten year 3^ounger, 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 Eeddy, from your ranch now, ma'am," says he, and when he caught sight of me, " What 's the matter, Eed ; 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 '11 chance it, Mr. Eed." " His name ain't Eed," put in Darragh, solemn. " His name 's Saunders. We call him Eed 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 trimlv in and away we flew. Bud and Dandy were a corking little team. They were snorting and pulling grand, the buckboard bouncing behind 'em like a rubber ball. " Goodness gracious ! " says the girl, " do you always go like this in this country ? " " Wliy, 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 j^ou ? " " 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 liis confidence. I never 46 SELECTED READINGS was less astonished in my whole life, and I did n'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, Eed ? " " 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 AVind-Eiver 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 woidd be to shoot Jones." " Let 's go out and meet 'em ! " And away we went. They weren'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 face, 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 Eed, otherwise known as Big Eed Saimders. " 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 ? " sa3^s 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 gi-and raffle. In other words tal^e 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 thiiLk it over until next day, but that turned out to be too late, for what must Kyle do but get chucl^ed 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 ! Isow 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, Ked ? What will we do ? " says he. " Now," says I, " don't bile over like that, because it 's bad for )'our 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 '11 tell you exactly what we '11 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 Loj^s — '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, 3'ou 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, 3^ou 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. " Hurr}' 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. \Ye '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 beliind me, coming fast." Well, sir, at this old Father Slade stood right up, for- getting that foot entirely. " Children, be read}'," says he, and he went over the lino for a record. " Hurry there ! " hollers old Bob from the outside, where he was on watch ; " here comes uncle up the long coulee ! " " ^Aliat 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. AYe 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, Eed ! 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. "What'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 Uke 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 ly Anna Morgan. THE MAKING OF A COMEDIENNE From "Felicity" PEOBABLY only one thing could have kept Phineas Morton in Millville all Summer, but that thing hap- pened: he fell ill before he had been vn\X\ 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 Avas 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 sufTering 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 I'se ketched 'im I'se gwine mek 'im sorry fer 'is sins." " He 's sorry now." " Not so sorr}' 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 tcr-night, he des' bustin' full o' yo' gran'ma's cheese an' meal." "Well, le 's put him in a piece for brcakfas'; maybe he won't know how to find breakfas', far away like I 'm goin' to take him." The cheese thus eloquently bogged 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 comer of the sitting-room, beyond which comer, 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 cojwformity 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." " 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 58 must 'a' 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 '11 have to forego, then, as long as she 's under my roof." Encouraged by her rebelhon 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 j little night-gowned figure was outstretched in the small bed beside Amelia's own, the woman who was finding vent thus ; 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- j 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 Felicitv — '• It was midnight when she crept to bed to finish a restless ' night. I Eecalled to that pitiless knowledge of her situation which i she had mercifully forgotten for awhile in sleep, Amelia sat i up, conscious of keen regret that it was day so soon. ! Felicity backed up to have her little petticoats buttoned, j 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 searcliing for an answer in their | velvety depths, she asked : 1 " Felicitv, would vou like to be an actress ? " . ' " How could I ? I 'm so little." j '' They have little girls, sometimes. Mr, Morton has little ■ girls in his plays. I think maybe if we ask him he '11 take j 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 Icnow about 5'ou and tr}^ to do lovely things for you, and you meet other cele- brated people — kings and queens, sometimes — and gi'eat I writers and painters and musicians; and everybody envies you and wishes they were in j'our place, instead of feeling j sorry for you because you 've never called your soul your ] own." " " i " I 'd like that. I 'd like it fine ! But gran'ma ! She ) would n't let us." I " No," agreed Amelia, soberly, " she would n't. But would I PROSE SELECTIONS 55 you do it anywa)' ? 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 woidd 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 '11 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 tnje? 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 Eeverend 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 Eeverend 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 Eeverend 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 Felicitv, 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 floting 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 pla3's. 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 awful! 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 '11 tell you what I '11 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 leam io 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 did n'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 n.arle Julius Csesar howl with joy. And then my wife can't understand why we aren'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 mth 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. Reporters came to interview the Colonel, but Leybum 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 3^ou one. Hope you can come. I 've got cigars and things in my room for jovL 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 Leybum was announced. " Hello, Leybum ! 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 gowBed, 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 downtowTi : " 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 — really — 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 sots liis head or his heart on anything he '11 get it, if he must fight day and night. Papa is all right. I 've alwaj's 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 road : " Colonel Abel Ginn, inventor and purveyor of Ginn's 62 SELECTED READINGS Ginger Snaps, who owns wliat 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 Euspkes will sing. In addition to these, Dnmrich'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 Cjoss- Fillinghams, the Schoolers, the Biltneys, and all of the other three hundred and ninety-seven. Colonel Ginn docs 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 conmient. 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 nobilitv^ 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 Leybum ! " chirped Mrs. Cross-Filling- ham. " Where ever have 3'ou 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 wliich 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. Marinn Crawford. Copyrighlid bu The MacmilUin Company. 64 SELECTED READINGS her b)^ 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 sanli 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. [Quiclchj.] 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 under 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 Imow 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.) "1 was close behind the door Your Majesty wished to open. I heard every word ; I heard your sword cll'a^vn 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? ^Vhen 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 mhII 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 arc, 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 you 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 : " N"o, 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 lover's murderer." " This is past iDcaring, 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 Euy 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 ever}- 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 3'our 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, \7ho 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. " l" 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 liim 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 Afina Morgan. THE GIFT OF THE MAGI* OXE 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 tiie 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 notliing 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. MHien the mistress of the home is gi-adually 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 wliich 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 thinlving 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 Avindows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an eight-dollar fiat. 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 I3ella's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of bro^vn 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. Sofronie. 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 ]\radame. " 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 luid boon 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. WHiich 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 '11 say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do — oh ! WHiat 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 could n'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 ' 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 idiocv. "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 tben an ecstatic scream of joy ; and then, alas ! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating 72 SELECTED READINGS the immediate emplojonent 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 yearned 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 eat 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* FOE 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, Tnowhead," to the farmer, and " It 's 3'ersel, 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 a3'e ; what 's to hender ye ? " " Weel, since ye 're sae pressin', I '11 bide." TvTo 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 '11 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-niglit. " 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 wadna advise )-e to eat thae ither anes, Bell — they 're second qualit}'," 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 montli 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, ^^n- 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, thinldng he was walking in his sleep. He tottered past them, however, hurried up the aisle and was gone. A nimiber of the congregation realized that day the ad- vantage of sitting in the loft. WTiat was a mysterj^ 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 Sani'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 tlie 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 gJoomilv on the pigsty. " Weel, Bell," said Sanders. " I thocht ve '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 lie 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." " Ay." "Weel, Sam'l, she's a snod l)it lassie." " Thank ye." " I had ance a kin' o' notion o' Bell mysel." "Tchad?" " Yes, Sam'l ; but I thocht better o' t." " Hoo d'ye mean?" 76 SELECTED READINGS " Weel, Sam'l, mairitch is a temble 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 thev 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' naething 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' tiling." " But we '11 hope for the best." " Sam'l ! " " Ay, Sanders." " Did ye — did ye kiss her, Sam'l ? " " Na." "Hoo?" " There was varra little time, Sanders." " Plalf an 'oor." " Was there ? Man, Sanders, to tell ye the truth, I never thocht o' t." ileeting 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 hurrv 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. Sauders, 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 '11 gie her up, Sanders." "Will ye, though?" "\\Tiat 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. Baeeie. Adapted hy 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 ]\Iosque 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 ho knows the city. You might even go through tlie 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 is n'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 Bum 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 3'ellow man is made different. Opium does n't tell on him scarcely at all, but white and black sufiier a good deal. Of course there are some people that the smoke does n'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 Cliinaman, 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-Tcliing. 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-Tching-'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 comer. 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 T 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. WTien I feel 80 SELECTED READINGS I 'm going I shall ask Tsin-Ling for them, and he can draw ray 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 would n't put bran into the black smoke. EuDYARD 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 to^^Tisfolk 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. xA.s 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 monev 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 Icihitli 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." PROSE SELECTIONS 83 " And the price ? " said Pakhom. " We have only one price here, one thousand roubles a day. "We sell by the da}^ — 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 3^our 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 5'our money in it. Your laborer Avill stand here. This is your starting point — hither also will you return. Wliatsoever you compass shall bo yours." Pakhom took out his money, placed it in the cap, doffed his long cloak, girded up his loins, tightened his belt, thnist 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. Paldiom 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 mucli easier going. He thought, " I '11 go another five miles, and then I '11 turn to the left. This spot is good." But tlie 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 lilie 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 prOjE 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 ver}' 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. *• 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," tliought 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 ! \\niat was that? " He listened. The Bashkirs wore shouting and bellowing to him to come on, and their shouts kindled his courage once more. Pakhom 86 SELECTED READINGS ran with all tlie strength he still had left in liim, — 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, lielow 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 Ms 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 Eussian ells in length, Pakhom's exact meas- urement from head to foot. Leo Tolstoi. Adapted hy Anna Morgan. HER FIRST APPEARANCE ME. CAEUTHEES 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 gro^\^l 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." " WTiat 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 iinderstand 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 mc 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 tlmt, 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 vrish 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 cliild again, and least of all that woman's child. She is as dead to me as though she were buried vtdth 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. "\Miy, man, I loved that cliild'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, aB 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 '11 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 vei7 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." EiCHAED Harding Davis. Abridged by Anna Morgan. A PASSION IN THE DESERT DUEHSTG an expedition in Upper Egypt a Provengal soldier was made a prisoner by the Arabs and taken into the desert beyond the falls of the Nile. In order to place a sufhcient 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 Provengal saw that his enemies were no longer watching him, he made use of his teeth to seize a scijnitar, 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 exti'aordinary 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 liim 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 liis mind to wait till morning. A bold thought brought daylight to his soul and checked 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 b}' tlie ti'anquillity 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 b}- 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 dav 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 Russia, 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 manlcind." liONORE DE BalZAC. Abridged hy Anna Morgan. 94 SELECTED READINGS FREDERICK OF THE ALBERIGHI AND HIS FALCON IN Florence there was a young man called Frederick, son of Master Philip Alberiglii, 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 ari]is, made feasts and presents, and silent 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. Eemaining 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 anytliing, 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 a1)le 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 96 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 e^ddence. 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 3^oung, was urged many times by her brothers to marry. Eemembering 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 1 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 hy 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? Ho did not know. What was her purpose? He could not tell. But he felt that she had a ♦ Bv permifinion of the avthor 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 Domini's 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 m.an 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 walk 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 knev/, 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 liini ! He walked faster before tlie 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, wliile 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 — 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 — you 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 ? Wliere 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 witli God? Do you want to get rid of your burden of misery, which increases — ■ I know it — day by dav ? " " How can T ? " " 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. Cod 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 mamed 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 vou 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 cai-ried 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. Thinlv — think as I do — of — of What am I ? 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 you." " 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 lie 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 — ' ISTo 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, eompanionless, 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. EOBEET HiCHENS. Abridged ly 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. * By permission of the author. PROSE SELECTIONS 105 Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in the " Lesfion 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. Wliat 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 Rich- 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 smnmer 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 — tluit 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 liis 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- Cjuest 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 counti-y. 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 Armv. " This person on his trial by court-martial expressed, with an oath, the wish that he 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. " JBut under no circumstances is he ever to hear of his countrv 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 thouglit 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 oflBcer 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." Pie 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 JSTolan met Burr once on one of our vessels, when a party of Americans came on board in the Mediterranean. But it is clear from Buri-'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 vmderstand 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, witli 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 tlie United States, as he had drawn it from memon,', 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 boundar}^ all the way to the Pacific, but on tliat shore he had defined nothing. " ' Oh, Danforth,' 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 bv 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 ever}i;hing, Danforth, before I die ! Tell me their names,' he said, and he pointed to the stars on the flag. ' 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 pemiited 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, and 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 T did as well as I could. I told him of the Eng- lish war. I told him about Fulton and the steamboat be.E^in- 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 ! ' 1 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 w'orked 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 years ! " 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 Prosbvterian ' Book of Public Praver,' winch lav 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 HEADINGS the page. And I knelt down and read, and he repeated with me, ' For ourselves and our countr}', 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. ' 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 honr, 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 Ujiited States. He loved his country as no other man has loved her; but no man deserved less at her hands.' " Edward Everett Hale. Abridged hy Anna Morgan. te < PROSE SELECTIONS US TWO LETTERS AND TWO TELEGRAMS* LETTER 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 3'our mind till the cigar 's iinished. 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, 80 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 " Somp Correspondence," by Clydf Fitch. Copyright, ] 896, by S(one Jfc Kimball, Herbert S. Stone & Co., Successors, Duffield & Company, Successors. 8 114 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 a:bsorbed in mine ! I wonld 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. Tom. Ill 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 you 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 '1 tole you somet'ing, Ma'amselle Serene. You ma frien'. 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 Cliarles 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 Ransom 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 nround 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 Eetreat, 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 Eansom 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 am comforted that you are come, moti pere, for I have the heavy heart. There is a secret that I have kej^t 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 peref^^ The priest's face had changed very swiftly at the mention of the camp on the St. Maurice. As tnte 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 praj^er 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 liannony. 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! Hentey van Dyk:e. Adapted hy Anna Morgan. FLEAS WILL BE FLEAS* MIKE FLANNERY was the star boarder at Mrs. ; Muldoon's. j " ^like," said Mrs. Muldoon, one noon, " I know the opin- > ion 3'e 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 awav from th' honest American laborin' ' man — and I would not be thinkin' of takin' one f board at ' this dav, but would ve to tell me this : — Is a Frinchmin a j Dago?'" " Mrs. Muldoon, mam, there be two kinds of Frinchmin. j There be the respictible Frinchmin, an' there be the unres- i 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 t' have nawthing f do with the Dago i 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- j fessors, and not of one kind of insects alone, Mrs. Muldoon, ' mam. Ye have mistook th' understandin' of what he was i sayin'." i " I beg pardon to ye, but 't is not mistook I am. Fleas th' Professor said, and no mistake at all." " Yis ? Well mebby 't is so. He would be what ye call one of thim specialists. They do be doin' that now, I hear, and 't is probable th' Frinchmin has fleas for his specialty. * Reprinted by permisaion 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 accountin' 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. ]\Iuldoon, 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 j-ears, 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 ofi", 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 't is right they should, for 't is by studyin' the feet of fleas, and such, they can learn about germs and how t' take out 3^our appendix, and ' Is marriage a failure ? ' and all that." " Ye dumfounder 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' band." 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- ner}' 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 Flannery. " I would not like to say for sure, mam, but I 'm thinkin' 't is 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 tli' 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 Flanner\' 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 liim 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. " Por the keek, Madame Muldoon, I care not. I have been keek before. The keek by one gentleman, him I resent, him 1 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 flea ! 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. Middoon, 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 leam 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 I Thim can't be crude fleas at sich a price, Professor." " No ! Certain, no ! " " Xot crude, an' imported by th' Professor ! 'T is odd I should have seen a refirincc t' them very things this very day. Professor. 'T is in this book here. ' Insects, not crude, one-quarter cent ]-)qv pound and tin cint ad valomm.' I dunno, but 't is a wonderful tiling th' tariff is. Wlio 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 t* think of everything. ' Ko 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 Plannery, glaring at the Profes- sor, " but up Jumps the Sinator from Califomy. ' 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 thinlcin' 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 Flanneiy. "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 liimself. 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 Flannery stopped and listened. "Is that th' train from th' city I hear? O'Halloran will sure be on it." The Professor arose. " Mon Dicii! I have lost the most valued thing, the picture of the dear mamma. It is lost ! It is picked of the pocket ! A^illains ! I go to the police. I return." He did not wait for permission, but Avent, and that was the last Mike Planner}^ or Mrs. Muldoon ever saw of him. " An' t' thinly 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 hy Anna Morgan. UNCLE REMUS ON AN ELECTRIC CAR* OXE 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 enouofh of mvsterv 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. Pie 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 or sump'n." * By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 126 SELECTED READINGS " Why, if we had 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 chum dar ? " in- dicating the brass cylinder containing the machinery for turning on and shutting off the electric current. Something in Uncle Eemus'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'l ? " " 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 Eemus to dodge as if he had been shot at, turned on the current, and started the car. A negro girl sitting opposite Uncle Eemus 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 I'am 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 Eemus, severely. " You '11 be a-gwine on dat away some er PROSE SELECTIONS 127 deze yer odd-come-shorts, an' you '11 break yo' puckerin'- string. Den what you 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 cun-ent," 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 no thin', 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 foun' 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 ''a 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 dowTi 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 1 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 wear}' day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front and flanlc 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 tliee 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 bom 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 grobably that speech which enabled Douglas to win the senatorship, ut 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 bom to die."] e 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. REMEMBEE THY CEEATOE ECCLESIASTES Eemember 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, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never failcth : 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 T was a child, T 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 abidetli 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-THIED 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 vnth bundles, approaches the train-starter in the station. Mrs. Trenton speaks.) WHx\T 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 ? (Slie rushes hack to the train-starter.) Guard, why didn'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 's 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 tliousand 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 ticTcet.) 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 AVinnetka 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 Eoquefort 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 liim where the cheese was, and old Eobert 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 tliat 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 1 '11 see you again. . . . Yes, yes, conductor, I 'm coming. (Conductor transfers her, tag and baggage, to the south- hound, 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 did n't that other conductor find out — you 've got to let me oft 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 stai'ter 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 asks ivhat is the trouble, and conductor mutters, " lAinatic, 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 /40 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 Imow 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 sloivs doivn, and Mrs. Trenton drops off in a sJiower 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 ivhat bundles she can, and gets aboard of elec- tric, 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 Winnetka, 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 skirt free of sawdust, and ivrinkles nose in disgust. She moves uncertainly, finally points at one man.^ 'XT'OU, if you please. Good-moming. I want to look at X something for dinner. . . . Oh, I don't know what I want — just show me what 5'ou have. ... Of course I cant 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 1 was at home we often had chops, but they were n'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 difi^erent 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 were n'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 Avanted 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 tlie steps — I liad been to tea, I think — anyway, I know I 'd had an awfully * Stage and platfoTm riohls 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 — [TurnsJ] I 'm in great haste myself, madam. \To hutcher.l You will kindly finish waiting on me before 3^ou 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 has n'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 '11 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 would n'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 tliin, 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 Avill 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. ]\Iy ole man started off this momin' 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 l)ig wagon, an' of co'se I know what that means. 'E 's gone fo' my Christmus gif an' 1 '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 even'thing, 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 tliink 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 l)olt 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 — ]\Ir. 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'a Mourning." CopjjriglU, 1898, by Harper 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 i 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 Ti-uth, 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 Eeuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us 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! EUDYARD KiPLINO. 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' touchjn' 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 wiiilviu' like f uu — Three sides oi" a niuety-mile square. Over valleys as big as a shire — Are ye there ? Are ye there ? Are ye there ? An' then the blind dnmi 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 Range, 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' tiie silence, the shine an' the size Of the 'igh, inexpressible skies — I am takin' some lettei"s almost As much as a mile, to the post, An' " mind you come back with tlie 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, 'T\vixt the Rains and the Sun and the Moon; Me that lay down an' got up 188 SELECTED READINGS I Three years an' the sky for my roof — 1 That 'ave ridden my 'unger an' thirst ! Six thousand raw mile on the 'oof, j With the Vaal and the Orange for cup, An' the Brandwater Basin for dish, — I Oh ! it 's 'ard to be'ave as they wish, J (Too 'ard, an' a little too soon), I '11 'ave to think over it first — Me! ! I 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; j For I know of a sun an' a wind, An' some plains and a moim.tain 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, i To look in an' ofPsaddle an' live ! Wliere there 's neither a road nor a tree — \ But only my Maker an' me, } An' I think it will kill me or cure, j So I think I will go there an' see. RuDTAED Kipling. MY RIVAL i I GO to concert, party, ball — j What profit is in these ? ■ I sit alone against the wall i And strive to look at ease. The incense that is mine by right | They burn before her shrine ; j And that 's because I 'm seventeen And she is forty-nine, j i I cannot check my girlish blush, \ My color comes and goes ; I redden to my finger tips, ' And sometimes to my nose. j 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 fort}^-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 'EE 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 — tr)^ — 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 ! Eddyaed Kipling. POETRY 101 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-vvTeath on her brow. The other angels, silver-crowned, Pilot and helmsman are, x\nd 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 vears. 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,lSOQ,bi/ Eugene Field; publi»h*d by Charles Scribncr't Sons, 192 SELECTED READINGS So ever do^vIl^va^d float the dreams That are for all and me, And there is never mortal man Can solve that m3'Stery. But ever onward in its course Along the haunted skies — As though it were a cloud astray — The ghostly dream-sliip 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 boss Way out into the big an' boundless West; I 'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across, i An' I 'd pluck the bal' head eagle from his nest ! I With my pistol at my side, I I would roam the prarers wide, • ! An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride — ! If I darst ; but I darse n't ! I 'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there, j An' the biggest ollyf unts you ever saw ! ! 1 would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, j An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw ! i I 'd chase the pizen snakes An' the 'pottimus that makes j His nest doA^oi at the bottom of unfathomable lakes — j If I darst ; but I darse n't ! ] I would I were a pinit to sail the ocean blue, i With a big black flag a-flyin' overhead ; i 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, 189Q, by Ett^ene Field; published ,. by Charles Scribner's Sons, | ! j 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 darse n't ! And, if I darst, I 'd lick my pa for the times that he 's licked me! I 'd lick my brother an' 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 WTiere pickerel lay that weighed a pound ! I knew the wood, — the very tree "VVTiere 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 Wentern Verae." Copj/right, 1889, by Eugene Field; publithed bu Charles Scribner'a Sont, 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 whatsoe'er 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! ]N"ever 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, fer 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' looTcin' 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 doAvn 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 nothin' about the farm Disting'ished Jim; Neighbors all used to wonder why The old man 'peared \\Tapped up in him : But when Cap. Biggler he writ back 'At Jim was the bravest boy we had In the whole dem rigiment, white er black. And his fightin' 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 him 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 dinim — 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 dumb 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 Eed-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 yeajs 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 Eiley. 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 " Sunda/s wood " in the kitchen, too. And we went visiting, " me and you," Out to Old Aunt Mar/s? It all comes back so clear to-day ! Though I am as bald as you are gray — Out by the bam-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. Bohbs-Merrill Co. POETRY 197 WTiere the hammering red-heads hopped awry, And the buzzard raised in the clearing slcy, 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. "WTiy, 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 bovs to come ! " And all is well Out to Old Aunt Marj^'s. James Whitcomb Eilet. THE LIFE LESSON* THEEE ! 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-M errill 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 Riley. 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? Remember the story of Elihu Burritt, j 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 I But Queen Isabella she listened to him, An' paw-ned all her jewels o' worth, , An' bought 'im the Santa Marier 'n said: i " Go hunt up the rest of the earth." j 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. i SHE DOES NOT HEAR SH-SH-SH-SH-SHE does not hear the r-r-r-r-robin sing, : Xor 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. i Sh-sh-sh-she cuc-cuc-cannot see the Autimin s-s-sky. Nor hear the wild geese s-s-s-stringing b-b-by; I And, oh ! how happy 't-t-t-'tis to know | Sh-sh-she never f-f-f eels 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 I could not twine her w-w-w-wondrous hair — j 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-falls 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. i I IF I CAN BE BY HER ID-D-DON'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-ph-shines, er whether it pours, Er how high up the eagle s-a-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 e-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-fer 'er hand; He said: " T\ni-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-fer 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 McGUFFIN" he wanted to die 'Nd bring his career to an end; 0' course, well — he didn't say nothin' to me — ■ But that 's what he told every friend. So one afternoon he went down to the pier, 'Nd 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; 'N"d the very next time 'at he started to shave. Determined to die, he was goin' t' 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 & Corrvpany. 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 need n'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. Xuthin'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, — Yiney, 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 F'om de kitchen to de big woods When Malindy sings. You ain't got de nachel o'gans Fu' to m.ake 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 3'ou one thing now, Miss Lucy, An' I 'm tellin' you fu' 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', Eobins, 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, WTien 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 " Rock 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 ]\Iaster ncvah 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 SAveetah 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' ca'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' F'om 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 Laurkntce Dunbar. ANGELINA * WHEN de fiddle gits to singin' out a ol' Vahginny reel, An' you 'mence to feel a ticklin' in yo' toe an' in 5^0' 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 0' 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' you could n't he'p f'om dancin' ef yo' feet was boun' wif twine, When Angelina Johnson comes a-swingin' dovm. 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 '11 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 st^ps 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' ! WTien 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 'e gwine mek dat damsel mine," When Angelina Jolinson 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, 'Dey'll be trouble in dis camp. CopyrighUd by Dodd, Mead cfc Company. Used by permiesion. 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 flo' You won't find no time to sno'. Daylight 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'll 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. FoF yo' ban'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 Laurence Dunbar. ENCOURAGEMENT * WHO dat knockin' at de do'? Why, Ike Johnson, — yes, fu' 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; Eeckon 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 Tcllin' 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 soniep'n new, i Ef I wants to ma'y too. j 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 would n't ekal mine. Him whut gits me fu' a wife 'LI 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 — dah, 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, Uaed by permiaBion, POETRY 209 Whut's dat underneaf yo' coat? Looks des lak a little shoat. 'Tain't no possum ! Bless de Lamb ! Yes, it is, you rascal, Sam ! Gin it to me; whut you say? Ain't you sma't now ! Oh, go 'way ! Possum do look mighty nice. But you ax too big a price. Tell me, is you talkin' true, Dat's de gal's whut ma'ies you? Come back, Sam; now whah's you gwine? Co'se you knows dat possum 's mine ! Paul Laurence Dunbar. THE TIGER LILY* From "Como" THE red-clad fishers row and creep Below the crags as half asleep, ISTor ever make a single sound. The walls are steep. The waves are deep ; And if a dead man should be found By these same fishers in their round, Vthj, who shall say but he was drowned ? The lakes lay bright as bits of broken moon Just newly set within the cloven earth; The ripened fields drew round a golden girth Far up the steeps, and glittered in the noon; And, when the sun fell down, from leafy shore Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar; The stars, as large as lilies, flecked the blue; From out the Alps the moon came wheeling through The rocky pass the great Napoleon knew. A gala night it was, — the season's prime. "We rode from castled lake to festal town, To fair Milan — my friend and I; roflo down By night, where grasses waved in rippled rhyme: And so, what theme but love at such a time? * By permiaaion of the author. 14 210 , SELECTED READINGS His proud lip curl'd the while with silent scorn At thought of love; and then, as one forlorn, He sighed; then bared his temples, dash'd with gray; Then mocked, as one outworn and well blase. A gorgeous tiger lily, flaming red, — So full of battle, of the trumpet's blare, Of old-time passion, — uprear'd its head. I gallop'd past. I lean'd, I clutch'd it there From out the stormy grass. I held it high, Ajid cried : " Lo ! this to-night shall deck her hair Through all the dance. And mark ! the man shall die Who dares assault, for good or ill design, The citadel where I shall set this sign." • ••••* He spoke no spare word all the after while. That scornful, cold, contemptuous smile of his! Then in the hall the same old, hateful smile! Why, better men have died for less than this. Then marvel not that when she graced the floor, • •••>• The fairest wore within her midnight hair My tiger lily, — marvel not, I say, That he glared like some wild beast well at bay. • • • • • • Her presence, it was majesty — so tall ; Her proud development encompassed all. She filled all space. I sought, I saw but her: I followed as some fervid worshipper. Adown the dance she moved with matchless grace. The world — my world — moved with her. Suddenly I questioned who her cavalier might be. 'T was he ! His face was leaning to her face ! I clutch'd my blade ; I sprang ; I caught my breath, — And so, stood leaning cold and still as death. And they stood still. She blushed, then reached and tore The lily as she passed, and down the floor She strewed its heart like jets of gushing gore. . . . 'Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break: He taught me this that night in splendid scorn. I learned too well. . . . The dance was done. Ere mom We mounted — he and I — but no more spake. . . . POETRY 211 And this for woman's love! My lily worn In her dark hair in pride, to then be torn And trampled on, for this bold stranger's sake! . . . Two men rode silent back toward the lake; Two men rode silent down — but only one Eode up at mom to meet the rising run. The walls are steep; The crags shall keep Their everlasting watch profound. The walls are steep; The waves are deep; And if a dead man should be found By red-clad fishers in their round, Why, who shall say but he was drowned? Joaquin Miller. Adapted by Anna Morgan. THE BRAVEST BATTLE* THE bravest battle that ever was fought ! Shall I tell you where and when? On the maps of the world you will find it not. It was fought by the mothers of men. Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, With sword, or nobler pen; Nay, not with eloquent word or thought, From the mouths of wonderful men. But deep in a walled-up woman's heart — Of woman that would not yield. But patiently, silently bore her part — Lo ! there is the battlefield. No marshalling troop, no bivouac song. No banner to gleam and wave; And oh! these battles they last so long — From babyhood to the grave ! Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars. She fights in her walled-up town — Fights on and on in the endless wars; Then, silent, unseen, goes down. ♦ By permission of the author. 212 SELECTED READINGS ye with banners and battle shot, And soldiers to shout and praise, 1 tell you the kingliest victories fought Are fought in these silent ways. spotless woman in a world of shame! With splendid and silent scorn, Go back to God as white as you came. The kingliest warrior born. Joaquin Miller. THE FOOL'S PRAYER* THE royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care. And to his Jester cried : " Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer ! " The jester doffed his cap and bells. And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose : " Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! " No pity. Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool : The rod must heal the sin ; but Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 'T is not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, Lord, we stay; 'T is by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. " These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend. * By permission of Houghton Mifflin & Co. POETRY 213 " The ill-timed truth we miglit 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 liis gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, " Be merciful to me, a fool ! " Edward Rowland Sill. OPPORTUNITY * TITTS 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 Jt Co. 214 SELECTED READINGS I i OPPORTUNITY : 1 MASTEE of human destinies am I! 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 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. j I answer not, and I return no more ! " j John James Ingalls. i "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 oif for Lovetown too. The cool of the day is your lovers' weather, And all go to Lovetown two together. Y'ou 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, laut it 's this road to-day. With the breath of God about us on the King's Highway. John S. M'Groaety. A THEME* "/^ IVE me a theme," the little poet cried, \J" " And I will do my part." " 'T is not a theme you need," the world replied, " You need a heart." EiCHARD 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. ISTothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. Mary 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 ! 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 carrj'' the victory through I 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 Eicb. 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' howdydo. 220 SELECTED READINGS Well, there 's folks like 'em — just the same As them nasturchums is, I saj^ 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, ISTasturchums, 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 Reach 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 wdth 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. "O 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 brotlier to the ox? Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw? Whose was the hand that slanted back this l)row? Whoso breath blew out the light within this brain? • By permission of the author and the publishers, Doublcday, McClure & Co, 222 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 When 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 — Wlien this dumb Terror shall reply to God, After the silence of the centuries ? Edw^in 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 bonder arpent. De fader of me, he was habitant farmer, Ma gran'fader too, an' bees fader also. Dey don't mak' no monee, but dat is n't fonny For it 's not easy get ev'ry-t'ing, you mus' Imow — All de sam' dere is somet'ing dey got ev'r}^boddy, 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 d^ 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 tam 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'ryf 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' t'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 tam for wake up on de morning An' lissen de rossignol sing ev'ry place, Feel soul' win' a-blowin', see clover a-growin'. An' all de 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 do^vTi de reever — too bad dey mus' leave her. But comin' back soon wit' beaucoup d'argent. An' 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 t'ink 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. "W'en 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 nort' win' may blow jus' so moche as she please. An' some cole winter night how I wish you can see us, W'en 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 tam 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 ban' 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 chiFren 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 tam get awaken ISTex' day, she 's so sleepy on bote of de eye. Dat's wan of dem tings, ev'ry tam on de fashion. An' 'bout nices' f ing dat was never be seen. Got not'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, Wen 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 IF 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 eea. 15 226 SELECTED READINGS ! If just one ship I have at sea i 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 j If that one ship came home to me. j If that one ship went down at sea, I And all the others came to me i Weighted down with wealth untold, | With glory, honor, riches, gold; I 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, i Send any, all that skim the sea, j But bring that one ship home to me. Ella Wheelee Wilcox. I 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 Rome ! The Bishop the procession leads, The generals curb their prancing steeds — Alas ! I know not Carcassonne ! Alas ! I saw not Carcassonne ! Our Yicar '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 ! He never saw gay Carcassonne. WTio 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 hy permisnion 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 Eight 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. PROVENgAL 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 Nicolette. " 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 't were just as well That you and I shoul-d take, ma belle! " Said Aucassin to Nicolette. ♦ Bi/ permiaaian of Houghlon Mifflin & Co. 230 SELECTED READINGS " To purgatory I would go With pleasant comrades whom we know, Fair 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 Nicolette. " 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 Nicolette. " Sweet players on the cithern strings, And they who roam the world like kings. Are gathered there, so blithe and free ! Pardie ! I 'd 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 Nicolette. 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 I 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 marvellous to behold, — Like a sunbeam drawn from its golden rest. And dashed on a prism, and sliattered so Into violet, red, and gold. Men said, " A dream, a fantasy wild. Has ravished his soul and his reason beguiled." o' The world said, "Let go!" ; But I answered, " No ! " j We slipped — my angel and I — and fell; The star-beams blazed from his jostled crown ! Down, down — Heaven ! how low ' We slipped togetber 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; j 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, j And fold over fold clouds muffled his face, j 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 ns crashed, And the lightning shook its wings; Through all the blackness and lurid glow God's face — though I did not know it — flashed, j And his hand kept the balance of things. I 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 tliought so ; you were wise ! " World, shall I let go ? But the world cried, " No ! " Blanche Feaeino. THE SHADOW CHH^D * WHY do the wheels go whirring round. Mother, mother? Oh, mother, are they giants bound, And will they growl forever? , Yes; fier}^ 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, Y'our hands must pick the threads away And feel the sunshine never. Why do the birds sing in the sun, ]\Iother, mother, "^Tiile 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 3'our 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 AET glad ^vith 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 wot 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* j SHE was a lady great and splendid, i I was a minstrel in her hall ; A warrior like a prince attended And stayed his steed at her castle wall. s Far had he fared to gaze upon her. ; " Oh, rest thee now. Sir Knight ! " she said. < The warrior wooed, the warrior won her, j In time of snowdrops they were wed. i * By permission of the author and the publisher, John Lane Company, The Bndley i Head. 1 POETRY J 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. Eead from some humbler poet. Whose songs gushed from his heart As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; ♦ By permiaaion of Houghton Mijjlin RING him not here, where our sainted feet i J3 Are treading the path to glory ; 'j Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet Eepeats for us his story. ' Go, take him where such things are done (For he sat in the seat of the scorner), j To where they have room, for we have none, — ; To the little church round the comer." i ■I 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 j Might be read above them by one whose light f Was, " Brethren, love one another " ; j Had only asked that a prayer be read ' Ere his flesh went down to join the dead, j While his spirit looked with suppliant eyes, I Searching for God throughout the skies. I But the priest frowned " No," and his brow was bare j Of love in the sight of the mourner, j And they looked for Christ and found him — where ? " In that little church round the comer. I \ 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, j But in some small nook where God 's confessed, — i Some little church round the comer. ■ A. E. Lancaster. j 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: " Grood Mr. Shakespeare, I would know The name thy lady bore, in sooth, Ere tliine. 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 plciided 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." Anontmous. <( 282 SELECTED READINGS THE GATE 1 I ! I AGATE. I Two lovers. j 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 FiNAT.R A gate. No lovers. A father glad. A dog triumphant. A maiden sad. If it took two hours to say good-night, It served him right if the dog did bite. Bessie Cahn, Moral: If it took two hours to sav srood-nis'ht. \ "SPACIALLY JIM"* IWUS mighty good-lookin' when I was young, Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 'Spacially Jim. * By permission of The Century Co. VERSE 283 The likeliest one of 'em all was he, i Chipper an' han'som' an' trim, \ But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowd, j 'Spacially Jim. j 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, j 'Spacially Jim. j I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun', 'Spacially Jim, I made up my mind I 'd settle down An' take up with him. I 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, 'Spacially Jim. j Bessie Morgan. i 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 — i- Did you draw her close and tell her That you loved her? So did I. Well, I need n'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! Eejected — You rejected? So was I. Anonymous. THE USUAL WAY THEEE 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 LO\^RS 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 imnecessary so to do. 'T was by the chimney-corner we were sitting : " ^Iar}%" 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 Pliipps ; 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 do\vns — we rode to hounds — sucli fun ! And often was his arm about my waist, — That was to lift me np 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 Cliefden 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 : " Marv ! 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, W^hile 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, 't is 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 sol), 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; i, 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 mora i William B. Terrett. i I LIFE HOW beautiful it is to be alive! To wake each mom as if the Maker's grace \ Did us afresh from nothingness desire, j That we might sing, How happy is our case ! j How beautiful it is to be alive ! i To read in God's great book until we feel \ Love for the love that gave it; then to kneel I Close unto Him whose truth our souls will shrive j Wliile every moment's joy doth more reveal j 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 i To bear all sweetly, hoping yet, to cry j How beautiful it is to be alive ! I 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. i Thomas Shelley Sutton. SHE LIKED HLVI RALE WEEL THE Spring had brought out the green leaf on the trees. An' the flowers were unfolding their sweets tae the bees, Wlien Jock says tae Jenny, "Come, Jenny, agree. An' say the bit word that ye '11 marry me." VERSE 289 She held doon her held like a lily sae meek, An' the blush o' the rose fled awa' frae her cheek. But she said, " Gang awa' man ! Your held '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, Svme 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 HrNDOO'S PARADISE i A HINDOO died, — a happy thing to do j WTien twenty years united to a shrew. i Released, he joyously for entrance cries | Before the gates of Brahmn's paradise. i "Hast been through purgatory," Brnliina said. | " I have been married," — and he hung his head. 19 " 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 msijhe have a beau ; I '11 go to balls and parties, and wear my hair up high, And not a girl in aU the town shall be as gay as I. When I am in my thirties, I '11 be just like mamma ; And maybe t '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! Wlien 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 ]\L\TTIE'S WANTS AND WISHES I WANTS a piece of talito To make my doll a dress; I does n'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 '11 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 would n'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". V SELECTIONS V — SELECTIONS THE CATECHIST* Tm was a man, and a maid, and a little gray cat sitting A on a wall. I will tell you just what the three were at; I know, though I did n'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. " N"ow, don't you know it is wrong?" said the maid. "I don't see why," said the man. " We have n'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 3'ou think 't was the Catechist? Anonymous. C'LUMBUS A Boy's Composition C'LUMBUS 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 musib 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 MONSIEUE ADAM was all alone in ze garden. He have plenty for eat and plenty for drink and ees very eon- 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. Eefs 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. ]\Ionsieur 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 proliibit? 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 OXE 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 snn — 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 niucha 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 freea countra, where da worka man eata da minga pie an' da roasa beef. I taka da skip — taka da ship — sail ova da wat' — reacha Xewa York. Va! It reminds me of Naples — beautifula bay, blue slr\% 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' lif 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 ofa 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. A^'er' soon I have da gr-rata lotta mon'. I buya one handa org*; 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 org* — buy one streeta piano, I hira one 'sistant. Da 'sistant puslia 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' plain. When I poor I say : — " Shoota da monopola ! Keela da richa man ! " Alia da same when you in Eoma do lika da Roma 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 Pleioeene 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 pxtblishers, 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 Clubtown'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 nei*vous ! 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 "^-Tien 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 the 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 G ; 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 '11 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 'II 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 Veree," bu Joseph Crosbu Lincoln, Copy- ridhl, 1002, bv Albert Brandt, Trenton, N. J, 302 SELECTED READINGS Sis '11 talk about the church work, and 'bout the Sunday school. Ma 'II say how she liked that sermon tliat 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. Say ! a minister you 'd reckon would n't say what was n't true, But that isn'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 lie. 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* OUR 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- rioht, 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 'Eound 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 Crosby 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 tlie 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 tliey 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? A\niy 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 permUsion of Life Publishing Co, 304 SELECTED READINGS late. Yet he had been told that everything was all read}', 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- hued 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. For 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 ? "WHiy could n'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 did n't know which it was, but it was no affair of his, anyw^ay. 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, " They 're off I " at his elbow, brought him back to earth again. They SELECTIONS 305 were coming through the door. It was two pews apart after all. " Tum-tnm-ti-tum-tum." The two ushers in the lead were so near him that he could see the pearls on the pins he had given them. There she was, Heaven bless her ! What was the sense of all this bother? Why couldn't he rush down the aisle and get her, all bv himself? His eye fell upon the relentless chalk mark before him, and he shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. The two files of ushers had begun to deploy on either side of him, each man trying to keep one eye on his align- ment, and with the other to steer for his own particular chalk mark. As the last one disappeared from view behind him, he felt that he never wanted to see one of them again after the way they had just treated him. The next moment the bridesmaids were tripping by him, guided to their posi- tions by that unerring instinct in regard to all that pertains to weddings, which is every woman's birthright. Then the final " tum-tum-ti-tum " rang out triumphantly into every comer of the church. He rushed to the now benignly-inviting chalk mark, and in an instant her hand was in his own. Anonymous. LOVE IN A BALLOON SOME time ago I was staying with Sir George Flasher, with a great number of people there — all kinds of amusements going on : driving, riding, fishing, shooting, — everything in fact. Sir George's daughter, Fanny, was often my companion in these expeditions, and I was considerably stnick with her; for she was a girl to whom the epithet " stunning " applies better than any other I am acquainted with. She could ride like Nimrod, she could drive like Jehu, she could dance like Terpsichore, she walked like Juno, — and she looked like Venus. I 've even seen her smoke ! Oh, she was a stunner! you should have heard that girl whistle, and laugh — you should have heard her laugh ! She was truly a delightful companion. "We rode together, drove together, fished togetlior, walked together, danced to- gether, sang together — I called her Fanny, and she called 20 306 SELECTED READINGS me Tom. All this could have but one termination, you know. I fell in love with her, and determined to take the first opportunity of proposing. So one day when we were out together fishing on the lake, I went down on my knees among the gudgeons, seized her hand, pressed it to my waistcoat, and in burning accents entreated her to become my wife. " Don't be a fool. Now drop it, do, and put me a fresh worm on." " Oh, Fanny ! Don't talk about worms when marriage is in question. Only say — " " I '11 tell you what it is, now, if you don't drop it I '11 pitch you out of the boat." " I did not drop it, and — I give you my word of honor — with a sudden shove she sent me flying into the water. Then, seizing the sculls, with a stroke or two she put several yards between us, and burst into a fit of laughter that fortunately prevented her from going any further. I swam up and climbed into the boat. " Jenkins," said I to myself, " revenge ! revenge ! " I disguised my feelings. I laughed — hideous mockery of mirth — I laughed, pulled to the bank, went to the house, and changed my clothes. When I appeared at the dinner table, I perceived that every one had been informed of my ducking. Universal laughter greeted me. During dinner Fanny repeatedly whispered to her neighbor, and glanced at me. Smothered laughter invariably followed. " Jenkins," said I, " revenge ! revenge ! " The opportunit}' soon offered. There was to be a balloon ascent from the lawn, and Fanny had tormented her father into letting her ascend with the aeronaut. I instantly took my plans ; bribed the aeronaut to plead illness at the moment the machine was about to rise ; learned from him the man- agement of the balloon, — though I understood that pretty well before, — and calmly awaited the result. The day came. The weather was fine. The balloon was inflated. Fanny was in the car. Everything was ready — when the aeronaut suddenly fainted. He was carried into the house, and Sir George accompanied him. Fanny was in despair. " Am I to lose my air expedition? Some one understands the management of this thing, surely ! Nobody ? Tom, you understand it, don't you?" " Perfectly." " Come along, then. Quick, before papa comes back ! " SELECTIONS 307 The company in general endeavored to dissuade her from her project; but of course in vain. After a decent show of hesitation, I climbed into the car. The balloon was cast off, and rapidly sailed heavenward. There was not a breath of wind, and we rose straight up. We went above the house, and she laughed, and said, " How jolly ! " We were higher than the highest trees, and she smiled, and said it was xevy kind of me to come with her. We were so high that the people below looked mere specks, and she hoped that I thoroughly understood the manage- ment of the balloon. Now was my time. " I understand the going up part, to come down is not 60 easy." " What do you mean ? " "Why, when you want to go up faster, you throw some sand overboard," I replied, suiting the action to the word. " Don't be foolish, Tom." " Foolish ? dear, no ; but whether I go along the ground or up in the air I like to go the pace ; and so do you, Fanny, I know. Go it, you cripples ! " and over went another sand- bag. " "Why, you 're mad, surely ! " " Only with love, my dear, only with love for you. Oh, Fanny, I adore you ! Say you will be my wife ! " " I gave you an answer the other day, one which I think you should have remembered." " I remember it perfectly, but I intend to have a dif- ferent reply from that. You see those five sand-bags. I shall ask you five times to become my wife. Every time 3'ou refuse I shall throw over a sand-bag. So, lady fair, re- consider your decision, and consent to become Mrs. Jenkins." " I won't. I never will. And let me tell you that you are acting in a very ungentlemanly way to press me thus." " You acted in a very ladylike way the other day, did you not — when you knocked me out of the boat?" She laughed again, for she was a plucky girl and no mistake — a very plucky girl. " However," I went on, " it 's no good to argue about it — will you promise to give me j^our hand ? " " Xever ! I '11 go to Ursa Major first ; though I 've got a big enough bear here, in all conscience." She looked so pretty that I was almost inclined to let her off, — I was only trying to frighten her, of course, — • I knew how high we could go safely, well enough, and how 308 SELECTED READINGS valuable the life of Jenkins was to his country, — but reso- lution is one of the strong points of my character, and when I Ve begun a thing I like to carry it through ; so I threw over another sand-bag, and whistled the Dead March in " Saul." " Come, Mr. Jenkins, come, Tom, let us descend now, and I '11 promise to say nothing whatever about this." I continued the execution of the Dead March. " But if you do not begin the descent at once I '11 tell papa the moment I set foot on the ground." I laughed, seized another bag, and looking steadily at her, said, " Will you promise to give me your hand ? " " I 've answered you already." Over went the sand, and the solemn notes of the Dead March resounded through the car. " I thought you were a gentleman ; but I find I was mis- taken. AVhy, a chimney-sweeper would not treat a lady in such a way. Do you know you are risking your own life as well as mine by your madness ? " I explained that I adored her so much that to die in her company would be perfect bliss, so that I begged she would not consider my feelings at all. She dashed her beautiful hair from her face, and, standing perfectly erect, said, " I command you to begin the descent this instant ! " The Dead March, whistled in a manner essentially gay and lively, was the only response. After a few minutes' silence, I took up another bag, and said, " We are getting rather high; if you do not decide soon we shall have Mercury coming to tell us that we are trespassing : — will you promise me your hand ? " She sat in sulky silence in the bottom of the car. I threw over the sand. Then she tried another plan. Throw- ing herself upon her knees, and bursting into tears, she said, " Oh, forgive me for what I did the other day. It was very wrong; and I am very sorr)^ Take me home, and I will be a sister to you." "Not a wife?" " I can't ! I can't ! " Over went the fourth bag. I began to think she would beat me after all ; for I did not like the idea of going much higher. I would not give in just yet, however. I wliistled for a few minutes, to give her time for reflection, and then SELECTIONS 309 said, " Fanny, they say that marriages are made in heaven : if you do not take care, ours will be solemnized there." I took up the fifth bag. " Come, my wife in life, or my companion in death: which is it to be? Come, Fanny, give your promise." I could hear her sobs. I 'm the softest creature breath- ing, and would not pain any living thing, and I confess she had beaten me. I forgave her the ducking; I forgave her for rejecting me. I was on the point of flinging the bag back into the car, and saying, " Dearest Fanny, forgive me for frightening you. Marry whomsoever you wish. Give your lovely hand to the lowest groom in your stables ; endow with your priceless beauty the chief of the Pankiwanki Indians. Whatever happens, Jenkins is your slave — your dog — your footstool." I was just on the point of saying this, I repeat, when Fanny suddenly looked up, and said, with a queerish expression on her face: " You need not throw that last bag over. I promise to give you my hand." "With all your heart?" " With all my heart." I tossed the bag into the bottom of the car, and opened the valve. The balloon descended. Will you believe it? — when we reached the ground, and the balloon had been given over to its recovered master, when I had helped Fanny tenderly to the earth, and turned toward her to receive anew the promise of her affection and her hand, — will you believe it ? — she gave me a box on the ear that upset me against the car, and running to her father, who at that moment came up, she related to him and to the assembled company what she called my disgraceful conduct in the balloon, and ended by informing me that all of her hand that I was likely to get had already been bestowed upon my ear, which she assured me had been given with all her heart. Litchfield Moselet. Abridged by Anna Morgan. The selection begins with easy, interested narrative, requiring the suggestion of a smile to indicate its humorous quality. Driving, etc., are to be given with an upward inflection on each word, thus avoiding the monotony of a list. A pause after daughter, for three reasons: it is a proper name, it is the name of the heroine, and it is to distin- guish thiis from other jvossible daughters; was often my companion on 310 SELECTED READINGS these expeditions demands animation, as of a pleasant recollection; struck is emphatic ; a pause is needed before stunning to bring it out more clearly. She could ride like Nimrod, etc., is said boastfully, with a confidential turn following an ellipsis as he concludes, I've even seen her smoke! A gentle rubbing of the palms of the hands together accompanies Oh, she was a stunner! At whistle, if it is possible, there should be a whistle, and at laugh a hearty laugh. Increasing emphasis with a slowly falling inflection marks the phrases ending together, which are uttered in a confidential tone ; a pause before Fanny and before Tom is requisite. Do not say termunation. Pause before saying proposing, to excite inquiry. What follows of this paragraph may be called "shuttle work," a casting of the successive phrases back and forth. Learn what gudgeons means. A period of suspense before my wife, which is to be said with feeling. Fanny's response is said peevishly, as to one spoiling sport. Tom's reply expresses disgust. Fanny's tone in I 'II tell you what, now changes to petulance. Astonishment is shown in she sent me flying, etc. Re- venge! revenge! is repeated at the close of the paragraph, giving an opportunity to show the various degrees of feeling involved. Hideous mockery of mirth is said in a lower key, being parenthetical. Do not say unuversal. There are fi.ve syllables in in-va-ri-a-bly, and the sec- ond a has the sound of the second e in ever. Opportunity is not pronounced as if spelled ahpportoonuty : short o is to be sounded clearly at the beginning ; the second o is the neutral vowel ; the u is long with its initial y sound distinct, and the i is not the neutral vowel. Offered is not awffered — the initial sound is short o again, somewhat narrowed by the / following. A-er-o-naut, in four syllables, the first vowel having the soimd of long a. Not b'loon, nor manugemunt. Fanny's Am I to lose, etc., begins in a vixenish tone, changing to entreaty when she addresses Tom. Come along, then, is said hurriedly. A slight delay before decent to express concealed intention. Do not say hessitation. How jolly! has a laugh under it, a giggle of satis- faction at having had her own way. Very kind of me is at once patronizing and slightly apprehensive, and the apprehension deepens in she hoped that I thoroughly understood, etc. Noil) ivas my time is said slowly and with great satisfaction. / understand, etc., offers an opening for the student's invention. It may be treated lightly or seriously, or with a mixture of both coupled with a certain note of recklessness. What do you mean? shows startled inquiry. Tom's reply. Foolish? has a pronounced upward inflection. The hands are not to be kept idle while the story of the sand-bags is told. The action is to be suited to the word, by suggestion. Go it, you cripples! shows reckless gayety. Why, you're mad, surely! expresses apprehension approaching terror. Only with love, etc., begins jocosely and ends with affectionate avowal. I gave you an answer, etc., is both flippant and spiteful. The gesture indicating those five sarid-bags is to be held through the sentence. Between Mrs. and Jenkins there is a decided pause. I won't, etc., splutters like a Catherine wheel. SELECTIONS £J11 Irony is shovsTi in a very ladylike way, and very plucky is said slowly and emphatically. In the succeeding demands for Fanny's hand deepening degrees of sohcitude are demanded. Hesitate before Ursa Major. Big enough bear is to be said through the teeth. Tender recollection is shown in She looked so pretty. Val-u-a-ble, not voluble. I knew how, etc., through the parenthesis, is in the nature of brag. Not ressolootion. My is emphatic in my character. Whistled, etc., has the upward inflection. Come, Mr. Jenkins, etc., shows chplomacy and wheedling. / continued, etc., is said \v'ith an up and down modulation, using the eye to express fixed determination and intention. But if you do not, etc., is a distinct threat. Will you promise? has the downward inflection. I've answered you already is said with indignation. / thought you were a gentleman is wholly sarcastic. A pause before chimney-sweeper to hint at the search for a term strong enough, while the voice is raised. The voice breaks a little at risking your own life to show that she is baflied. / command you is said with full force. Will you promise? shows still greater intensity. It is the fourth demand. Oh, forgive me, etc., is not real crying, but an attractive imitation of it. / took up the fifth bag is said slowly and with fixed resolve. Which is it to be? is said with a rising voice. Slave, dog, footstool are increasingly emphatic. You need not throw, etc., is said cunningly and deceitfully. Regret, delight at the girl's shrewdness, unpleasant recollection, and the sense of fun at the humor of the situation combine in the clos- ing paragraph. IN THE PANTRY OH, dear ! Just see that little pie, — mince, and it smells so good! Ma said I must n't touch it; but I '11 just bet she would If she stood here a-starvin', and all for want of food. When persons see pies made for 'em they eat 'em; wish I could. This is the worst old pantry, it 's full of things to eat: There's tlie jam I take to recess — 'way up there — it's awful sweet. Ma said if I talk naughty, or disobey, or lie, I won't go to heaven and play liarps when I die. What is heaven, anyhow ? Ted ain't goin' there, 'Cause he hooked on bob-sleds, and Ma told him not to dare. 312 SELECTED READINGS She whipped him just the other day, and he said, Oh, he 'd quit! An' I saw him the next mornin' a-laughin' like he 'd split, An' go in' just a-flyin' on behind a big bob-sled ; He never saw me lookin'; but I don't squeal on Ted. Oh ! little pie, you don't know what wicked folks there be A-tellin' fibs in this big world. There 's no one good but me. I don't see where heaven 's ever goin' to get a crowd. Our cook says the preacher '11 never go there she allowed, An' he says no one else will. — Oh, dear ! I wonder if one bite Is just as wicked as a pie; I shouldn't think so, quite. — Our doctor won't go neither 'cause he said my aunt would die. An' now she 's as well as I am ; so that was most a lie. But he 'd look funny, anyhow, a-flyin' through the sky, 'Cause he 's so awful big and fat. Oh ! would Ma miss that pie? Yes, 'cause there 's no more like it. — But I know a worse thing yet; It 's perfectly awful ! an' I never can forget : There 's no Saint Nicholas or Santa Glaus for me or Ted ; 'Cause the other night, long after she 'd sent us up to bed. We crept down to the parlor door, An' there was all our presents a-lyin' on the floor. An' Ma was sortin' candy ; an' we went back an' cried. We never told ; but then we talked. — Now some one must have lied. — I don't believe there 's another soul but would eat that pie. — I don't think I 'd like heaven anyhow : it must be hard to fly. If Ma and Daddy told us fibs, an' Ted ain't anywhere, I '11 just bet a nickel there won't be nobody there. There 's Ma a-goin' down the street. Heaven 's so awful high, An' I '11 be so dreadful lonesome. — This is the bestest pie ! Mabel Dixon. VI SCENES AND DIALOGUES VI — SCENES AND DIALOGUES DIALOGUE BETWEEN NAPOLEON AND A STRANGE LADY* Scene from "The Man of Destiny" L^\J)Y. How can I thank you, General, for your protection ? Napoleox [turning on her suddenly]. My despatches: come ! [He puts out his hand for the^n.] Lady. General. [She involuntarily puts her hands on her fichu as if to protect something there.] Napoleon. You tricked that blockhead out of them. You disguised yourself as a man. I want my despatches. They are in the bosom of your dress, under your hands. Lady [quickly removing her hands]. Oh, how unkindly you are speaking to me! [She taJces her handherchief from her fichu.] You frighten me. [She touches her eyes as if to wipe away a tear.] Napoleon. I see you don't know me, madam, or you would save yourself the trouble of pretending to cry. Lady [producing an effect of smiling through her tears]. Yes, I do know you. You are the famous General Buona- parte. [She gives the name a marked Italian pronunciation — Bwaw-na parr-ie.] jSTapoleon [angrily, ivith the French pronunciation]. Bonaparte, madam, Bonaparte. The papers, if you please. Lady. But I assure you — [He snatches the handkerchief rudely from her.] General ! [Indignantly.] Napoleon [taking the other handkerchief from his breast]. You were good enough to lend one of your hand- kerchiefs to my lieutenant when you robbed him. [He looks at the two handkerchiefs.] They match one another. [He smells them.] The same scent. [He flings them down on the table.] I am waiting for the despatches. T shall take them, if necessary, with as little ceremony as the handker- chief.t • Copyright, 1905, b]i Brenlano's. t 7711.1 limlorical incident was used eightu years later, by M . Victorien Sardou, in his drama entitled " Dora." 316 SELECTED READINGS Lady [in dignified reproof]. General: do you threaten women ? Napoleon [bluntly]. Yes. Lady [disconcerted, trying to gain time]. But I don't understand — I — Napoleon. You understand perfectly. You came here because your Austrian employers calculated that I was six leagues away. I am always to be found where my enemies don't expect me. You have walked into the lion's den. Come : you are a brave woman. Be a sensible one : I have no time to waste. The papers. [He advances a step ominously.] Lady [breaking down in the childish rage of impotence, and throiving herself in tears on a chair]. I brave! How little you know ! I have spent the day in an agony of fear, I have a pain here from the tightening of my heart at every suspicious look, every threatening movement. Do you think every one is as brave as you? Oh, why will not you brave people do the brave things? Why do you leave them to us, who have no courage at all ? I 'm not brave : I shrink from violence: danger makes me miserable. Napoleon [interested] . Then why have you thrust your- self into danger? Lady. Because there is no other way : I can trust nobody else. And now it is all useless — all because of you, who have no fear, because you have no heart, no feeling, no — [She breaks off, and throws herself on her knees.] Ah, General, let me go: let me go without asking any questions. You shall have your despatches and letters : I swear it. Napoleon [holding out his hand]. Yes: I am waiting for them. [She gasps, daunted by his ruthless promptitude into despair of moving him by cajolery; but as she looks up perplexedly at him, it is plain that she is racking her brains for some device to outwit him. He meets her regard inflexibly.] Lady [rising at last with a quiet little sigh]. I will get them for you. They are in my room. [She turns to the door.] Napoleon. I shall accompany you, madam. Lady [drawing herself up with a noble air of offended delicacy]. I cannot permit you. General, to enter my chamber. Napoleon. Then you shall stay here, madam, whilst I have your chamber searched for my papers. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 317 Lady [spitefully, openly giving up her planl. You may- save yourself the trouble. They are not there. Napoleon. No : I have already told you where they are. l^Pointing to her breast.] Lady [ivith pretty piteousness]. General: I only want to keep one little private letter. Only one. Let me have it. Napoleon [cold and stern]. Is that a reasonable demand, madam ? Lady [encouraged by his not refusing point-blanl-']. No; but that is why you must grant it. Are your own demands reasonable? Thousands of lives for the sake of your vic- tories, your ambitions, your destiny ! And what I ask is such a little thing. And I am only a weak woman, and you a brave man. [She looks at him with her eyes full of tender pleading and is about to I'ncel to him agaiii.] Napoleox [brusquely]. Get up, get up. [He turns moodily away and takes a turn across the room, pausing for a moment to say, over his shoulder.] You're talking non- sense; and you know it. [She gets up and sits down in al- most listless despair on the couch. When he turns and sees her there, he feels that his victory is complete, and that he may now indulge in a little play with his victim. He comes back and sits beside her. She looks alarmed and moves a little away from him; but a ray of rallying hope beams from her eye. He begins like a man enjoying some secret joke.] How do you know I am a brave man ? Lady [amazed]. You! General Buonaparte. [Italian pronunciation.] Napoleon. Yes, I, General Bonaparte. [Emphasizing the French pronunciation.] Lady. Oh, how can you ask such a question ? You ! Who stood only two days ago at the bridge at Lodi, with the air full of death, fighting a duel with cannons across the river! [Shuddering.] Oh, you do brave things. Napoleon. So do you. Lady. I! [With a sudden odd thought.] Oh! Are you a coward ? Napoleon [laughing grimly and jyinching her cheek]. That is the one question you must never ask a soldier. The sergeant asks after the recruit's height, his age, his wind, his limb, but never after his courage. [He gets up and walks nhont with his hands behind him and his head bowed, chuck' ling to himself.] 318 SELECTED READINGS Lady [as if she had found it no laughing matter~\. Ah, you can laugh at fear ! Then you don't know what fear is. Napoleon [coming hehind the couch']. Tell me this. Suppose you could get that letter by coming to me over the bridge at Lodi the day before yesterday ! Suppose there had been no other way, and that this was a sure way — if only you escaped the cannon! {She shudders and covers her eyes for a moment with her hands.] Would you have been afraid ? Lady. Oh, horribly afraid, agonizingly afraid. [She presses her hand on her heart.] It hurts only to imagine it. Napoleon [inflexibly]. Would you have come for the despatches ? Lady [overcome hy the imagined horror]. Don't ask me. I must have come. Napoleon. Why ? Lady. Because I must. Because there would have been no other way. Napoleon [with conviction]. Because you would have wanted my letter enough to bear your fear. There is only one universal passion: fear. Of all the thousand qualities a man may have, the only one you will find as certainly in the youngest drummer boy in my army as in me, is fear. It is fear that makes men fight; it is indifference that makes them run away : fear is the mainspring of war. Fear ! — I know fear well, better than you, better than any woman. I once saw a regiment of good Swiss soldiers massacred by a mob in Paris because I was afraid to interfere: I felt my- self a coward to the tips of my toes as I looked on at it. Seven months ago I revenged my shame by pounding that mob to death with cannonballs. Well, what of that? Has fear ever held a man back from ami:hing he really wanted — or a woman either ? Never. Come with me ; and I will show you twenty thousand cowards who will risk death every day for the price of a glass of brandy. And do you think there are no women in the army, braver than the men, because their lives are worth less ? Psha ! I think nothing of your fear or your bravery. If you had had to come across t-o me at Lodi, 3'Ou would not have been afraid; once on the bridge, eveiy other feeling would have gone down before the necessity — the necessity — for making your way to my side and getting what you wanted. And now, suppose you had done all this — suppose you had come safely out with that letter in your hand, knowing that SCENES AND DIALOGUES 319 when the hour came, your fear had tightened not your heart, but your grip of your own purpose — that it had ceased to be fear, and had become strength, penetration, vigilance, iron resolution — how would you answer then if you were asked whether you were a coward ! Lady [rising']. Ah, you are a hero, a real hero. Napoleon. Pooh ! there 's no such thing as a real hero. [He strolls down the room, making light of her enthusiasm, hut by no means displeased with himself for having evoked it.] Lady. Ah, yes, there is. There is a difference between what you call my bravery and yours. You wanted to win the battle of Lodi for yourself and not for any one else, did n't you ? Napoleon. Of course. [Suddenly recollecting himself.] Stop : no. [He pulls himself piously together, and says, like a man conducting a religious service.] I am only the servant of the French Republic, following humbly in the footsteps of the heroes of classical antiquity. I win battles for human- ity — for my country, not for myself. Kajdy [disappointed]. Oh, then you are only a womanish hero, after all. [She sits down again, all her enthusiasm gone, her elbow on the end of the covx^h, and her cheek propped on her hand.] Napoleon [greatly astonished] . "Womanish ! Lady [listlessly]. Yes, like me. [Wtf/i deep melancholy.] Do you think that if I only want-ed those despatches for myself, I dare venture into a battle for them ? No : if that were all, I should not have the courage to ask to see you at your hotel, even. My courage is mere slavishness: it is of no use to me for my own purposes. It is only through love, through pity, through the instinct to save and protect some one else, that I can do the things that terrify me. 'N AVOLEON [contemptuously]. Pshaw! [He turns slight- ingly away from her.] Lady. Aha ! now you see that I 'ra not really brave. [Re- lapsing into petulant listlessness.] But what right have you to despise me if you only win your battles for others — for your country? Through patriotism! That is what I call womanish : it is so like a Frenchman ! Napoleon [furiously]. I am no Frenchman. T;ADY [innocently]. I thought you said you won the l)attle of Tjodi for your country, General Bu — shall I pro- nounce it in Italian or French? 320 SELECTED READINGS Napoleon. You are presuming on my patience, madam. I was born a French subject, but not in France. Lady [folding her arms on the end of the couch, and leaning on them with a marked access of interest in him^. You were not born a subject at all, I think. Napoleon [greatly pleased, starting on a fresh march'\. Eh? Eh? You think not. Lady. I am sure of it. Napoleon. Well, well, perhaps not. [The self-complac- ency of his assent catches his own ear. He stops short, red- dening. Then, composing himself into a solemn attitude, modelled on the heroes of classical antiquity, he takes a high moral tone.^ But we must not live for ourselves alone, little one. Never forget that we should always think of others, and work for others, and lead and govern them for their own good. Self-sacrifice is the foundation of all true nobility of character. Lady [again relaxing her attitude ivith a sigh.^ Ah, it is easy to see that you have never tried it. General. Napoleon [indignantly, forgetting all about Brutus and Scipio]. What do you mean by that speech, madam? Lady. Have n't you noticed that people always exaggerate the value of the things they have n't got ? The poor think they only need riches to be quite happy and good. Every- body worships truth, purity, unselfishness, for the same reason — because they have no experience of them. Oh, if they only knew ! Napoleon [with angry derision']. If they only knew! Pray, do you know? Lady [with her arms stretched and her hands clasped on her knees, looking straight before her]. Yes. I had the misfortune to be born good. [Glancing up at him for a moment.] And it is a misfortune, I can tell you, General. I really am truthful and unselfish and all the rest of it ; and it 's nothing but cowardice ; want of character ; want of being really, strongly, positively oneself. Napoleon. Ha? [Turning to her quickly with a flash of strong interest.] Lady [earnestly, with rising enthusiasm']. What is the secret of your power? Only that you believe in yourself. You can fight and conquer for yourself and for nobody else. You are not afraid of your own destiny. You teach us what we all might be if we had the will and courage; and that SCENES AND DIALOGUES 321 [suddenly sinl-ing on her Tcnees before him] is why we all begin to worship you. \_She kisses his haiids.] Napoleox [embarrassed]. Tut, tut! Pray rise, madam. Lady. Do not refuse my homage : it is your right. You will be emperor of France — Napoleon" [huriiedly]. Take care! Treason! Lady [i7isisting]. Yes, emperor of France; then of Europe; perhaps of the world. I am only the first subject to swear allegiance. [Again kissing his hand.] My emperor ! Napoleon [overcome, raising her]. Pray, pray. No, no, little one : this is folly. Come : be calm, be calm. [Petting her.] There, there, my girl. Lady [struggling with happy tears]. Yes, I know it is an impertinence in me to tell you what you must know far better than I do. But you are not angry with me, are you ? Napoleon. Angry ! No, no : not a bit, not a bit. Come : you are a very clever and sensible and interesting little woman. [He pats her on the cheek.] Shall we be friends ? Lady [e7iraptured]. Your friend! You will let me be your friend ! Oh ! [She offers him both her hands with a radiant smile.] You see : I show my confidence in you. Napoleon [with a yell of rage, his eyes flashing] . ^^liat ! Lady. What's the matter? Napoleon. Show your confidence in me ! So that I may show ray confidence in you in return by letting you give me the slip with the despatches, eh? Ah, Dalila, Dalila, you have been trying your tricks on me; and I have been as great a gull as my jackass of a lieutenant. [He advances threateningly on her.] Come: the despatches. Quick: I am not to be trifled with now. Lady [flying round the couch]. General — Napoleon. Quick, I tell you. [He passes siviftly up the middle of the room and intercepts her as she makes for the vineyard.] Lady [at hay, confronting him]. You dare address me in that tone ! Napoleon. Dare ! Lady. Yes, dare. Who are you that you should presume to speak to me in that coarse way? Oh, the vile, vulgar Corsican adventurer comes out in you very easily. 'N AVOLEoyi [beside himself]. You she-devil ! [Savagely.] Once more, and only once, will you give me those papers or shall I tear them from you — by force ? 21 322 SELECTED READINGS Lady [letting her hands fall]. Tear them from me — by force ! [As he glares at her like a tiger about to spring, she crosses her arms on her breast in the attitude of a martyr. The gesture and pose instantly awaken his theatrical in- stinct: he forgets his rage in the desire to show her that in acting, too, she has met her match. He keeps her a moment in suspense; then suddenly clears up his countenance; puts his hands behind him with provoking coolness; looks at her up and down a couple of times; takes a pinch of snuff ; wipes his fingers carefully and puts up his handkerchief, her heroic pose becoming more and more ridiculous all the time.] Napoleon [at last]. Well? Lady [disconcerted, but with her arms still crossed de- votedly]. "Well: what are you going to do? Napoleon. Spoil your attitude. Lady. You brute! [Abandoning the attitude, she comes to the end of the couch, where she turns with her back to it, leaning against it and facing him with her hands behind her.] Napoleon. Ah, that 's better. Now listen to me. I like you. What 's more, I value your respect. Lady. You value what you have not got, then. Napoleon. I shall have it presently. Now attend to me. Suppose I were to allow myself to be abashed by the respect due to your sex, your beauty, your heroism, and all the rest of it? Suppose I, with nothing but such sentimental stuff to stand between these muscles of mine and those papers which you have about you, and which I want and mean to have: suppose I, with the prize within my grasp, were to falter and sneak away with my hands empty ; or, what would be worse, cover up my weakness by playing the magnanimous hero, and sparing you the violence I dared not use, would you not despise me from the depths of your woman's soul? Would any woman be such a fool? Well, Bonaparte can rise to the situation and act like a woman when it is neces- sary. Do you understand? [The lady, without speaking, stands upright, and takes a packet of papers from her bosom. For a moment she has an intense impulse to dash them, in his face. But her good breeding cuts her off from any vulgar method of relief. She hands them to him politely, only averting her head. The moment he takes them, she hurries across to the other side SCENES AND DIALOGUES 323 of the room; covers Iter face with Tier liands; and sits down, with her body turned away to the hack of the chair. Xapoleox [gloating over the paper^. Aha! That's right. That's right. [Before opening them he looks at her and says.^ Excuse me. [He sees that she is hiding her face.^ Very angr}' with me, eh? [He unties the packet, the seal of ichich is already broken, and puts it on the table to ex- amine its contents.] Lady [quietly, taking doivn her hands and shoiving that she is not crying, but only thinking]. No. You were right. But I am sorry for you. Napoleon [pausing in the act of taking the uppermost paper from the packet]. Sorry for me! Why? Lady. I am going to see you lose your honor. Napoleox. Hm ! Nothing worse than that? [Retakes up the paper.] Lady. And your happiness. Napoleon. Happiness, little woman, is the most tedious thing in the world to me. Should I be what I am if I cared for happiness? Anything else? Lady. Nothing — [He interrupts her with an exclama- tion of satisfaction. Site proceeds quietly.] except that you will cut a very foolish figure in the eyes of France. Napoleon [quickly]. What? [The hand holding the paper involuntarily drops. The lady looks at him enigmatic- ally in tranquil silence. He throws the letter down and breaks out in a torrent of scolding.] What do you mean? Eh? Are you at your tricks again? Do you think I don't know what these papers contain ? I '11 tell you. First, my information as to Beaulieu's retreat. There are only two things he can do — leather-brained idiot that he is ! — shut himself up in Mantua or violate the neutrality of Venice by taking Peschiera. You are one of old Leatherbrain's spies : he has discovered that he has been betrayed, and has sent you to intercept the information at all hazards — as if that could save him from me, the old fool ! The other papers are only my usual correspondence from Paris, of which you know nothing. Lady [prompt and businesslike]. General: let us make a fair division. Take the information your spies have sent you about the Austrian army, and give me the Paris correspond- ence. That will content me. Napoleon [his breath taken away by the coolness of the 324 SELECTED READINGS proposal]. A fair di — [He gasps.] It seems to me, madam, that you have come to regard my letters as your own property, of which I am trying to rob you. Lady [earnestly]. ISTo : on my honor I ask for no letter of yours — not a word that has been written by you or to you. That packet contains a stolen letter: a letter written by a woman to a man — a man not her husband — a letter that means disgrace, infamy — Napoleon. A love letter? Lady [bitter-siveetly]. "Wliat else but a love letter could stir up so much hate? Napoleon. Why is it sent to me? To put the husband in my power, eh ? Lady. No, no : it can be of no use to you : I swear that it will cost you nothing to give it to me. It has been sent to you out of sheer malice — solely to injure the woman who wrote it. Napoleon. Then why not send it to her husband instead of to me? Lady [completely taken dbach]. Oh ! [Sinking hack into the chair.] I — I don't know. [She breaks down.] Napoleon. Aha ! I thought so : a little romance to get the papers back. [He throws the packet on the table and confronts her with cynical good-humor.] Per Bacco, little woman, I can't help admiring you. If I could lie like that, it would save me a great deal of trouble. Lady [wringing her hands.] Oh, how I wish I really had told you some lie ! You would have believed me .then. The truth is the one thing that nobody will believe. Napoleon [witJi coarse familiarity , treating her as if she were a vivandiere]. Capital! Capital! [He puts his hands behind him on the table, and lifts himself onto it, sitting ivith his arms akimbo and his legs wide apart.] Come: I am a true Corsican in my love for stories. But I could tell them better than you if I set my mind to it. Next time you are asked why a letter compromising a wife should not be sent to her husband, answer simply that the husband would not read it. Do you suppose, little innocent, that a man wants to be compelled by public opinion to make a scene, to fight a duel, to break up his household, to injure his career by a scandal, when he can avoid it all by taking care not to know? Lady [revolted]. Suppose that packet contained a letter about your own wife ? SCENES AND DIALOGUES 325 Napoleon [offended, coining off the table~\. You are im- pertinent, madam. Lady [humbly]. I beg your pardon. Caesar's wife is above suspicion. Napoleox [with a deliberate assumption of superiority']. You have committed an indiscretion. I pardon you. In future, do not permit yourself to introduce real persons into your romances. Lady [politely ignoring a speech which is to her only a breach of good manners, and rising to move toward the table]. General: there really is a woman's letter there. [Pointing to the packet]. Give it to me. Napoleon [with brute conciseness, moving so as to pre- vent her getting too near the letters]. Why? Lady. She is an old friend: we were at school together. She has written to me imploring me to prevent the letter falling into your hands. Napoleon. Why has it been sent to me? Lady. Because it compromises the director Barras. Napoleon [frowning, evidently startled]. Barras! [Haughtily.] Take care, madam. The director Barras is my attached personal friend. Lady [nodding placidly]. Yes. You became friends through your wife. Napoleon. Again ! Have I not forbidden you to speak of my wife? [She keeps looking curiously at him, taking no account of the rebuke. More and more irritated, he drops his haughty manner, of ivhich he is himself impatient, and says suspiciously, lowering his voice.] Who is this woman with whom you sympathize so deeply? Lady. Oh, General! How could I tell you that? Napoleon [ill-humoredly, beginning to walk about again in angry perplexity]. Ay, ay; stand by one another. You are all the same, you women. Lady [indignantly]. We are not all the same, any more than you are. Do you think that if I loved another man, I should pretend to go on loving my husband, or be afraid to tell him or all the world? But this woman is not made that way. Slie governs men by cheating them : and [with, disdain] they like it, and let her govern them. [She sits dov;n again, with her back to him.] Napoleon [not attending to her]. Barms, Barrns! [Turning very threateningly to her, his face darkening.] 326 SELECTED READINGS Take care, take care: do you hear? You may go too far. Lady [innocently turning her face to him']. What's the matter ? Napoleon. "Wliat are you hinting at? Who is this woman ? Lady [meeting his angry searching gaze with tranquil indifference as she sits loohing up at him, with her right arm resting lightly along the bach of her chair, and one hnee crossed over the other]. A vain, silly, extravagant creature, with a very able and ambitious husband who knows her through and through — knows that she has lied to him about her age, her income, her social position, about every- thing that silly women lie about — knows that she is in- capable of fidelity to any principle or any person: and yet could not help loving her — could not help his man's instinct to make use of her for liis own advancement with Barras. Napoleon [in a stealthy, coldly furious whisper]. This is your revenge, you she-cat, for having had to give me the letters. Lady. Nonsense ! or do you mean that you are that sort of man? Napoleon [exasperated, clasps his hands hehijid him, his fingers tivUching, and says, as he tvall's irritably away from her to the fireplace]. This woman will drive me out of my senses. [To her.] Be gone. Lady [seated immoiKibly]. Not without that letter. Napoleon. Be gone, I tell you. [^Vancing from the fire- place to the vineyard and hack again to the table.] You shall have no letter. I don't like you. You 're a detestable woman, and as ugly as Satan. I don't choose to be pestered by strange women. Be off. [He turns his hacTc on her. In quiet amusement, she leans her cheelc on her hand and laughs at him. He turns again, angrily moching her.] Ha! ha! ha ! what are you laughing at ? Lady. At you. General. I have often seen persons of your sex getting into a pet and behaving like children; but I never saw a really great man do it before. Napoleon [hriitally, flinging the words in her face]. Pooh : flattery ! flattery ! Coarse, impudent flattery ! Lady [springing vp iviih a bright flush in her cheels]. Oh, you are too bad. Keep your letters. Eead the story of 3^our own dishonor in them: and much good they may do SCENES AND DIALOGUES 327 you. Good-bye. [She goes indignantly toward the inner door.'] jSTapoleon. My own — ! Stop. Come back. Come back, I order you. \_She proudly disregards his savagely per- emptory tone and continues on Iter way to the door. He rushes at her; seizes her hy the wrist; and drags her bacJc.~\ Now, what do you mean? Explain. Explain, I tell you, or — [Tlireatening her. She looks at him with unflinching defiance.] Erir! you obstinate devil, you. Why can't you answer a civil question? Lady [deeply offended hy his violence]. Why do you ask me? You have the explanation. Napoleon^. Where? Lady [pointing to the letters on the table]. There. You have only to read it. [He snatches the paclcet up; hesitates; looks at her suspiciously ; and throws it down again.] Napoleox. You seem to have forgotten your solicitude for the honor of your old friend. Lady. She runs no risk now: she does not quite under- stand her husband. Napoleon. I am to read the letter, then ? [He stretches out his hand as if to take up the packet again, with his eye on her.] Lady. I do not see how you can very well avoid doing so now. [He instantly ivithdraws his hand.] Oh, don't be afraid. You will find many interesting things in it. Napoleon. For instance ? Lady. For instance, a duel — with Barras, a domestic scene, a broken household, a public scandal, a checked career, all sorts of things. Napoleon'. Hm ! [He looks at her ; takes up the packet and looks at it, pursing his lips and balancing it in his hands; looks at her again; passes the packet into his left hand and puts it behind his hack, raising his right to scratch his head as he turns and goes up to the edge of the vineyard, where he stands for a moment looking out into the vines, deep in thought. The lady watches him in silence, some- what slightingly. Suddenly he turns, comes back again, full of force and decision.] I grant your request, madam. Your courage and resolution deserve to succeed. Take the letters for which you have fonght so well ; and remember hence- forth that you found the vile, vulgar Corsican adventurer as generous to the vanquished after the battle as he was 328 SELECTED READINGS resolute in the face of the enemy before it. [He offers lier the packet.'] Lady [ivitliout talcing it, looking hard at himl. What are you at now, I wonder? [He dashes the packet furiously to the floor.'] Aha ! I have spoiled that attitude, I think, [She makes him a pretty mocking curtsey.] Napoleon [snatching it up again]. Will you take the letters and be gone? [Advancing and thrusting them upon her.] Lady [escaping around the table]. No: I don't want your letters. Napoleon. Ten minutes ago, nothing else would satisfy you. Lady [keeping the table carefully between them.]. Ten minutes ago you had not insulted me past all bearing. Napoleon. I — [swallowing his spleen] I apologize. Lady [coolly]. Thanks. [With forced politeness he offers her the packet across the table. She retreats a step out of his reach and says.] But don't you want to know whether the Austrians are at Mantua or Peschiera ? Napoleon. I have already told you that I could conquer my enemies without the aid of spies, madam. Lady. And the letter ! Don't you want to read that ? Napoleon. You have said that it is not addressed to me. I am not in the habit of reading other people's letters. [He again offers the packet.] Lady. In that case there can be no objection to your keeping it. All I wanted was to prevent your reading it. [Cheerfully.] Good-afternoon, General. [She turns coolly toward the inner door.] Napoleon, [furiously flinging the packet on the couch]. Heaven grant me patience ! [He goes up determinedly and places himself before the door.] Have you any sense of personal danger? Or are you one of those women who like to be beaten black and blue? Lady. Thank you. General: I have no doubt the sen- sation is very voluptuous; but I had rather not. I simply want to go home : that 's all. I was wicked enough to steal your despatches; but you have got them back; because [deli- cately reproducing his rhetorical cadence] you are as gen- erous to the vanquished after the battle as you are resolute in the face of the enemy before it. [Exit.] G. Bernard Shaw. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 329 NATURE AND PHILOSOPHY [il/r, Jerningham, a middle-aged lawyer, is seated at a table or desk, poring over law bools which are spread out before him. Enter Miss May.] MAY. Mr. Jerningham ! Mr. Jerningham ! Mr. Jern- ingham ! are you very busy ? Mr. J. No, Miss May, not very. May. Because I want your opinion. Mr. J. In one moment. \Business.'] Now, Miss May, I 'm at 3'our service. May. It 's a very important thing I want to ask you, and you must n't tell any one I asked you, at least I 'd rather you did n't. Mr. J. I shall not speak of it, indeed, I shall probably not remember it. May. And you must n't look at me, please, while I 'm asking you. Mr. J. I don't think I was looking, but if I was, I beg your pardon. May. Suppose a man — No, that 's not right. Mr. J. You can take any hypothesis you please, but you must verify it aftenvards, of course. ;May. Oh, do let me go on. Suppose a girl — Mr. Jern- ingham, I wish you would n't nod. Mr. J. It was only to show that I followed you. May. Oh, of course you follow me, as you call it. Sup- pose a girl had two lovers — or, I ought to say, suppose there were two men who might be in love with a girl. Mr. J. Only two? You see, any number of men might be in love with — May. Oh, we can leave the rest out; they don't matter. Mr. J. Very well, if they are irrelevant, we will put them aside. May. Suppose then that one of these men was, oh, aw- fully in love with the girl and proposed, you know. Mr. J. A moment. Let mc take down his proposition. Wliat was it? May. Why, proposed to her ; asked her to marry him. ^\n. J. Dear me, how stupid of me. I forgot — that special use of the word. Yes. 330 SELECTED READINGS May. The girl likes him pretty well, and her people approve of him, and all that, you know. Mr. J. That simplifies the problem. May. But she 's not in — in love with him, you know. She does n't really care for him — much. Do you under- stand ? Mr. J. Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind. May. Well, then, suppose that there 's another man — What are you writing ? Mr. J. I only put down (B) — like that. May. Oh, you really are — But let me go on. The other man is a friend of the girl ; he 's very clever, — oh, fearfully clever, and he 's rather handsome. You need not put that down. Mr. J. It is certainly not very material. May. And the girl is most awfully — she admires him tremendously; she thinks him just the greatest man that ever lived, you know. And she — she — Mr. J. I 'm following. May. She 'd think it better than the whole world if — if she could be anything to him, you know. Mr. J. You mean become his wife? May. Well, of course I do — at least, I suppose I do. Mr. J. You speak rather vaguely, you know. May. Well, yes, 1 did mean become his wife. Mr. J. Yes. Well? May. He does n't think much about those things. He likes her — I think he likes her — Mr. J. Well, does n't dislike her ? Shall we call him indifferent ? May. I don't know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don't think he thinks about it, you know. But she — she 's pretty. You need n't put that down. Mr. J. I was not about to do so. May. She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and — and she thinks she would make him awfully happy. She would — would be so proud of him, you see. Mr. J. I see. Yes? May. And — I don't know how to put it, quite — she thinks that if he ever thought about it at all, he might care for her, because he does n't care for anybody else ; and she 's pretty — Mr. J. You said that before. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 331 May. Oh, dear, I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody, don't they? some girl, I mean. Mr. J. Most men, no doubt. May. "Well, then, what ought she to do? It's not a real thing, you know, Mr. Jerningham. It's in — in a novel I was reading. Mr. J. Dear me! and it's quite an interesting case! Yes, I see. The question is, Will she act most wisely in accepting the offer of the man who loves her exceedingly, but for whom she entertains only a moderate affection — May. Yes, just a liking. He 's just a friend. Mr. J. Exactly. Or in marrying the other whom she loves ex — May. That's not it. How can she marry him? He has n't — he has n't asked her, you see. Mr. J. True; I forgot. Let us assume, though, for the moment, that he has asked her. She would then have to con- sider wliich marriage would probably be productive of the greater sum total of — May. Oh, but you need n't consider that. Mr. J. But it seems the best logical order. We can afterwards make allowance for the element of uncertainty caused by — May. Oh, no, I don't want it like that. I know perfectly well which she would do if he — the other man, you know — asked her. i\lR. J. You apprehend that — May. Never mind what I apprehend — Take it just as I told you. Mr. J. Very good : A has asked her hand, B has not. May. Yes. Mr. J. May I take it that, but for the disturbing in- fluence of B, A would be a satisfactory — er — candidate? j\L\Y. Ye-es — I think so. Mr. J. She, therefore, enjoys a certainty of considerable happiness if she marries A? ^Iay. Ye-es. Not perfect, because of — B, you know. ;Mr. J. Quite so, quite so; but still a fair amount of happiness. Is it not so? May. I don't — Well, perhaps. Mr. J. On the other hand, if B asked her, we are to postulate a higher degree of happiness for her? May. Yes, please, Mr, Jerningham — much higher. 332 SELECTED READINGS Mr. J. For both of them ? May. For her. Never mind him. Mr. J. Very well. That again simplifies the problem. But his asking her is a eontingenc}^ only- May. Yes, that's all. Mr. J. My dear young lady, It now becomes a question of degree. How probable or improbable is it? May. I don't know. Not very probable — unless — Mr. J. Well? May. Unless he did happen to notice, you know. Mr. J. Ah, yes. We suppose that, if he thought of it, he would probably take the desired step ; that is, if he might be led to do so. Could she not — er — indicate her preference ? May. She might try — No, she could n't do much. You see, he — he does n't think about such things. Mr. J. I understand precisely. And it seems to me, Miss May, that in that very fact we find our solution. May. Do we? Mr. J. I thinlv so. He has evidently no natural inclina- tion toward her, perhaps not toward marriage at all. May. You think B's feelings would n't be at all likely to — to change ? Mr. J. That depends on the sort of man he is. But if he is an able man, with intellectual interests which engross him — a man who has chosen his path in life — a man to whom woman's society is not a necessity — May. He's just like that. Mr. J. Then I see not the least reason for supposing that his feelings will change. May. And would you advise her to marry the other — A ? Mr. J. Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fel- low (I think we made A a good fellow?) He is a suitable match ; his love for her is true and genuine — May. It 's tremendous ! Mr. J. Yes — and — er — extreme. She likes him. There is every reason to hope that her liking will develop into a sufficiently deep and stable affection. She will get rid of her folly about B and make A a good wife. Yes, Miss May, if I were the author of your novel, I should make her marry A and I should call that a happy ending. [A silence follows; it is hrohen hy the philosopher. 1 Mr. J. Is that all you wanted my opinion about, Miss May? SCENES AND DIALOGUES 333 Mat. Yes, I think so. I hope I have n't bored you. Mr. J. I have enjoyed the discussion extremely. I had no idea that novels raised points of such psychological in- terest. I must find time to read one. May. Don't you think that perhaps if B found out after- wards, — Avhen she had married A, you know — that she had cared for him so very, very much, he might be a little sorry? Mr. J. If he were a gentleman he would regret it deeply. May. I mean sorry on his own account, that — he had thrown away all that, you know? Mr. J. I think that it is very possible he would. I can well imagine it. May. He might never find any one to love him like that again. Mr. J. He probably would not. May. And — and most people like being loved, don't they ? Mr. J. To crave for love is an almost universal instinct. Miss May. May. Yes, almost. You see he '11 get old and — and have no one to look after him. Mr. J. He will. May. And no home. Mr. J. Well, in a sense, none. But really you frighten me. I am a bachelor myself, you know. Miss May. May. Yes. Mr. J. And all your terrors are before me. May. AVell, unless — Mr. J. Oh, we need n't have that unless. There is no unless about it. Exit Miss May Mr. J. Good gracious ! [lool-mg at watch] two o'clock. I shall be late for lunch. [Ri^es with boohs and eye- glasses in hand, tal-es a few steps, pauses, speaks.'] Eather an interesting story that of Miss May. I wonder which she '11 marry, A or B. [Exit.] Adapted by Anna Morgan. Anthony Hope. YES AND NO H E. So good of you to see me. You 've been ill, I hear. 8iiE. Yes. [Languidly.] He. But vou are bnttex? 334 SELECTED READINGS She. Yes. [Little brighter.'] He. Do you know I 've been all but on the sick-list myself ? She. Yes. [Interested in a way.] He. Yes, I took an awful cold coming out from the Claytons' ball. Wasn't the weather dreadful that night? She. Yes. [Shivering.'] He. And I had such a pain in my lungs — She. Yes? [Waking up.] He. And my throat was so sore — She. Yes? [Showing concern.] He. And I certainly thought I was in for pneumonia and all that sort of thing. Cheerful, was n't it ? She. Yes. [Half laughing.] He. Do you know I think I 've got the biggest kind of a joke on Ned Sterns? She. Yes ? [Interested.] He. You know how dreadfully smashed he 's been on Sadie Snowden? She. Yes ? [" Well, I should say so," kind of a way.] He. Well, you know that tall cousin of hers that comes from Philadelphia to visit them? She. Yes. [Interested, and quickly.] He. Well, Ned asked Sadie to go to the opera with him the other night, and she wrote back that she was already engaged. She. Yes? [Quickly.] He. And of course Ned went to the opera and spied about until he saw them, and — She. Yes ? [Quickly.] He. And he saw her with this great tall fellow he did n't know, and he got perfectly furious with jealousy — She. Yes. [Good joke idea.] He. And now he's making no end of a row, and wants me to demand his letters back. Should n't you think he 'd do it himself? She. Yes ! [Disgusted.] He. And all the time I know it is her cousin, and I won't tell him ! Is n't it an awfully good joke ? She. Yes. [Half-heartedly.] He. You don't seem very enthusiastic. Don't you think Ned deserves a lesson for being so unreasonable? She. Yes. [Decided.] He. After all, — women admire a man for being jealous. They think it shows he is really in love. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 335 She. Yes — [Oh, I don't know! idea.l He. Don't you know that it is so? She. Yes — [Undecided.] He. Come ! you are trying to tease me. Should n't you want a man to be jealous? She. Yes. [Decided.'] He. [Laughing.] There, I said you'd take Ned Sterns's part. [Short pause.] Now, don't you? She. Yes. [Undecided.] He. Women are never logical. I suppose they think their intuitions are above logic ! She. Yes. [Decided.] He. Or below it. [Sotto voce.] She. Yes ! [Off elided.] He. Oh, don't be offended ; you know I always agree with you, even if I know you are wrong. It is only politic to agree with a woman, I always say. She. Yes! [Indeed! idea.] He. There now, I 've got you all cross again. I don't know what I shall do to appease you. You are cross, are n't you ? She. Yes. [Half laughing.] He. But not very, I think. [Sigh of relief.] I can al- ways make girls forgive me when they are provoked. She. Yes ! [Indeed! idea.] He. Why, Lily Snowden said the other day that I talked so fast that nobody could get in a word edgeways. Now, you know better than that, don't you? She. Yes! [Why, of course, idea.] He. And she was just as cross as she could be, because I would n't let her tell a story : but I talked right along, and the first thing she knew, she was laughing lilce anything. Don't you think she is a genre sort of girl? She'. Yes? [Doubtful] He. The sort of girl who ought to be in a stage setting and be composed in a picture, you know — She. Yes ! [Laughing.] He. Now 3^ou are a different sort of girl altogether. She. Yes? [Really, you think so? idea.] He. Oh, yes. You know Millie Mayle never has anything to say worth saying, and she is always interrupting one to say it. Now, if you '11 excuse me for saying it to your face, it is a pleasure to talk to you, you always have so much to 336 SELECTED READINGS say. [She laughs.] Oh, you may laugh ; but I 'd rather talk to you than any girl I know. The girls are so full of nonsense and they keep saying so many senseless things that no sensible man can bear to talk to them. Do you know, 1 've had a great notion of getting a lot of cards printed to send around as valentines, and the motto — She. Yes? [Getting up with interest.'] He. Was to be " Little folks should be seen, not heard." Don't you think that an original idea? She. Yes. [Disgiisted.] He. Oh ! Now you think I 'm pitching into the girls again, and you don't like it; but don't be cross, for you see I especially want you to be good-natured this afternoon. I came for a special reason. She. Yes ? [Half suspecting.] He. I 've been trying for a long time to get up my cour- age. I 'm really awfully shy, and I 've always been shyer of you than of any one else. She. Yes? [Really f] He. Yes, I really have. I 've always liked you best of all the girls. I think we 've known each other long enough, so we can be perfectly frank — don't you ? She. Yes. [Decided.] He. I wish — that is — do you know — I 'm awfully fond of you? She. Yes. [Matter of fact.] • He. Why, of course you must have known it. Have n't I always asked you first for the Germans ? You do dance so awfully well, too. She. Yes. [Of course I Tcnoiu it, idea.] He. Of course you know it, and you must have seen what I meant by it. She. Yes. [Laughing.] He. Oh, you think I asked you because I dance so well. It was n't that, at least that was only part of it. She. Yes. [/ thought so.] He. Oh, Miss — I wish I were sure you would answer one question the way I want you to; but then, the best way to find out whether you will or not is to ask it — is n't it ? She. Yes. [Helping him.] He. I never was any good at making speeches. I al- ways talk on the little scraps, and leave it for others to put in a word now and then. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 337 She. Yes. [Yes you do, idea.] He. It makes conversation all so dull to have it all one way, don't you think so? She. Yes. [Decided.] He. But I wanted to ask you if you wanted — to — ask — you — if you would n't marry me ? She. No. [Quietly, without any pause.] He. Do you mean it? She. Yes. [Naturally.] He. Eeally? She. Yes. [Decided.] He. Wliy not? But then I don't suppose I have any right to ask that. I hope you 're not offended ? We can be friends still ? She. Yes. [Oh, yes.] He. [Quickly.] I'm sorry. You are sure you are in earnest ? She. Yes. [Of course.] He. Then I suppose there is no good in urging you. I won't cry over spilt milk. Don't you think it is better to take things philosophically? She. Yes. [Rather piqued.] He. [Rising.] Well, that is off my mind, at any rate. I 've been meaning to ask you all winter. You are sure you 're not offended ? She. Yes. [Half offended.] He. So many girls are put out, you know, when they won't have a fellow. She. Yes ? [Quizzical.] He. Yes. [Looking at his ivatch.] I hadn't any idea it was so late. Really, I ought to have gone long ago. Good-bye. Don't rise. Good-bye. Arlo Bates. PARRIED * HE. Ah, Miss Violet, I am delighted to find you alone ! vShe. Surely it is unwise to delight in an impos- sibility. He. An impossibility? She. Because no sooner do you find me than I cease to be alone. Besides I am here only for the moment; I am on my way to attend a meeting of — but that does n't concern you ; it is only a woman's club. • By permission of the author and The Century Co. 22 338 SELECTED READINGS He. Whatever the paradox, I can only repeat, I am glad to find you by yourself. I have long been seeking an oppor- tunity to say to you — She. I know exactly what you are going to say. He. I am afraid not, I can only wish that you did. For sometimes when I am with you — She. Now, don't wander from the subject. You are afraid I shall guess what your errand is, and wish to fore- stall me. I delight in guessing, and I insist upon a trial of my wits. He. But this is trifling. I — She. Not to me. I assure you, I am really interested. I have always believed I should have made an excellent detective. He. Miss Violet, do you think ill of me if I insist for a moment upon being serious ? She. Am I then so frivolous? Do you not believe I am ever serious? Wait! I know what you wish to say, and I have my defence ready. I never said it. He. Said what? She. That there was no modern literature worth the reading. I would n't make so sweeping a statement. I said only that I preferred to read the old books first. I would n't be afraid to acknowledge the preference, even to you, though I know you are a champion of modem schools of fiction. You believe in realism, do you not? He. I care nothing about the question, one way or the other, just now. It was not what I had in mind at all, I wished to enter on a more personal subject. In short — She. Wait just a moment. You 're not fair. Don't toll me yet. I 've had only one guess, and the tradition of the ages allows three. Not literature, you say? Something more personal ? Let me see. Ah ! now I can do better. He. Excuse me ; I may have but a moment to see you. She, Why? Are you going aAvay? He. Yes, and before I go — She. When do you leave us? I am surprised. I sup- posed you meant to stay another week at least. He. (Desperately.) I could stay on here with you forever. She. Then somebody must have offended you. I believe it was Miss Black. She is so sarcastic and clever. But you should n't mind what slie says. She 's really a good-hearted girl. Why, do you know, she — SCENES AND DIALOGUES 339 He. I care nothing for Miss Black ; nothing whatever. She. There you are unjust. Let me tell you one instance of her kindness toward a poor helpless cripple. It was the most touching thing — He. Pardon me; please don't. Another time, if you like; not now. Now 1 must say a few words to you about myself. She. It won't take a minute to tell you. Still, if you in- sist upon being unjust to that young girl, why, all I can say is that I think you are very inconsiderate, to say the least. She is my best friend. He. i know — I know — I did n't come here to talk about Miss Black, and as my time is so short — She. True ! I forgot for the moment that you are going so soon. You did n't tell me just when, did you ? He. No. In fact I wanted to tell you how much your presence here had been to me — how dearly I shall prize — She. I beg you won't mention it. I have, of course, meant to be kind and courteous to my uncle's guests. He. Guests? She. Yes, to all. Tell me, have I failed in my purpose ? Have you heard me criticised ? I would n't ask, you know, for any idle reason. But, seriously, I am not always as con- siderate to others as — He. Considerate? How can I tell you — how express to you the feelings of happiness — She. Ah! that's really very gratifying — very. My uncle thinks me flighty, and I have tried to do my duty as, in a sense, the hostess. I am very much pleased by what you say ; but I shall not take your words of compliment too seriouslv. He. You cannot take them too seriously. But that is not exactly my meaning. I spoke, not for others, but for myself. She. I was, I see, too hasty. I hoped you spoke for all, or at least from a knowledge of the sentiments of the others. Never mind, I am glad to have made one of my uncle's friends more welcome — no, I mean more contented. That is not the word, either. What is the right word, here? He (Ignoring lier question.) Before I go, I wish to ask you whether — She. I believe a'ou cannot think of the word, either. Now, be frank. How would you express the idea? 340 SELECTED READINGS He. I wish to ask you whether I have been misled by your kindness; whether I am wrong in believing — She. Excuse me; I do so dislike to give advice. Can't you ask some older woman? I know so little of the world! He. You do not let me finish. She. I am not fond of confidences. One so soon regrets them, and then — alas for the poor confidante ! Please let us not be serious. I have so much on my mind — questions of housekeeping, of servants, so many petty details. He. It is hopeless, I see. She. Entirely so, believe me. You are exceedingly kind to of!er me your sympathy, but nothing can be done. It is hopeless, indeed. All butlers seem to have the same faults ; and what they lack, the cooks possess. We thought we had a treasure this last month; and this morning she came to complain that our dance music kept her from sleeping! He. You are trifling with me. She. No — it is a fact. That woman actually had the efi^rontery to complain — He. For the last time — will you hear me ? She. Certainly. (Stiffly.) I did not know you had an oration to deliver, I am all attention. Proceed, sir. He. You are offended. She. Oh, not at all ! He. Then please do not be so — cold. She. What am I to do? When I am silent you say I am cold; when I talk, I am trifling. If you will graciously indicate exactly what demeanor you prefer, I will do my best to enact the part. He. I don't know what to say or how to act. (Pathctic- olhj.) I believe you know just what I mean to tell you, and somehow you stop me whenever — She. Don't let us go back to that point again. I had almost forgotten that I was to guess. Let me see, it was n't literature, and it was n't Miss Black ; it must be — He. It was — She. (Hastily.) Don't tell me, I know I could guess if you gave me the time — (Suddenly interrupting.) Hush! there comes Harry Douglas. Another time will do. _ He. (In despair.) I must go, then. I will vrrite you. Good-bye. She. (Rising and ignoring his hand.) Good-bye. Exit He SCENES AND DIALOGUES 341 Enter Harry Douglas Harry. Ah, my dear! What was the trouble with my lord, the recently departed? He looked like the ghost of Hamlet's father as he left. She. Oh, Harry ! He was trying to propose to me, poor boy, and I could n't tell liim of our engagement until it is out, you know, and I didn't know how to refuse him. Harry. And how did you? She. Oh, he didn't say anything to me. Harry. Why not? She. He could n't seem to find a chance. Harry. I had no difficulty. She. That's different. Tudor Jenks. AT THE DOOR* A Hostess and Guest are Parting at the Door-step HOSTESS. Well, dear, if you must go, good-bye. Guest. Yes, dear, I really must ; I wish I might stay longer, but the baby must have some new shoes and I promised to match a sample for one of the maids. — Really, I 'm so driven all day that I scarcely know which way to turn. — You know what it is to keep house ; I never know how I am going to finish the thousand and one things I have to do. Hostess. That is the same way with me, I can assure you. I 'm so driven all day, that I never call a single moment my own. Yet I economize every instant of the day, rushing from one thing to another, till sometimes I wonder if I am in possession of my senses. Guest. There, don't say a word, — I know just how it is. There are some M'^oraen who fritter away their time and then they wonder why thev don't accomplish more ; but you and I, dear — Now, really, I must n't gossip any longer; once more, good-bye. Hostess. Good-bye, come and see me soon again, dear. I 've enjoyed your call so much. Guest. I think I am very forgiving, for you 've owed me a call — Hostess. One moment, Lizzie, dear. You surely are * Bu permission oi the author and The Century Co. 342 SELECTED READINGS mistaken — I 'm always so punctilious about calling. Let me see, I was at your home just after your cook left, and by the way, you never told me why she left. Why was it? She always seemed so neat and respectful and was so tidy about the kitchen. Guest. You mean Olga. Yes, there were many nice things about Olga, but she was so terribly wasteful that I could n't put up with her any longer. Of course, after having a cook like Julia Mackenzie, I found Olga a terrible trial to my patience. I did my best to keep her on account of her dear old mother, but I could not stand her another minute. It was simply too much for human patience to bear. But, I must not keep you with my foolish complaints. Once more, good-bye. Hostess. Oh, did you know that I had a new cook, too ? Guest. Why, no, you never told me. Then I suppose Marie is gone. Now that is what I call a real trial. When did she go? Hostess. A week ago, and you would never believe the state in which she left the kitchen; the pans looked as if they had never come within speaking distance of the scour- ing sand — I just dread the hour in which a cook leaves ; it 's always worse than when they come. Still, I must not unload my troubles on you, especially when you have some of your own. I do think that we women are the drudges of the world. If men had one-half the burdens we women have to bear without complaining, they — well, I don't know what they would n't do. We poor women have to suffer in silence, no matter what comes. I do hope that if we have to live over again, I won't have to be a woman — so there. What a beautiful day it is after the rain ! Guest. Beautiful. Is n't it strange how invariably it rains on wash-day? It seems to me that we never have a sunny Monday, and it 's sure to be more or less cloudy on Tuesday and Wednesday. Hostess. Well, I 'm sure it alwaj's pours on Sunday when one has on their best clothes. And the children in- sist that it's always drizzling on Saturday, so it's to be hoped that Thursdays and Fridays are sometimes clear. Guest. Here I 'm keeping you on the door-step, as if we were waiting to see a circus go by — I have n't seen a circus in years; have you? Hostess. Not I, I have no need of circuses. The children SCENES AND DIALOGUES 343 give me all the circus I need every day. How you manage with your five, I 'm sure I can't see. What do you ever do with them all? And when do you find time for that lovely embroidery of yours? Guest. Do you really like it ? I 'm so glad, for I feel that if I could not emlaroider, I should die. Badly as I do it, it 's my greatest comfort — after John and the chil- dren, of course. Why don't you learn? Miss Mascovite is such a lovely teacher, and her prices are absurdly low — ■ only six dollars a lesson. Why, I have learned six new stitches for only eighteen dollars — 't was just like pick- ing them up in the sti'eet. Hostess. I should like to, of course ; but Will is so fussy over small expenses. He 'd think that eighteen dollars spent for embroider}' lessons was a sinful waste, and yet he'll spend any amount for cigars in a single evening — I 've known him to do it without winlcing. Guest. I know just what you mean. John is the same way. He thinks money spent on a new hat quite thrown away, and yet he will lay out as much as fifteen dollars on a new suit and never give it a thought. Are n't men the most unreasonable creatures in nature — except Avomen perhaps. But at least we know our faults, and confess them to one another, and that is more than men do, goodness knows. I must hurry off. What time is it? My watch has stopped. Hostess. I don't know — my watch is n't going — has n't run for several weeks. I 'm afraid that there is some- thing wrong with it — never did go any way. It's early yet! Come in and have some tea before you go. Your errands can wait just as well as not. Guest. You really won't think me silly, and won't mind? Your tea is so good ; and besides, my errands can wait just as well as not. I hate to feel hurried and driven. And you 're quite sure you won't mind ? Hostess. Only if you don't come ; come, dear, and have a good talk. Tudor Jenks. 344 SELECTED READINGS AT THE FERRY Scene : A New York Ferry Landing [Person-e: Papa Blossom, Mamma Blossom, and Master Freddie Blossom.] FRED. Where are all the people going to, mamma? Mes. B. To the country. Fred. What country? Africa? Mrs. B. No, not a foreign country, this country. Fred. They are in this country now, ain't they? Mrs, B. Yes, of course they are. Fred. Well, how can they go to this country when they 're already in it? Mrs. B. We are in the city now, Freddie, and the people want to go into the country. Fred. Ain't this city a country? Mrs. B. Of course it is a country, but the people want to go into the country. Don't you understand? Fred. What country? Mrs. B. Oh, for pity's sake, hold your tongue! Mr. B. That 's no way to talk to a child ; you must not forget you were a child once. Mrs. B. Well, suppose you take him and be his encyclo- pedia for the balance of the day. Mr. B. Willingly. Come, Freddie, give me your hand, your papa will answer all your questions. Fred. [A moment later.] What 's that man running for, papa? Mr. B. He wants to catch the ferry. Fred. If he catches it now, won't he ever catch it again ? Mr. B. "\\Tiy, I presume he will. Fred. I would rather catch the measles, would n't you, papa? Mr. B. Wliy? Fred. 'Cause you only catch them once. Mr. B. Ha, ha, ha ! But the ferry is not a disease, it 's a boat. Fred. Why don't they call it a boat then? Mr. B. They do; they call it a ferry boat. Fred. What does the man want to catch the boat for? Mr. B. He wants to take it to Jersey. Fred. What does he want to take it to Jersey for? SCENES AND DIALOGUES 345 Mr. B, Because he wants to go to Jersey. Fred. Will he take it on his shoulders? Me. B. Take what on his shoulders ? Fred. The boat. Mr. B. You little — [remembering himself.'] Freddie, when I say that he will take the boat to Jersey I mean the boat will take him to Jersey. Fred. But why does the man run so fast to take the boat to Jersey? Me. B. He is afraid he will miss the boat. Fred. And if he misses it, could n't he ever go to Jersey ? Mr. B. Of course he could ; he could take the next boat. Fred. Would he have to wait seven or eleven hours for another boat? Mr. B. No, he would have to wait only a few minutes. Fred. Then what does he run so fast for? Mr. B. Lord only knows. I suppose it is because he is an American. Fred. What has that got to do with it, papa ? Mr. B. Hanged if I know ! See, Freddie, that man with the basket. I presume he is going on a picnic. Fred. What's a picnic, papa, a boat? Mr. B. No ; a picnic, my boy, is a — well, people take their lunches in baskets and eat them under the trees in the country. Fred. The country mamma would n't tell me about? Mr. B. Yes, the same country. Fred. What do they eat the baskets for? Me. B. They don't eat the baskets, — they eat the lunches in the baskets. Fred. Have n't these people any homes to eat their lunches in? Mr. B. Of course they have. Fred. Why do they want to eat them under trees for, then ? Mr. B. Just for the fun of the thing. Fred. What fun is there eating under trees? Mr. B. Hanged if I know. Fred. Did you ever eat your lunch under trees? Mr. B. Yes. Fred. Did you have any fun? Mr. B. I don't know. Fred. Well, you don't know much, anyhow, do you, papa? Anonymous. 346 SELECTED READINGS COME HERE [It is an excellent practice to take a simple sentence, — for instance, "Shut the door," and see what a variety in tone and inflection may be given it. Several hundred ways may be easily devised. Illustrative of this is an excerpt from a scene translated from the German and given by the late Madame Janauschek.] Scene : an Office. [Call-boy is arranging letters and papers on table. Enter the manager.^ MAN". Good morning, Bob. Tell the bill-poster when he comes to display the new posters in the green-room for me to look at, and let me know when they are ready. Boy. a lady is waiting to see you, sir. Man. Ask her to come in. [Exit loy.'\ Enter an Actress Man. [Aside.] Good appearance. Madam, your busi- ness? Act. I 'm informed the place of leading lady in your company is vacant, and trusting that my talents may en- able me to fill it worthily, I beg to offer you my services. Man. Have you a mind to stand a special trial? The test I propose is very difficult. Mind, I do not want to see yourself: simply the character that is to be represented. Act. Will you leave the choice to me? Man. Oh, no! Act. Then it may indeed become a harder task than I thought; your selection may not be in my repertoire. Man. Oh, yes, it is. I only require two words : " Come here." Act. Come here? Man. Yes, and with the words, the meaning, emphasis, and expressions that situation, character, and the surround- ings would command. The part is simple and easily studied ; do you think you can remember it ? Act. Let me see, c-o-m-e h-e-r-e, is that right? Man. That's right. Act. [Removing her hat and coat.] Now, I 'm ready. Man. First, represent a queen, who deigns to call a maid-of-honor. Act. Come here ! Man. Now, she commands a courtier, not in favor, to the foot of her throne. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 347 Act. Come here. Max. Next, she calls a hero to reward his deeds in the battlefield, and to receive the laurel from her hands. Act. Come here. Man. Now represent a princess at the deathbed of her father, whose throne she will inherit. She is ambitious, and yet loves her father. With these complex emotions she calls on the physician, who can bring relief. Act. Come here ! Man. Before a mother stand a daughter and her lover, who pray for her consent. The lover is poor; the mother battles with her pride. It is a great struggle for her. At last she cries — Act. Come here ! Man. a mother calls her little daughter, who has done something to vex her. Act. Come here ! Man. Now it is her stepchild. Act. Come here. Man. a carriage is dashing by; a child is in the street. With a heart filled with terror the mother cries — Act. Come here ! Man. In tears and sorrow a wife has bid adieu to her departing husband, who has gone to defend his country on the battlefield. She seeks consolation in her children, and calls — Act. Come here. Man. The husband has returned ; the wife observes him, and full of joy calls her children — Act. Come here! Man. Observing his servant, she calls him also — Act. Come here ! Man. Now show me how in despair a widow who has lost all she possessed, through fire, confronts the creditors who clamor for their dues, and whose criielty has killed her hus- band. She points to the remains of her dead husband, and calls on them to look at their work. Act. Come here. Man. In a wooded glade a country maiden spies an artist, whose eyes rest now on her, then on a sketch-book he works upon. She creeps cautiously behind him and sees herself. In flelight and triumph she calls her neighbor — Act. Come here ! 348 SELECTED READINGS Man. Now show me how a country miss would call a dog that has stolen her luncheon; she would like to have it back, but fears he might bite her. Act. Come here. Man, The dog approaches ; she is afraid of him ; she calls to a passerby for help — Act. Come here ! Man. a husband threatens to beat his wife ; feeling out- raged she raises a broom on high and exclaims — Act. Come here ! Man. a jealous wife accuses her husband of being in love, which he denies. In his pocket she discovers a letter. She again upbraids him; he still denies; then opening the letter, she, full of hate and rage, calls out — Act. Come here! Man. Now represent a maiden who looks with childish innocence upon her lover, whom she chid because he stole a kiss. Seeing she has pained him, she calls — Act. Come here. Man. He does not return, and she calls again — Act. Come here ! Man. He will not return until she offers her cheek to him for a kiss. Act. Come here. Man. Now for the last picture. A man was betrothed in childhood to a lovely girl. Reverses of fortune separated their families. After long years they meet. He longs to renew the old ties; he offers her his hand, his heart, all that he possesses, and now awaits anxiously the words that may tell him his love is returned — Act. Come here. SECRETS OF THE HEART Scene : A chalet covered with honeysucTcle T Ninette. I HIS way. Ninon. No, this way. {They enter the chalet. 1 Ninette. This way, then. You are as changing, child, as men. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 349 NiNOX. But are tliev ? Is it true, I mean ? Who said it? Ninette. Sister Seraphine. She was so pious and so good. With such sad eyes beneath her hood. And such poor little feet — all bare ! Her name was Eugenie LaFere. She used to tell us, moonlight nights. When I was at the Carmelites. Ninon. Ah ! then it must be right. And yet. Suppose for once — suppose, Ninette ■ — Ninette. But what? Ninon. Suppose it were not so ? Suppose there icere true men, you know ! Ninette. And then? Ninon. Why, — if that could occur, What kind of man should you prefer? Ninette. "\Miat looks, you mean? Ninon. Looks, voice, and all. Ninette. Well, as to that, he must be tall. Or say, not tall — of middle size ; And next, he must have laughing eyes. And a hook nose, with, underneath, ! such a row of sparkling teeth ! Ninon. [Touching her cheek suspiciously. 1 Has he a scar on this side ? Ninette. Hush ! Some one is coming. No ; a thrush ; 1 see it swinging there. Ninon. Go on. Ninette. Then he must fence (Ah, look ! 't is gone !), And dance like Monseigneur, and sing " Love Was a Shepherd " — everything That men do. Tell me yours, Ninon. Ninon. Shall I? Then mine has black, black hair, I meaD, he should liavc; then an air Half sad, half noble; features thin; A little royale on his chin ; And such a pale high brow! And then He is a prince of gentlemen ! He, too, can ride, and fence, and write Sonnets and madrigals, yet fight No worse for that — 350 SELECTED READINGS Ninette. I know your man. Ninon. And I know yours. But you '11 not tell. Swear it. Ninette. I swear upon this fan — Ninon. My grandmother's ! And I — I swear On this old turquoise reliquaire — My great-great-grandmother's ! {After a pause.' Ninette ! I feel so sad. Ninette. I too. But why? Ninon. Alas, I know not ! Ninette. With a sigh.] Nor do I. Austin Dobson. Nellie. TU QUOQUE IF I were you, when ladies at the play, sir. Beckon and nod a melodrama through, I would not turn abstractedly away, sir. If I were you ! Frank. If I were you, when persons I affected Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would, at least, pretend I recollected. If I were you. Nellie. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with odious Miss McTavish, If I were you ! Frank. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer \\Tiiff of the best — the mildest " honey dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you ! Nellie. If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, Even to write the " C}mical Eeview " — Frank. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter. If I were you ! SCENES AND DIALOGUES 351 Nellie. Eeally! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful — Hot as Othello, and as black of hue ; Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful. If I were you ! Frank. " It is the cause." I mean, your chaperon is Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu ! I shall retire. I 'd spare that poor Adonis, If I were you. Nellie. Go, if you will. At once ! And by express, sir ! Where shall it be ? to China — or Peru ? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir. If I were you ! Frank. No — I remain. To stay and fight a duel Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do — Ah I you are strong — I would not then be cruel. If I were you. Nellie. One does not like one's feelings to be doubted — Frank. One does not like one's friends to miscon- strue — Nellie. If I confess that I a wee bit pouted ? Frank. I should admit that I was piqued too. (Waltz music — Invitation to the Dance.) Nellie. Ask me to dance ! I 'd say no more about it, If I were you ! [Waltz — Exeunt.'] Austin Dobson. SCENE FROM " PAOLA AND FRANCESCA " * From Act IV \_A chamber in the palace; late evening of the second day after Giovanni's departure. Giovanni discovered, stained as from hard riding.] Gio. T HE Lady Lucrezia — is she in the house? Car. She is, sir. Tell her that I am returned, Gio. • B\i pcrwisaion of the author and his publishers, Messrs. John Lane Company, The Bodleu Head. 352 SELECTED READINGS And ask some words with her. Well, why do you i Stand bursting with some news that you must tell ? What sudden thing has happened ? i Car. Nothing, sir. ^ Gio. Leave me and take my message ! : [Exeunt Carlo and Attendants.] ! Enter Lucrezia ' Luc. So soon returned, Giovanni? • Gio. a few hours' \ Fast fighting ended it, Lucrezia. ! What news at home ? j Luc. Oh, Paola is returned ! Gio. Paola returned ! Wliat ! from the grave ? i Luc. The graver Gio. I left him dead, or going to his death. Luc. What do you mean? Gio. I heard from his own mouth That he and she did for each other burn. Luc. He told you ? Gio. No, not me ; but yet I heard. Luc. And you on the instant killed him? Gio. No, he stole Away to die : I thought him dead : 't were better. ' Now like a thief he creeps back to the house ! l To her for whom I had begun to long ■ So late in life that now I may not cease ' J From longing! I Luc. Her that you must drug to kiss ! \ Will you not smell the potion in her sigh? ' A few more drops, then what a mad caress! j Gio. He hath crept back like a thief into the house — | A thief — a liar ; he feigned the will to die. '> Lucrezia, when old Angela foretold, l I feared not him ; when he was pointed at, ^ I doubted still : even after his own words, ' Then, then had I forgiven him, for he j Went out as to a grave. But now I am changed — ] I will be wary of this creeping thing. j 0, I have no emotion now, no blood. j No longer I postpone or fight this doom: I see that it must be, and I am grown i The accomplice and the instrument of Fate, l A blade ! a knife ! — no more. 1 I ■I SCENES AND DIALOGUES 353 Luc. He has been here Since yestermom. Gio. Yet I '11 be no assassin, Or rashly kill : I have not seen them kiss. I '11 wait to find them in each other's arms, And stab them there enfolded and entwined. And so to all men justify my deed. Yet how to find them, where to kill is just? Luc. Give out that this is no return, but merely An intermission of the war; that j'ou Must ride back to the camp within the hour, And for some days be absent : he and she Will seize upon the dark and lucky hour To be together; watch you round the house, And suddenly take them in each other's arms. Gio. This plan commends itself to my cold heart. Luc. Here comes Francesca. Shall I stay, then? Gio. Stay ! Efiter Francesca Franc. Sir, you have asked for me. I did not know You were so soon returned. Gio. Soldiers' returns Are sudden and oft unexpected. Fraxc. Sir, How pale you are ! You are not wounded ? Gio. _ No! A scratch perhaps. Give me some wine, Francesca, For suddenly I must be gone again. Franc. I thought thiis broil was ended ? Gio. No ! not yet. Some days I may be absent, and can go More lightly since I leave you not alone. To Paola I commend you, to my brother. Loyal he is to me, loyal and true. He has also a gaiety of mind Which I have ever lacked : he is besides More suited to your years, can sing and play, And has the art long hours to entertain. To him I leave you, and must go forthwith. [He makes to go, then turns.'\ Come here, Francesca, kiss me — yet not so. You put your lips up to me like a child. 23 354 SELECTED READINGS !Franc. 'T is not so long ago I was a child. [Seizing his arm.'] sir, is it wise, is it well to go away ? Gio. What do 30U mean? Franc. I have a terror here. Gig. Can yon not bear to part with me some hours ? Franc. I dread to be alone : I fear the night And yon great chamber, the resort of spirits. 1 see men hunted on the air by hounds : Thin faces of your house, with weary smiles. The dead who frown I fear not ; but I fear The dead who smile ! The very palace rocks, Eemembering at midnight; and I see "Women within these walls immured alive Come starving to my bed and ask for food. Gio. Take some one, then, to sleep with you — Lucrezia, Or little Nita else : lie not alone. Franc. [Still detaining him.'] Yet go not, sir. Gio. What is it that 3'ou fear ? Franc. Sir, go not, go not! Gio. Child, I cannot stay For fancies, and at once I '11 say farewell To both of you. I hear my courser fret. [Exit Giovanni.] Franc. [Looking after him and turning slowly.] Lucrezia, will you lie with me to-night? Luc. I will, Francesca, if you '11 have it so. Franc. Oh, some one I can touch in the thick night ! — "What sound is that? Luc [Going to windoiv.] Your husband galloping Away into the dark ; now he is gone. [She looks from the window, then turns.] I left young Paola pacing up and down ; [Loohing steadfastly at her.] He seemed as faint for company as you. Say, shall I call him in as I go out? He will help waste the tardy time. Franc. [QuicMy.] No, no ! Luc. Is there some little feud 'twixt you and him ? For when you meet words slowly come to you — You scarce look in each other's eyes. Franc. No feud. Luc. Eemember, when Giovanni married you SCENES AND DIALOGUES 355 These two were to each other all in all; And so excuse some natural jealousy Of you from him. Fraxc. I think he means me well. Luc. Then shall I call him in ? Franc. 0, why so eager? "Where would all those about me drive me? First My husband earnestly to Paola Commends me; and now you must call him in. [Wildly.'] Where can I look for pity? Lucrezia You have no children? Luc. None. Franc. Nor ever had ? Luc. Nor ever had. Fraxc. But yet you are a woman. I have no mother : let me be your child To-night. I am so utterly alone ! Be gentle with me; or if not, at least Let me go home. This world is difficult. Oh, think of me as of a little child That looks into your face, and asks your hand. [Lucrezia softly touches Francesca's hair.] Why do you touch my head ? Why do you weep ? I would not pain you. Luc. Ah, Francesca ! You Have touched me where my life is quivering most. I have no child: and yet if I had borne one I could have wished her hair had been this color. Fraxc. I am too suddenly cast in this whirl ! Too suddenly ! I bad but convent thoughts. woman, woman, take me to you and hold me ! [She throws herself into Lucrezia's arms.'] Luc [Clasping Francesca to her]. At last the long ice melts, and oh, relief Of rain that rushes from me! Child, my cliild ! 1 clasp you close, close! Do you fear me still? Have you not heard love is more fierce than hale? Koughly I grasp what I have hunted long. You cannot know — how should you ? — that you are More, so much more, to me than just a child. Franc. I seem to understand a little. Luc. Close, 356 SELECTED READINGS I hold you close ! It was not all in vain, The holy babble and pillow kissed all o'er ! my embodied dream with eyes and hair! Visible aspiration with soft hands ! Tangible vision ! Oh, art thou alive, Francesca, dost thou move and breathe? Speak, speak ! Say human words out, lest thou vanish quite ! Your very flesh is of my sighs composed, Your blood is crimson with my passioning! And now I have conceived and have brought forth ; And I exult in front of the great sun: And I laugh out with riches on my lap ! And you will deem me mad ! but do not, Sweet : 1 am not mad, only I am most happy. I '11 dry my tears — but oh, if thou should 'st die ? [Aside.] And ah, my God ! Franc. "Why did you start? Luc. [Aside.] To stay him! [To Francesca, tahing her hands.] But I should be the shadow of a mother If here I ceased. Francesca, I well know That 'twixt bright Paola and dark Giovanni You stand. You hinted at some peril there. I ask to know no more ; but take these words : Be not in company with Paola To-night. [AsicZe.] Giovanni must be found. My child, I have some business on the moment, but Within the hour I will return — [Aside.] How find him? And sleep with you. [Asi'c^e.] I '11 search all secret places. Kiss me. Eemember, then ! [Aside.] 'T is not too late ! What meshes have I woven for what I love? Stephen Phillips. Abridged hy Anna Morgan. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 357 THE QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS From " Julius C^sar," Act IV, Scene 3 ScEXE : Brutus' s Tent Cas. THx\T 5'ou have wrong'd me doth appear in this : You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted off. Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case. Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm. Cas. I an itching palm ! You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last, Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. Cas. Chastisement ! Bru, Remember March, the ides of March remember: Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, And not for justice ? What, shall one of us. That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon. Than such a Roman. Cas. Brutus, bay not me; I '11 not endure it : you forget yourself. To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, T shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, temper mo no farther. 358 SELECTED READINGS Bru. Away, slight man! Cas. Is 't possible ? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? Cas. ye gods, ye gods ! must I endure all this ? Bru. All this! ay, more; fret till your proud heart break ; Go show your slaves how choleric 5^ou are. And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you ? must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen. Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I '11 use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, Wlien you are waspish, Cas. Is it come to this? Bru. You say you are a better soldier: Let it appear so; make your vaunting true. And it shall please me well: for mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus ; I said, an elder soldier, not a better: Did I say " better " ? Bru. If you did, I care not. Cas. "When Ceesar liv'd, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not! Bru. No. Cas. What, durst not tempt him! Bru. For your life you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats. For I am arm'd so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind. Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me : For I can raise no money by vile means : By heaven, I had rather coin my heart. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 359 And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection : I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, TVTiich you denied me : Was that done like Cassius ? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? 'Wlien Marcus Brutus grows so covetous. To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts; Dash him to pieces ! Cas. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not: he was but a fool that brought My answer back. Brutus hath riv'd my heart: A friend should bear his friend's infirmities. But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me. Cas, You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. a friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. a flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world ; Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; '■ Check'd like a bondman ; all his faults observed, j Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote, ! To cast into my teeth. 0, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart I Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold: • If that thou be 'st a Roman, take it forth ; I I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: i Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him i better i Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. ■ Bru. Sheathe your dagger : j Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; j Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. i Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb ; That carries anger as the flint bears fire; 1 360 SELECTED READINGS "Who, much enforced, shows a liasty spark. And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. Cas. Do 3^ou confess so much? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart too. Cas. Brutus! Bru. What 's the matter ? Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me. When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful? Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and, from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. Shakespeare. Abridged hy Anna Morgan. SCENE FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT" Act IV, Scene 1 [Orlando has failed to keep an engagement with Rosalind. She is angry and addresses him in tones of reproach and threat.] ROS. Why, how now, Orlando ! where have you been all this while ? You a lover ! An you serve me such an- other trick, never come in my sight more. Orl. My fair Eosalind, I come witliin an hour of my promise. Eos. Break an hour's promise in love ! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I '11 warrant him heart-whole. Orl. Pardon me, dear Eosalind. Eos. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight : I had as lief be wooed of a snail. Orl. Of a snail? Eos. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head. Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor and like enough to consent. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 361 What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Eosalind ? Obl. I would kiss before I spoke. Eos. Nay, you were better speak first. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking — matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss. Orl. How if the kiss be denied? Eos. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter. Am not I your Eosalind ? Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her. Eos. Well in her person I say I will not have you. Orl. Then in mine own person I die. Eos. Xo, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person. Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Orl. I would not have my right Eosalind of this mind, for, I protest, her frown might kill me. Eos. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? Come, sister, you shall be the priest and marry us. Give me .your hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister? Orl. Pray thee, marry us. Cel. I cannot say the words. Eos. You must begin, " Will you, Orlando — " Cel. Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Eosa- lind? Orl. I will. Eos. Ay, but when? Orl. Why now; as fast as she can marry us. Eos. Then you must say " I take thee, Eosalind, for wife." Orl. I take thee, Eosalind, for wife. Eos. Now tell me how long you would have her after you have possessed her. Orl. For ever and a day. Eos. Say " a day," without the " ever." No, no, Orlando ; men are April when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. Orl. But will my Eosalind do so? Eos. By ray life, she will do as T do. Orl. For tliese two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. 362 SELECTED READINGS Ros. Alas ! dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours. Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner : by two o'clock I will be with thee again. Eos. Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you would prove : my friends told me as much, and I thought no less: that flattering tongue of yours won me. Two o'clock is your hour? Orl. Ay, sweet Eosalind. \_Exit.'] Ros. coz, coz, coz, my pretty little eoz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded : my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal. I '11 tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando : I '11 go find a shadow and sigh till he come. Cel. And I '11 to sleep. [Exeunt.'] Shakespeare. Abridged by Anna Morgan. MRS. PAGE AND MRS. FORD Scene from "The Merry Wives op Windsor/' Act II, Scene 1 Before Page's House. Enter Mistress Page, witli a letter. "RS. PAGE. Wliat! have I 'scaped love-letters in the M^ holiday time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see. [Eeads.] " Ask me no reason why I love you ; for though Love use Reason for his precisian, he admits him not for his coun- sellor. You are not young, no more am I; go to, then, there 's sympathy : you are merry, so am I ; ha, ha ! then there's more sympathy; you love sack, and so do I ; would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee. Mistress Page, — at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice, — that I love thee. I will not say, pity me ; 't is not a soldier- like phrase: but I say, love me. By me, Thine own true knight, By day or night, Or any kind of light, With all his might For thee to fight, John Falstaff." SCENES AND DIALOGUES 3G3 What a Herod of Jewry is this ! Oh, wicked, wicked world! One that is well nigh worn to pieces with age, to show himself a young gallant ! . . . How shall I be re- venged on him ? for revenged I will be. Enter Mistress Ford Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page ! trust me, I was going to your house. Mrs. Ford. Oh, Mistress Page, give me some counsel ! Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. Mrs. Ford. Oh, Mistress Page, give me some coimsel ! Mrs. Page. What's the matter, woman? Mrs. Ford. Oh, woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honor! Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman ! take the honor. What is it ? dispense with trifles ; what is it ? Mrs, Ford. I could be knighted. Mrs. Page, ^^^lat ? thou liest ! — Sir Alice Ford ! Mrs. Ford. We burn daylight ! — here, read, read ; per- ceive how I might be knighted. . . . How shall I be re- venged on him? . . . Did you ever hear the like? Mrs. Page. Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin brother of thy letter. [Laughs.] I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names. Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us? Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not; it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I '11 entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me, that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury. Let's be re- venged on him: let's appoint him a meeting; give him a show of comfort in his suit and lead him on with fine- baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter. Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him, that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. Oh, that my husband saw this letter! it would give eternal food to his jealousy. 364 SELECTED READINGS Mrs. Page. Why, look where he comes; and my good man too. He 's as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause. Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman. Mrs. Page. Let 's consult together against this greasy knight. [Exeunt.] Shakespeare. Abridged by Anna Morgan. SCENE FROM "TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA " Act I, Scene 2 Verona. The Garden of Julia's House Enter Julia and Lucetta Jul. BUT say, Lucetta, now we are alone, Wouldst thou, then, counsel me to fall in love ? Luc. Ay, madam; so you stumble not unheedfully. Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me. In thy opinion which is worthiest love? Luc. Please you repeat their names, I '11 show my mind According to my shallow simple skill. Jul. What think 'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour? Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine; But, were I you, he never should be mine. Jul. What think 'st thou of the rich Mercatio ? Luc. Well of his wealth; but of himself, so so. Jul. What think 'st thou of the gentle Proteus ? Luc. Lord, Lord ! to see what folly reigns in us ! Jul. How now! what means this passion at his name? Luc. Pardon, dear Madam : 't is a passing shame That I, unworthy body as I am, Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. Jul. WTiy not on Proteus, as of all the rest? Luc. Then thus, — of many good I think him best. Jul. Your reason? Luc. I have no other but a woman's reason; I think him so, because I think him so. Jul. And Avouldst thou have me cast my love on him? SCENES AND DIALOGUES 365 Luc. A3', if 3'oii thought your love not cast away. Jul. AVhy, he, of all the rest, hath never mov'd nie. Luc. Yet he, of all the rest, I think, best loves ye. ,. Jul. His little speaking shows his love but small. ; Luc. Fire that's closest kept burns most of all. Jul. They do not love that do not show their love. Luc. Oh, they love least that let men know their love. 1 Jul. I would I knew his mind. \ Luc. Peruse this paper, madam. (Gives a letter.) \ Jul. [Reads.'] " To Julia." — Say, from whom ? j Luc. That the contents will show. | Jul. Say, say, who gave it thee? j Luc. Sir Valentine's page ; and sent, I think, from Proteus. ! He would have given it you ; but I, being in the way. Did in your name receive it : pardon the fault, I pray, ) Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker ! \ Dare you presume to harbor wanton lines? j To whisper and conspire against my youth? 1 Now, trust me, 't is an office of great worth, ' And you an officer fit for the place. : There, take the paper: see it be return'd; ; Or else return no more into my sight. i Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. j Jul. Will you be gone? Luc. That you may ruminate. [Exit.'] Jul. And 3^et I would I had o'erlook'd the letter: It were a shafne to call her back again, \ And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 1 \Miat fool is she, that knows I am a maid, ,; And would not force the letter to my view! ' Since maids, in modesty, say " No " to that Which they would have the profferer construe, " Ay.'^ 1 Fie, fie, how wa3'ward is this foolish love, j That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse, j And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod ! ! How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, ' When willingly I would have had her here! Plow angerly I taught my brow to frown, When inward joy enforc'd my heart to smile! ; My penance is to call Lucetta back, j And ask remission for my folly past. — : What, ho! Lucetta! ! / 366 SELECTED READINGS Be-enter Lucetta Luc. What would your ladyship ? Jul. Is 't near dinner-time ? Luc. I would it were ; That you might kill your stomach on your meat, And not upon your maid. Jul. ^Vhat is 't that you took up so gingerly? Luc. Nothing. Jul. Why didst thou stoop, then? Luc. To take a paper up that I let fall. Jul. And is that paper nothing? Luc. Nothing concerning me. Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, Unless it have a false interpreter. Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. Luc. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. Give me a note: your ladyship can set. Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible. Best sing it to the tune of "Light o' love." Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune. Jul. Heavy ! belike it hath some burden, then ? _ Luc. Ay ; and melodious were it, would j^ou sing it. Jul. And why not you? Luc. I cannot reach so high. Jul. Let's see your song. [Talcing the letter.] How now, minion! Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out: And yet methinks I do not like this tune. Jul. You do not? Luc. No, madam ; it is too sharp. Jul. You, minion, are too saucy. Luc. Nay, now you are too flat. And mar the concord with too harsh a descant : There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. Jul. The mean is drown'd with your unruly base. Luc. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus. Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. Here is a coil with protestation! — [Tears the letter.'] Go get you gone, and let the papers lie : You would be fingering them, to anger me. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 367 Luc. She makes it strange; but she would be best pleas'd To be so anger'd with another letter. [Exit.] Jul. ^ay, would I were so anger'd with the same ! j Oh, hateful hands, to tear such loving words ! I Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey, '■ And kill the bees that yield it with your stings ! \ I '11 kiss each several paper for amends. ] Look, here is writ — " Kind Julia : " — unkind Julia ! J As in revenge of thy ingratitude, ' I throw thy name against the bruising stones, ! Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. ' And here is writ — " Love-wounded Proteus : " ' Poor wounded name ! — my bosom, as a bed, Shall lodge thee, till thy wound be throughly heal'd : ' And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. ' But twice or thrice was " Proteus " written down : — 1 Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away. Till I have found each letter in the letter, , Except mine own name : that some whirlwind bear ; Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock, I And throw it thence into the raging sea ! — ] Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, — " Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, I To the sweet Julia : " — that I '11 tear away ; i And yet I will not, sitH so prettily ' He couples it to his complaining names. j Thus will I fold them one upon another: | Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. i Re-enter Lucetta : Luc. Madam, i Dinner is ready, and your father stays. ; Jul. Well, let us go. i Luc. "WTiat, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here? j Jul. If you respect them, best to take them up. j Luc. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down : I Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold. Jul. I see you have a month's mind to them. i Luc. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see ; I see things too, although you judge I wink. j Jul. Come, come ; will 't please you go ? [Exeunt.'] i Shakespeare. i 368 SELECTED READINGS DIALOGUE FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT" From Act I, Scene 5 MALVOLIO. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick ; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with 3^ou. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady ? he 's fortified against any denial. Olivia. Tell him he shall not speak with me. Malvolio. Has been told so ; and he says, he '11 stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he '11 speak with you. Olivia. "Wliat kind o' man is he? Malvolio. Why, of mankind. Olivia. What manner of man? Malviolo. Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no. Olivia. Of what personage and years is he? Malvolio. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy ; as a squash is before 't is a peascod, or a codling when 't is almost an apple : 't is with him in stand- ing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favored and he speaks very shrewishly ; one would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him. Olivia. Let him approach: call in my gentlewoman. Malvolio. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [Exit.] Enter Maria Olivia. Give me my veil : come, throw it o'er my face. We '11 once more hear Orsino's embassy. Enter Viola Viola. The honorable lady of the house, which is she? Olivia. Speak to me ; I shall answer for her. Your will ? Viola. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty, — I pray yon, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would be loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Olivia, Whence came you, sir? SCENES AND DIALOGUES 369 YiOLA. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question 's out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. Olivia. Are you a comedian ? Viola. No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house? Olivia. If I do not usurp myself, I am. Viola. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp your- self; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission; I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message. Olivia. Come to what is important in^t. I forgive you the praise. Viola. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 'tis poetical. Olr'ia. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you, keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief ; 't is not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue. Maria. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way. Viola. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. I am a messenger. Olivia. Speak your office. Viola. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage : I hold the olive in my hand ; m}' words are as full of peace as matter. Olivia. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you? Viola. What I am, and what I would, are ... to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation. Olivia. Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity. [Exit Maria.] Now, sir, what is your text? Viola. Most sweet lady, — Olivia. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. WTiere lies your text? Viola. In Orsino's bosom. Olivia. In his bosom ! In what chapter of his bosom? Viola. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart. 24 370 SELECTED READINGS Olivia. 0, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say ? Viola. Good madam, let me see your face. Olivia. Have you any commission from my lord to negotiate with my face ? You are now out of your text ; but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present ; is 't not well done ? [Unveiling.^ Viola. Excellently done, if God did all. Olivia. 'T is in grain, sir ; 't will endure Avind and weather. Viola. 'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on : Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy. Olivia. 0, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted ; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried, and every particle and utensil labelled to my will ; as, item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two gray eyes, with lids to \ them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you ! sent hither to praise me? ! Viola. I see you what you are, — you are too proud; ; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. I My lord and master loves you : 0, such love ■ Could be but recompens'd, though you were crown'd • ,: The nonpareil of beauty ! i Olivia. How does he love me ? Viola. With adorations, fertile tears, '■ With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. I Olivia. Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love : him : | Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, I Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; ; . . . but yet I cannot love him ; ^ He might have took his answer long ago. Viola. If I did love you in my master's flame, i With such a suffering, such a deadly life, \ In your denial I would find no sense; I I would not understand it. j Olivia. Why, what would you? ■] Viola. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, ] And call upon my soul within the house; ; SCENES AND DIALOGUES 371 Write loyal cantons of contemned love, And sing them loud even in the dead of night ; Halloo your name to the reverberate hills. And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out "' Olivia ! " 0, you should not rest Between the elements of air and earth. But you should pity me ! Shakespeare. SCENE FROM " CORIOLANUS " Act I, Scene 3 A Room in Marcius' House [Enier Yolumxia and Virgilia: they sit down on two low stools, and seiv.} VOL. I pray you, daughter, sing; or express yourself in a more comfortable sort : if my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honor than in the embracements where he should show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way; when, for a day of kings' entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding ; I, — considering how honor would become such a person ; that it was no better than picturelike to hang by the wall, if renown made it not stir, — was pleased to let him seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him; from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, — I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man- child, than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man. ViR. But had he died in the business, madam, — how then? Vol. Then his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. Enter a Gentlewoman Gent. ^Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you. ViR. Beseech you, give mc leave to retire myself. 372 SELECTED READINGS I Vol. Indeed you shall not, i Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum. See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair, ; As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him : | Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus, — " Come on, you cowards ! you were got in fear, Though you were born in Eome : " his bloody brow | With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes; I Like to a harvest-man, that 's task'd to mow j Or all, or lose his hire. I ViR. His bloody brow! Jupiter, no blood! i Vol. Away, you fool ! it more becomes a man : Than gilt Ms trophy : The breasts of Hecuba, | When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood i At Grecian sword's contemning. Tell Valeria i We are fit to bid her welcome. [Exit Gent.] i ViR. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius! | Vol. He '11 beat Aufidius' head below his knee, j And tread upon his neck. j Re-enter Gentlewoman, with Valeria and her Usher | Val. My ladies both, good day to you. j Vol. Sweet madam. i ViR. I am glad to see your ladyship. \ Val. How do you both? you are manifest housekeepers. ] What are you sewing here ? A fine spot in good faith. — i How does your little son? j ViR. I thank your ladyship ; well, good madam. ■ Vol. He had rather see the sv^ords, and hear a drum, than i look upon his schoolmaster. ' Val. 0' my word, the father's son : I '11 swear, 't is a i very pretty boy. 0' my troth, I looked upon him o' Wednes- \ day half an hour together : he has such a confirmed coun- | tenance. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly ; and when j he caught it, he let it go again ; and after it again ; and ' over and over he comes, and up again ; catched it again : or i whether his fall enraged him, or how 't was, he did so set his | teeth, and tear it. Oh, I warrant, how he mammocked it ! Vol. One on 's father's moods. ;> Val. Indeed, la, 't is a noble child. Come, lay aside your ] stitchery; I must have you play the idle huswife with me j this afternoon. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 373 Vie. iSTo, good madam; I will not out of doors. Val. Not out of doors ! YoL. She shall, she shall. ViR. Indeed, no, by your patience; I'll not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars. Val. Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably : come, 3^ou must go visit the good lady that lies in. ViR. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my prayers; but I cannot go thither. Vol. Why, I pray you ? ViR. 'T is not to save labor, nor that I want love. Val. You would be another Penelope: yet, they say, all the yam she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come; I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us. ViR. No, good madam, pardon me: indeed, I will not forth. Val. In truth, la, go with me ; and I '11 tell you excellent news of your husband. ViR. Oh, good madam, there can be none yet. Val. Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news from him last night. YiR. Indeed, madam? Val. In earnest, it 's true ; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is : — The Volsces have an army forth ; against whom Cominius the general is gone, with one part of our Eoman power: your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli ; they nothing doubt prevailing, and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honor ; and so, I pray, go with us. ViR. Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in everything hereafter. Vol. Let her alone, lady: as she is now she will but disease our better mirth. Val. In troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then. Come, good sweet lady. IVythee, Virgilia, turn thy sol- eniness out o' door, and go along with us. ViR. No, at a word, madam ; indeed, I must not. I wish you much mirth. Val. "Well, then, farewell. [Exeunt.'\ Shakespeare. 374 SELECTED READINGS SCENE FROM "KING JOHN" Act IV, Scene 1 Scene: Northampton. A room in the castle Enter Hubert and tivo attendants ) Hub. H "EAT me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras : when I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, And bind the boy wliich you shall find with me Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch. First Attend. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples! fear not you: look to't. [Exeunt Attendants.'] Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter Arthur Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. Hub. Good morrow, little prince. Arth. As little prince, having so great a title To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. Arth. Mercy on me! Methinks nobody should be sad but I : Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night. Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, If i were out of prison and kept sheep, I would be as merry as the day is long; And so I would be here, but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me: He is afraid of me, and I of him : Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son? No, indeed, is 't not ; and I would to Heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. Hub. [Aside.] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead: Therefore I will be sudden and despatch. Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day: In sooth, I would you were a little sick. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 375 j That I might sit all night and watch with you : I warrant I love you more than you do me. Hub. lAside.'\ His words do take possession of my bosom. — Eead here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper. 1 [Aside-I How now, foolish rheum ! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. j Can you not read it? is it not fair writ? Aeth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect : Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? ' HcB. Young boy, I must. Akth. And will you? Hub. And I will. Akth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows ■ (The best I had, a princess wrought it me). And I did never ask it you again ; ! And with my hand at midnight held your head; And like the watchful minutes to the hour. Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time, i Saying, " ^\^lat lack you ? " and " Where lies your ; grief ? '* Or "What good love may I perform for you?" ■ Many a poor man's son would have lien still, i And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; i But you at your sick service had a prince. '\ Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, J And call it cunning : do, an if you will : ■ If Heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill, i WTiy, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes? These eyes that never did nor never shall So much as frown on you? '! Hub. I have sworn to do it; ' And with hot irons must I bum them out. Arth. An if an angel should have come to me, And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I woidd not have believed him, — no tongue but Hubert's. j Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.^ ! 376 SELECTED READINGS Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, etc. Do as I bid you do. Arth. Oh, save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. Arth. Alas ! what need you be so boisterous-rough ? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert ! — drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angerly : Thrust but these men away, and I '11 forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. First Attend. I am best pleased to be from such a deed. [Exeunt Attendants. 1 Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend! He hath a stem look, but a gentle heart: Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. Hub. Come boy, prepare yourself. Arth. Is there no remedy ? Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. Heaven! that there were but a motein yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense ! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there. Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. Hub. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue. Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes ; Let me not hold my tongue, — let me not, Hubert ; Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes : oh, spare mine eyes, Though to no use but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold. And would not harm me. Hub. I can heat it, boy. Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief. Being create for comfort, to be used SCENES AND DIALOGUES 377 In undeserved extremes; see else yourself; There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out. And strew'^d repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath 1 can revive it, boy. Aeth. An if you do, you will but make it blush. And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert: Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eye For all the treasure that thine uncle owes; Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. Arth. Oh, now you look like Hubert! all this while You were disguised. Hub. Peace; no more. Adieu. Your uncle must not know but you are dead; I '11 fill these dogg'd spies with false reports : And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure, That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee. [Exeunt.'] Shakespeare. SCENES FROM "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE" POETIA. By my troth, ISTerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world. Neeissa. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are: and yet for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the mean : superfluity comes sooner by white hairs but competency lives longer. Portia. Good sentences, and well pronounced. Neeissa. They would be better, if well followed. Portia. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teach- ing. . . . But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. me, the word " choose ! " I may 378 SELECTED READINGS neither choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none? Nerissa. Your father was ever virtuous; and holy men at their death have good inspirations ; therefore, the lottery, that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead (whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you), will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly but one who shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affec- tion towards any of these princely suitors that are already come ? Portia. I pray thee, over-name them ; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and, according to my descrip- tion, level at my affection. Nerissa. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. Portia. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse ; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself. Nerissa. Then there is the County Palatine. Portia. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say, " If you will not have me, choose." He hears merry tales, and smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping philos- opher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's- head with a bone in his mouth, than to either of these. Heaven defend me from these two ! Nerissa. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon? Portia. Heaven made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. Nerissa. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew? Portia. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober; and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. Nerissa. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him. Portia. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep glass of Ehenish wine on the contrai:y casket j for. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 379 if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge. Nerissa. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords : they have acquainted me with their determina- tions ; which is, indeed, to return to their home, and trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than 3'our father's imposition depending on the caskets. Portia. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my fathers will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reason- able, for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence; and I pray Heaven grant them a fair departure. Nerissa. Do you not remember lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat? Portia. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio: as I think, he was so called. Nerissa. True, madam : he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. Portia. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. [Portia speals to ISTerissa, who observes some one ap' proaching.l How now ! what news ? Nerissa. Lord Bassanio has ta'en his oath, and comes to his election. Enter Bassanio Bassanio. I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things : First, never to unfold to any one "WTiich casket 't was I chose ; Next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage; lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you and begone. Portia. To these injunctions every one doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self. Bassanio. And so have T addressed me. Fortune now To my heart's hope ! Portia. I pray you, tarry : pause a day or two Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong, I lose your company : therefore forbear a while. 380 Bassanio. Bassanio. SELECTED READINGS There 's something tells me, but it is not love, I would not lose you; and you know yourself. Hate counsels not in such a quality. ... I could teach you How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; So will I never be: so may you miss me; But if you do you '11 make me wish a sin, That I had been forsworn. . . . I speak too long; but 't is to peize the time. To eke it, and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election. Let me choose; For as I am I live upon the rack. But let me to my fortune and the caskets. • ■ • • • Some god direct my judgment ! Let me see — " Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire." . . . That " many " may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show. The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being season'd with a gracious voice. Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? • • • ■ • Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea ; . . . . . . Therefore, thou gaudy gold. Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee. "Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves " : And well said too; for who shall go about To cozen fortune and be honorable Without the stamp of merit? . . . Oh, that estates, degrees and offices Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honor Were purchased by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover that stand bare! How many be commanded that command! SCENES AND DIALOGUES 381 . . . and how miicli honor Picked from the chaff and ruin of the times, To be new-varnish'd ! " Much as he deserves/' I '"11 not assume desert. '' Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." I '11 none of thee, thou pale and common drudge [Referring to the gold and silver casJcets.} 'Tween man and man; but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught. Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence; And here choose I. Joy be the consequence! Portia, [Aside.] How all the other passions fleet to air ! love ! be moderate ; allay thy ecstasy ; 1 feel too much thy blessing; make it less, For fear I surfeit. Bassaxio. "What find I here? [Opening casJcet.] The continent and summary of my fortune. Fair Portia's counterfeit ! Here is the scroll [Reads.^ " You that choose not by the view, Chance as fair, and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you. Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleased with this And hold your fortune for your bliss. Turn you where your lady is. And claim her with a loving kiss. A gentle scroll. — Fair lady, by your leave; I come by note, to give and to receive. As doubtful whether what I see be true, Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you. Portia. You sec me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am : though for myself alone, I would not be ambitious in my wish, To wish myself much better; yet, for you I would be trebled twenty times myself; A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times More rich ; 382 SELECTED READINGS That only to stand high in your account, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account: but now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now. This house, these servants, and this same my- self Are yours, my lord. I give them with this ring; Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love And be my vantage to exclaim on you. Bassanio. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; . . . But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence : 0, then be bold to say Bassanio 's dead ! Shakespeare. Arranged hy Anna Morgan. DIALOGUE FROM "MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT " SAIREY GAMP. There ! Now drat you, Betsey, don't be long ! For I can't abear to wait, I do assure you. To wotever place I goes, I sticks to this one mortar, " I 'm easy pleased ; it is but little as I wants ; but I must have that little of the best, and to the minit when the clock strikes, else we do not part as I could wish, but bearin' malice in our arts. There 's the little bell a-ringing now. Betsey Prig — Betsey Prig. Oh! You're a-talkin', are you? "Well, I hope you 've got over what you were sayin', for I an't in- terested in it myself. Sairey G. My precious Betsey, how late you are! Betsey. If perwerse people goes off dead when they is least expected, it an't no fault of mine. It's quite aggra- wation enough to b@ made late when one is dropping for one's tea, without hearing on it again. I know'd she would n't have a cowcumber ! Sairey. Lord bless you, Betsey Prig, your words is true. I quite forgot. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 383 Betsey. [After drawing the ingredients of a salad from Tier pocket.l Say no more, Sairey, but slice 'em up to be eat now, in plenty of vinegar. And don't go a-dropping none of your snuff in it. In gruel, barley-water, apple-tea, mutton-broth, and that, it don't signify. It stimulates a patient. But I don't relish it myself. Sairey. Why, Betsey Prig ! How can you talk so ! Betsey. "Wh^^ an't your patients, wotever their diseases is, always a-sneezin' their wery heads off, along of your snuff? Sairey. And wot if they are ! Betsey. Nothing if they are, but don't deny it, Sairah. Sairey. Who deniges of it? Who deniges of it, Betsey? Betsey, who deniges of it? Betsey. Nobody, if you don't, Sairah. Sairey. Pickled salmon ! Sugar ! A fresh loaf ! Like- ways, a few rounds o' buttered toast, first cuttin' off the crust, in consequence of tender teeth, and not too many of 'em; which Gamp, himself, at one blow, being in liquor, struck out four, two single and two double, as was took by Mrs. Harris for a keepsake, and is carried in her pocket at this present hour, along with two cramp bones, a bit o' ginger, and a grater like a blessed infant's shoe, in tin, with a little heel to put the nutmeg in. Betsey. Lord, Sairah ! How 's old Chuffey ? Sairey. He 's wearing old soul, and that 's the sacred truth, A worritin', wexagious creeter ! I have to shake him by the collar a dozen or two times ofting before he takes any notice at all. There's nothing like shaking to revive 'em, shaking, or bite a person's thumbs, or turn their fingers the wrong way and they comes to wonderful. Lord bless you ! Betsey. Ah ! but what a lovely corpse he 'd make ! Sairey. He 's far from it yet, my dear, takin' his slime draught reg'lr and ventooring to object when I removes his piller, my chair not being soft enough. Ah ! What a blessed thing it is — living in a wale — to be contented ! A^Tiat a blessed thing it is to make sick people happy in their beds, and never mind one's self as long as one can do a service ! I don't believe a finer cowcumber was ever grow'd. I'm sure I never see one. How's Leewsome? Betsey. He looks a deal charminger than when we arc there. lie got out of bed this morning back'ards, cross as 384 SEL,ECTED READINGS two sticks. I never see sich a man. He would n't have been washed, if he 'd had his own way. He said I put soap in his mouth ! " Could n't you keep it shut then ? " says I, " who do you think 's to wash one I'eater, and miss another, and wear one's eyes out with all manner of fine work of that description? If," says I, "you wants to be tittivated, you must pay accordin'." Saieey. Deuce take the man ! Instead of being grateful for all our little ways. Oh, fie for shame, fie for shame ! If it was n't for the nerve a little sip of liquor gives me (I never was able to do more than taste it), I never could go through with what I sometimes have to do. " Mrs. Har- ris," I says, at the very last case as ever I acted in, which it was but a young person, " Mrs. Harris," I says, " leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and don't ask me to take none, but let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged, and then I will do what I 'm engaged to do, according to the best of my ability." " Mrs. Gamp," she says in answer, " if ever there was a sober creetur to be got at eighteen pence a day for working people, and three and six for gentle- folks — night watching being an extra charge — you are that unwalable person." " Mrs. Harris," I says to her, " don't name the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my feller creeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the love I bear 'em. 'No blessed creetur as I ever was with in trying times, and they are many in their numbers, ever brought it as a charge against myself that I was any- thin' but mild and equal in my spirits. IsTever mind a-con- tradicting of me, as you seem to feel it does you good, ma'am, I often says, for well you know that Sairey may be trusted not to give it back again, not that she did, bless her heart, her temper being as sweet as her face, which as I often says to her, " Oh, Mrs. Harris, ma'am ! your coun- tenance is quite an angel's ! " Which, but for Pimples, it would be. [Sairey produces ilie teapot and a couple of wine-gJasses.'\ Sairey. Betsey, I will now propoge a toast. My fre- quent pardner, Betsey Prig ! Betsey. Wliich, altering the name to Sairah Gamp, I drink, with love and tenderness. Now, Sairah, joining busi- ness with pleasure, wot is this case in which you wants me? 7s it Mrs. Harris? Sairey. No, Betsey Prig, it an't. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 385 Betsey. Well ! I 'm glad of that, at any rate. Sairet. Why should you be glad of that, Betsey? She is unbeknown to j^ou except by hearsay, why should you be glad? If you have anythink to say contrairy to the char- acter of Mrs. Harris, which well I knows behind her back, afore her face, or anywheres, is not to be impeaged, out with it, Betsey. I have know'd that sweetest and best of women ever since afore her first, but I have never know'd as you had occagion to be glad, Betsey, on account of IMrs. Harris not requiring you. Eequire she never will, depend upon it, for her constant words in sickness is, and will be, " Send for Sairey ! " Betsey. Well, it an't her, it seems. V^^io is it, then? Sairey. You have heard me mention, Betsey, a person as I took care on at the time as you and me was pardners off and on, in that there fever at the Bull? Betsey. Old Snuffey? Sairey. Chuffey. Mr. Chuffey, Betsey, is weak in his mind. Mr. Chuffey's friends has made proposals for his bein' took care on, and has said to me, " Mrs. Gamp, ivill you imdertake it ? We could n't think," they says, " of trustin' him to nobody but you, for, Sairey, you are gold as has passed through the furnage. Will you undertake it, at your own price, night and day, and by your own self ? " " No," I says, " I will not. Do not reckon on it. There is," I says, " but one creetur in this world as I would un- dertake on sech terms, and her name is Harris. But," I says, " I am acquainted with a friend, whose name is Betsey Prig, that I can recommend, and will assist me. Betsey," I says, " is always to be trusted, under me, and will be guided as I could desire." No, Betsey ! DrinJs fair, wotever you do ! Mrs. Harris, Betsey — Betsey. Bother Mrs. Harris! I don't believe there's no sich a person! Sairey. AVhat! you bage creetur, have I know'd Mrs. Harris five and thirty year, to be told at last that there an't no sech a person livin' ! Have I stood her friend in all her troubles, great and small, for it to come at last to sech a end as this, which her own sweet picter hanghig up afore you all the time, to shame your Bragian words ! But well you may n't believe there 's no sech a creetur, for she would n't demean herself to look at you, and often has she said, when I have made mention of your name, which, to 25 386 SELECTED READINGS my sinful sorrow, I have done, "Wliat, Sairey Gamp! de- bage yourself to her!" Go along with you! Betsey. I 'm a goin', ma'am, an't I ? Sairey. You had better, ma'am. Betsey. Do you know who you 're talking to, ma'am ? Sairey. Aperiently to Betsey Prig. Aperiently so. I know her. No one better. Go long with you! Betsey. And you was a-going to take me under you ! YoiL was, was you! Oh, how kind! Why, deuce take your impertinence, what do you mean? Sairey. Go long with you ! I blush for you. Betsey. You had better blush a little for yourself, while you are about it. You and your Chutfeys 1 What, the poor old creetur is n't mad enough, is n't he ? Aha ! Sairey. He 'd very soon be mad enough, if you had any- think to do with him. Betsey. And that's what I was wanted for, is it? Yes. But you '11 find yourself deceived. I won't go near him. We shall see how you get on without me. I won't have nothink to do with him. Sairey. You never spoke a truer word than that! Go along with you. [Exit Mrs. Prig, whose voice can he heard as she goes down the stairs, proclaiming her injuries and her determination to have nothing to do with Mr. Chuff ey.~\ Sairey. Wot I have took from Betsey Prig this blessed night, no mortial creetur knows! If she had abuged me, bein' in liquor, which I thought I smelt her wen she come, but could not so believe, not being used myself — I could have bore it with a thankful art. But the words she spoke of Mrs. Harris, lambs could not forgive. N"o. Betsey ! nor worms forget ! [Sits on table.] T") T p XT- "p -M" Q Arranged hy Anna Morgan. LITTLE EM'LY From David Copperfield Scene: A Hut ROSA DAETLE. [Fiercely.] So I have found you at last? (c.) I have come to look at you. [Em'ly is afraid of her.] I have come to see John Steerforth's SCENES AND DIALOGUES 387 fancy, — the girl who ran away with him, and is the town- talk of the commonest people of her native place. Em'ly. Have mercy ! EosA. Stay there ! If you try to evade me, I '11 stop you, if it's by the hair of your head, and raise the very stones against you ! Em'ly. Oh ! spare me ! EosA. Bah ! He was but a poor creature, to be taken by that delicate mock-modesty, and that hanging head ! Em'ly. For Heaven's sake, don't ! Whoever you are, you know my pitiful story; and for Heaven's sake spare me, if you would be spared yourself ! EosA. If I would be spared ! What is there in common between me and you, do you think? Em'ly. Nothing! [Weeps.'] ISTothing but our sex. EosA. [Sharply.] Sex! and that is so strong a claim preferred by one so infamous that, if I had any feeling in my breast but scorn and abhorrence of you, it would freeze it up. Our sex ! You are an honor to our sex. Em'ly. I have deserved this — but it's dreadful! [Wrings her hands.] Dear, dear lady, think what I have suffered and how I have fallen. EosA. [Sneering.] Do j'-ou hope to move me by your tears? No more than you could charm me by your smiles, you purchased slave! Em'ly. Oh, show me some compassion or I shall die — die mad! EosA. That would be no great penance for your crime! Do you know what you have done? Do you ever think of the home you have laid waste? Em'ly. [Uncovers her face and stares around her and sobs.] Oh ! Is there ever a night or day Avhen I have n't thought of it? [Throivs herself on her hnees supplicating Jy.] Has there ever been a single minute, waking or sleeping, when it has n't been before me just as it used to be in the lost days when I turned my back upon it? Oh, home, home that I have made desolate I EosA. Your home ! This hovel ! Do you imagine that I bestow a thought on it, or suppose you could do any harm to this low place which money would not pay for, and hand- somely? Your home, ha, ha ! You were a part of the trade of your home, and were bought and sold like any other vendible thing your people dealt in I 388 SELECTED READINGS Em'lt. [IndigTiajitly.'] No, not that! [Rises pi'oudly.'] Say anything of me, but don't visit my shame and disgrace more than I have done on folks who are as honorable as you ! Have some respect for them, as you are a lady, if you have no mercy for me. EosA. I spoke of liis home, where I live. You are a worthy cause of division between lady mother and gentleman son ; of grief in a house where you would n't have been ad- mitted as a kitchen-girl. A piece of pollution, picked up from the water-side, to be made much of, for an hour, and then tossed back to its original place ! Em'ly. No, no ! [Sorrowfully, hut gaining strength as she proceeds.'] When he first came into my life — oh, that the day had never dawned upon me, and he had met me carried to my grave ! — I had been brought up as virtuous as you or any lady, and [Very sadly, hut firmly. ] was going to be the wife of as good a man as you or any lady in the world can ever marry ! If you live in his house, and know him, you know perhaps what his power with a weak, vain girl may be ! [Rosa starts angrily.] I don't defend my- self ; [Shalces her head mournfully.] but I know well, and he knows well, [Forcibly.] or he will know when he comes to die, and his mind is troubled with it, that he used all his power to deceive me, and that I [Sohs.] believed him, trusted him, and — [Slight pause.] loved him ! EosA. [Angrily.] You loved him? You? [Em'ly draws had' from her.] And tell that to me with your shameful lips? Why don't they whip these creatures? If I could order it to be done, I would have this girl whipped to death ! Em'ly. Uncle ! Uncle ! why don't you come ? EosA. Hide yourself somewhere! Let it be in some ob- scure life — or, better still, in some obscure death ! Em'ly. [Sobhing.] Will he never come? Oh, what shall I do? EosA. Do? Die! [Seizing her by the arm.] There are doorways and dust-heaps for such deaths and such despair — find one, and take your flight to heaven ! [Casts her upon the fl.oor, and exit.] Dickens. Adapted by Anna Morgan. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 389 DIALOGUE FROM " DAA^D COPPERFIELD " MISS BETSEY. Go away! Go along! No boys here! David. If you please, ma'am — If you please, aunt — Miss B. Eh? David. If you please, aunt, I am your nephew. Miss B. Oh, Lord ! David. I am David Copperfield, and I have been very unhappy since my dear mama died. She married Mr. Murdstone, and I have been slighted, and taught nothing, and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away to 3'ou. I was robbed at first setting out, and have walked all the way, and have never slept in a bed since I began the journey. [il/i'ss Trotwood administers restoratives, ejaculating " Mercy on us!" at intervals. She rings the bell.} Miss B. Janet, go up stairs, give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and say I wish to speak to him. \_Administers to David.l Enter Mr. Dick Mr. Dick, don't be a fool, because nobody can be more discreet than you can when you choose. We all know that. So don't be a fool, whatever you are. Mr. Dick, you have heard me mention David Copperfield? Now don't pretend not to have a memory, because you and I know bettor. Mr. Dick. David Copperfield? Daui J Copperfield? Oh, yes, to be sure. David, certainly. Miss B. Well, this is his boy, his son. Mr. Dick, His son ? David's son ? Indeed ! Miss B. Yes, and he has done a pretty piece of business. He has run away, and the question I put to you is, what shall I do with liim? ^Ir. Dick. Wliat shall you do with him? Oh! do with him ? Miss B. Yes, come! I want some very sound advice. Mr. Dick. Why, if I was you, I should — I should wash him ! Miss B. Janet, Mr. Dick sets us all right. Iloiit the bath! \ Janet leaves the room and Miss Betsey, looting out of the window, calls.~\ 390 SELECTED READINGS Miss B. Janet ! Donkeys ! [Exeunt Janet and Miss J?.] Mr. Dick. Ha ! Phoebus ! How does the world go ? I '11 tell you what, I shoiild not wish it to be mentioned, but it 's a mad world. Mad as Bedlam, boy. You have been to school ? David. Yes, sir, for a short time. Mr. Dick. Do you recollect the date when King Charles the First had his head cut off? David. I believe, sir, that it was in 1649. Mr. Dick. Well, so the books say; but I don't see how that can be. Because, if it was so long ago, how could the people about him have made that mistake of putting some of the trouble out of liis head, after it was taken off, into mine ? It 's very strange that I never can get that quite right. But no matter, no matter ! What do you think of that for a kite? David. It 's a beautiful one. Mr. Dick. I made it. Do you see this ? It 's all cov- ered with writing. There 's plenty of string, and when it flies high, it takes the facts a long way. That's my man- ner of diffusing 'em. I don't know where they may come down. I take my chance of that. I must go to work now ; some day we '11 fly it. [Sxit Mr. D. and enter Miss Betsey.'] Miss B. Well, child, what do you think of Mr. Dick? Come, be as direct as you can, and speak out. David. Is he — is Mr. Dick — I ask because I don't know, aunt, is he at all out of his mind, then? Miss B. Not a morsel ! David. Oh, indeed! Miss B. If there 's anything in the world that Mr. Dick 's not, it 's that. He has been called mad, and nice people they were M^ho had the audacity to call him mad. But I stepped in and made them an offer. Let him have his little income and come to live with me. / am not afraid of him. After a good deal of squabbling I got him; and he has been with me for ten years and upwards. He is the most friendly and amenable creature in existence; and as for advice ! But nobody knows what that man's mind is, except myself — Janet ! Donkeys ! Go along with you ! You have no business here. How dare you trespass? Go along! Oh, you bold-faced thing! David. Oh, aunt! It is Mr. Murdstone and his sister! Miss B. I don't care who it is! I won't be trespassed SCENES AND DIALOGUES 391 upon. I won't allow it. Go away ! Janet, turn him round. Lead him of! ! David. Shall I go away, aunt? Miss B. Iso, sir, certainly not! [Enter Mr. and Miss Murdsione.] Oh, I was not aware at first to whom I had the pleasure of objecting. But I don't allow anybody to ride over that turf. I make no exceptions. I don't allow anybody to do it. Miss Murdstoxe. Your regulation is rather awkward to strangers. Miss B. Is it? Mr. Murdstone. Miss Trotwood! Miss B. I beg your pardon. You are the Mr. Murdstone who married the widow of mv late nephew, David Copper- field? Mr. M. I am. Miss B. You will excuse my saying, sir, that I think it would have been a much happier thing if you had left that poor child alone. Miss M. I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked, that I consider our lamented Clara to have been, in all essential respects, a mere child ! Miss B. It's a comfort to me and to you, ma'am, who are getting on in life, and are not likely to be made un- happy by our personal attractions, that nobody can say the same of us. Miss M. Xo doubt! And it certainly might have been better for my brother if he had never entered into such a marriage. I have always been of that opinion. Miss B. I have no doubt you have. [Ringing the hell] Janet, my compliments to Mr. Dick, and beg him to come down. [Enter Mr. Did'.] Miss B. Mr. Dick, an old and intimate friend, on whose judgment I rely. Mr. M. I thought best, Miss Trotwood. to follow this unhappy boy who has run away from his friends and his occupation, to follow in person instead of writing, as I considered it an act of greater justice to myself, and per- haps of more respect to you — Miss B. Thank you. You need n't mind me. Miss M. His appearance is perfectly scandalous and dis- graceful. Me. M. JaDfrt Murdstone, have the goodness not to 392 SELECTED READINGS interrupt me. This unhappy boy has been the occasion of much domestic trouble. He has a sullen, rebellious spirit; a violent temper, and an untoward and intractable dispo- sition. Both my sister and myself have endeavored to cor- rect his vices, but ineffectually. And I have felt — we both have felt, I may say, my sister being fully in my confidence — that it is right you should receive this grave and dis- passionate assurance from our lips. Miss M, It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm anything stated by my brother, but I beg to remark that, of all the boys in the world, I believe this is the worst boy. Miss B. Strong! Miss M. But not too strong for the facts. Miss B. Ha! Well, sir? Mk. M. I am here. Miss Trotwood, to take David back — to take him back unconditionally; to dispose of him as I think proper, and to deal with him as I thing right. I am not here to make any promise, or give a pledge to any- body. You may have some idea of abetting him in his running away. Your manner, which I must say does not seem intended to propitiate, induces me to think it possible. If you step in between him and me now, you must step in, Miss Trotwood, forever. I cannot trifle or be trifled with. Is he ready to go? Miss B. Well, ma'am, have j^ou got anytliing to re- mark? Miss M. Indeed, Miss Trotwood, all that I could say has been so well said by my brother that I have nothing to add except my thanks for your politeness, I am sure. Miss B. And what does the boy say? Are you ready to go, David? David. Oh, no, no. Please, aunt, don't let me go. They always hated me. Please dear, dear aunt, protect me, for my father's sake. Miss B. Mr. Dick, what shall I do with this child? Mr. Dick. Have him measured for a suit of clothes directly. Miss B. Mr. Dick, give me your hand, for your common sense is invaluable. [To Mr. M.] You can go when you like ; I '11 take my chance with the boy. If he is all you say he is, at least I can do as much for him, then, as you have done. But I don't believe a word of it! Mr. M. Miss Trotwood, if you were a gentleman — SCENES AND DIALOGUES 393 Miss B. Bali ! Stuff and nonsense ! Don't talk to me ! Miss M. How exquisitely polite ! Overpowering, really ! Miss B. Do you think I don't know what kind of a life ^•ou must have led your poor, unhappy, misdirected wife? Do you think I don't know what a woful day it was for the soft little creature when you first came in her way — smirk- ing and making eyes at her, I '11 be bound, as if you could n't say boh ! to a goose ? Miss M. I never heard anything so elegant! Miss B. Do you think I can't understand you as well as if I had seen you, now that I do see you and hear you, which I tell you candidly, is anything but a pleasure to me ? Ugh ! Get along with you, do ! Miss M. I never heard anything like this person in my life ! It is either insanity or intoxication, and my suspicion is, that it 's intoxication ! Miss B, Mr. Murdstone, you were a t}Tant and you broke her heart. There is truth for your comfort, however you like it. And you and your instruments may make the most of it. Miss M. Allow me to inquire. Miss Trotwood, whom you are pleased to call in a choice of words in which I am not experienced, my brother's instruments? Miss B. It was clear enough that the poor, soft, little thing would marry somebody at some time or other, but I did hope it wouldn't have been as bad as it turned out. Ay, ay ! You need n't wince ! I know it 's true without that ! Good-day, sir, and good-bye ! Good-day to you, ma'am. Let me see you ride a donkey over my green again, and as sure as you have a head upon your shoulders, I '11 knock your bonnet off, and tread upon it. Dickens. Adapted by Anna Morgan. DIALOGUE FROM "NICHOLAS NICKLEBY " Mrs. N"ickleby and the Mad Neighbor MiiS. N. Ah, if Nicholas knew what his poor, dear papa suffered before we were engaged, when I used to hate him, he would have a little more feeling. Shall I ever forget the morning I looked scornfully at him when he offered to carr}^ my parasol? Or that night when I 394 SELECTED READINGS frowned at him ? It was a mercy he did n't emigrate. It very nearly drove him to it. Kate. Mama, before you were married — Mrs. N. Dear me, Kate, what in the name of goodness graciousness makes you fly off to the time before I was married? You don't seem to take the smallest interest in the garden. Kate. Oh, you know that I do ! Mrs. N. I scarcely ever hear you speak of it, my dear. What was it you were going to say? Kate. About what, mama? Mrs. N". Lor, Kate, my dear, why, you 're asleep or stupid. About the time before I was married. Kate. Oh, yes, I remember. I was going to ask, mama, before you were married, had vou manv suitors? Mrs. N. I had indeed, my dear, not including your poor papa, or a young gentleman who used to go at that time to the same dancing-school and who would send gold watches and gold bracelets to our house in gilt-edged paper (which was always returned), and who afterwards unfor- tunately went out to Botany Bay in a cadet ship — a con- vict ship, I mean — and escaped into the bush and killed sheep and was going to be hung, only he accidentally choked himself and the Government pardoned him. AYhen I was not nearly as old as j'OU, my dear, there was a young gentleman who sat next us at church who used, almost every Sunda}^, to cut my name in large letters in the front of his pew while the sermon was going on. It was gratifying, of course, naturally so, but still it was an annoyance, because the pew was in a very conspicuous place, and he was several times publicly taken out by the beadle for doing it. Then there was young Lukin, — Mogely — Tipslark — Cabbery — Smif ser — Neighbor. Hem ! Kate. Mama, what was that? Mrs. N". Upon my word, my dear, unless it was the gen- tleman belonging to the next house, I don't know what it could possibly — Neighbor. Hem ! Mrs. N. I understand it now, my dear. Don't be alarmed, my love, it 's not directed to you, and it 's not in- tended to frighten anybody. Let us give everybody their due, Kate. I am bound to say that. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 395 Kate. Wliat do you mean, mama? Mrs. N. Don't be flurried, my dear, for you see I 'm not, and if it would be excusable in anybody to be flurried, it certainly would — under all circumstances — be excusa- ble in me, but I am not, Kate, — not at all. Kate. It seems designed to attract our attention, mama. ]\Irs. N. It is designed to attract our attention, my Jear — at least — to attract the attention of one of us. Hem ! You need n't be at all uneasy, my dear. [Had neighbor appears from behind the garden wall.l Kate. Mama! Why do you stop? Why do you lose an instant ? Mama, pray come in ! Mrs. N. Kate, my dear, how can you be so foolish ? I 'm ashamed of you. How do you suppose you are ever to get through life, if 3^ou 're such a coward as this ? Wliat do you want, sir ? How dare you look into this garden ? Neighbor. Queen of my soul, this goblet sip ! Mrs. N. Nonsense, sir. Kate, my love, pray be quiet. Neighbor. Won't you sip the goblet? Oh, do sip the goblet ! Mrs. N. I shall not consent to anything of the kind, sir. Pray begone ! Neighbor. W^hy is it that beauty is always obdurate, even when admiration is as honorable and respectful as mine? Is it owing to the bees, who, when the honey season is over, and they are supposed to have been killed with brimstone, in reality fly to Barbary and lull the captive Moors to sleep with their drowsy songs? Or is it in con- sequence of the statue at Charing Cross having been lately seen, on the Stock Exchange at midnight, walking arm-in- arra with the pump from Aldgate in a riding habit? Kate. Mama, do you hear him? Mrs. N. Hush, my dear, he is very polite, and I think that was a quotation from the poets. Pray don't worry me go — you '11 pinch my arm black and blue. Go away, sir ! Neighbor. Quite away? Oh, quite away? Mrs. N. Yes, certainly. You have no business here. This is private property here, sir; you ought to know that. Neighbor. I do know that this is a sacred and enchanted spot, where the most divine charms M^aft mellifluousness over the neighbors' gardens, and force the fruit and vege- tables into premature existence. That fact I am acquainted with. But will you permit me, fairest creature, to ask 396 SELECTED READINGS you one question, in the absence of the planet Venus, who has gone on business to the Horse Guards, and would otherwise — jealous of your superior charms — interpose between us ? Mrs. N. Kate, it's very awkward, positively. I really don't know what to say to this gentleman. One ought to be civil, you know. Kate. Dear mama, don't say a word to him, but let us run away as fast as we can, and shut ourselves up until my brother comes home. Mes. jST. If you will conduct yourself, sir, like the gen- tleman I should imagine you to be, from your language and — and — appearance (quite the counterpart of your dear grandpapa, Kate, my dear, in his best days), and will put your question to me in plain words, I will answer it. Neighbor. The question is — Are you a princess ? Mrs. N. You are mocking me, sir. Neighbor. No, but are you? Mrs. N, You know that I am not, sir. Neighbor. Then are you any relation to the Archbishop of Canterbury? or to the Pope of Eome? or the Speaker of the House of Commons? Forgive me if I am wrong, but I was told you were niece to the Commissioners of Paving, and daughter-in-law to the Lord Mayor and Court of Com- mon Council, which would account for your relationship to all three. Mrs. N. Whoever has spread such reports, sir, has taken great liberties with my name, and one which I am sure my son Nicholas, if he was aware of it, would not allow for an instant. The idea! Niece to the Commissioners of Paving. Kate. Pray, mama, come away ! Mrs. N. Pray, mama ! Nonsense, Kate, but that 's just the way. If they had said I was niece to a piping bullfinch, what would you care ? But I have no sympathy — I don't expect it, that 's one thing. Neighbor. Tears! Catch the crystal globules — catch 'em — bottle 'em — cork 'em tight — put sealing wax on the top — seal 'em with Cupid — label 'em " Best Quality " and stow 'em away in the fourteen binn, with a bar of iron on the top to keep the thunder off! Cormoran and Blun- derbore ! She is come ! Where are grace, beauty and blandishments like these? In the Empress of Madagascar? No. In the Queen of Diamonds? No. Melt all these down into one with the three graces, the nine Muses, and fourteen SCENES AND DIALOGUES 397 biscuit-makers' daughters from Oxford Street, and make a woman half as lovely. Pho ! I defy 3'ou ! No. In Mrs. Row- land, who every morning bathes in Kalydor for nothing? Beautiful madam, if I have made any mistake with re- gard to your family or connections, I humbly beseech you to pardon me. If I supposed you to be related to Foreign Powers or Native Boards, it is because you have a manner, a carriage, a dignity, which you will excuse my saying that none but yourself (with the single exception, perhaps, of the Tragic Muse when playing extemporaneously on the barrel organ before the East India Company) can parallel. I am not a youth, ma'am, as you see; and although beings like you can never grow old, I venture to presume that we are fitted for each other. Mrs. N. Really, Kate, my love ! Neighbor. I have estates, ma'am, jewels, lighthouses, fish-ponds, a whalery of my own in the North Sea, and several oyster-beds of great profit in the Pacific Ocean. If you will have the kindness to step down to the Royal Ex- change and to take the cocked hat off the stoutest beadle's head, you will find my card in the lining of the crown, wrapped up in a piece of blue paper. My walking stick is also to be seen on application to the chaplain of the House of Commons, who is strictly forbidden to take any money for showing it. I have enemies about me, ma'am, who at- tack me on all occasions and wish to secure my property. If you bless me with your hand and heart, you can apply to the Lord Chancellor, or call out the military if necessary, — sending my toothpick to the Commander-in-Chief will be sufficient — and so clear the house of them before the cere- mony is performed. After that, love, bliss, and rapture ; rap- ture, love, and bliss. Be mine, be mine! Bo mine, be mine! Mrs. N. Kate, my dear, I have hardly the power to speak ; but it is necessary for the happiness of all parties that this matter should be set at rest for ever. Kate. Surely there is no necessity for you to say one word, mama? Mrs. N. You will allow me, my dear, if you please, to judge for myself. Neighbor. Be mine ! Be mine ! Mrs. N. It can scarcely be expected, sir, that I should tell a stranger whether I feel flattered and obliged by such proposals or not. They certainly are made under very singular 398 SELECTED READINGS circumstances ; still, at the same time, as far as it goes, and to a certain extent, of course, they must be gratifying and agreeable to one's feelings. Neighbor. Be mine ! mine ! Gog and Magog, Gog and Magog. Be mine ! Be mine ! Mrs. N. It will be sufficient for me to say, sir, and I 'm sure you '11 see the propriety of taking an answer and going away — that I have made up my mind to remain a widow, and to devote myself to my children. You may not suppose I am the mother of two children — indeed, many people have doubted it, and said that nothing on earth could ever make 'em believe it possible — but it is the case, and they are both grown up. We shall be very glad to have you for a neighbor — very glad ; delighted, I 'm sure — but in any other character it's quite impossible, quite. As to my being young enough to marry again, that perhaps may be so, or it may not be ; but I could n't think of it for an in- stant, not on any account whatever. I said I never would, and I never will. It 's a very painful thing to have to re- ject proposals, and I would much rather that none were made ; at the same time, this is the answer that I determined long ago to make, and this is the answer I shall always give. [jT/ie mad neighbor is hy this time on the top of the wall, and at this point in the conversation hands appear and clasp his anlcles.^ Neighbor. It's you, is it? Gardener. Yes, it 's me. Neighbor. How 's the Emperor of Tartary ? Gardener. Oh ! he 's much the same as usual ; no better and no worse. Neighbor. The young Prince of China, is he reconciled to his father-in-law, the great potato salesman ? Gardener. No, and he says he never will be, that 's more. Neighbor. If that 's the case, perhaps I 'd better come down. Gardener. "Well, I think you had, perhaps. [The mad neighbor disappears behind the wall, his place being presently taken by the gardener.'] Gardener. Beg your pardon, ladies. Has he been mak- ing love to either of you? Kate. Yes. Gardener. Ah, he always will, jou know. Nothing will prevent his making love. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 399 Kate. I need not ask if he is out of his mind, poor creature. Gardener. "Why, no. That 's pretty plain, that is. Kate. Has he been long so? Gardener. A long while. Kate. And is there no hope for him? Gardener. Xot a bit, and don't deserve to be. He 's a deal pleasanter without his senses than with 'em. He was the cruellest, wickedest, out-and-outerest old flint that ever drawed breath. Kate. Indeed ! Gardener. By George ! I never came across such a vaga- bond, and my mate says the same. Broke his poor wife's heart, turned his daughters out of the doors, drove his sons into the streets — it was a blessing he went mad at last, through evil tempers, and covetousness, and selfishness, and guzzling, and drinking, or he 'd have drove many others so. Hope for him, an old rip ! There is n't too much hope go- ing, but I '11 bet a crown that what there is, is saved for more deserving chaps than him, any how. [Exit gardener.] Kate. Poor creature ! Mrs. N. Ah, poor indeed ! It 's shameful that such things should be allowed — shameful ! Kate. How can they be helped, mama? The infirmities of nature — Mrs. N. Nature ! What ! Do you suppose this poor gen- tleman is out of his mind ? He is nothing of the kind and I am surprised you can be so imposed upon. He may be a little odd and flighty, perhaps, — many of us are that ; but downright mad ! And express himself as he does, respect- fully and in quite poetical language, and making offers with so much thought and care and prudence — not as if he ran into the streets and went down upon his knees to the first chit of a girl he met, as a madman would ! No, no, Kate — there 's a great deal too much method in his madness ; de- pend upon that, my dear. [Mad neighbor appears again from behind the tvall.l Neighbor. Avaunt — Cat ! Mrs. X. Sir! Neighbor. Cat! Puss, Kit, Tit, Grimalkin, Tabby, Brindle — Whoosh ! Dickens. Arranged by Anna Morgan. 400 SELECTED READINGS DIALOGUE FROM "THE PICKWICK PAPERS" SAM WELLEE. My fayther, ven will he be here? Barmaid. He won't be here this three-quarters of an hour or more. Sam. Wery good, my dear. Let me have nine penn'orth o' brandy and water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss? l^Sam writes painfully for a few moments, then rings for the barmaid. She brings him another glass of brandy, and then — ] Barmaid. There 's a gentleman asking for Doctors' Com- mons. Could you tell me where they are? Sam. You ought to know that, my dear. Low archway on the carriage side, bookseller's at one corner, hotel on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licenses. Barmaid. Touts for licenses? Sam. Don't pretend, my dear, that you don't know wot that means ! A bad lot they is, too. They put things into old gen'lem'ns' heads as they never dreamed of. My father was a coachman and his missus died and leaves him four hundred pounds. Down he goes to the Commons to see the lawyer and draw the blunt — wery smart — top boots on — nosegay in his buttonhole — broad-brimmed tile — green shawl — quite the gen'lem'n. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money — up comes a touter, touches his hat, " License, sir ? " " What license," says my father. " Marriage license," says the touter. '' Dash my veskit," says my father, " I never thought o' that. Damme, I 'm too old, b'sides I 'm a many sizes too large." " Not a bit of it," says the touter. " This way, sir, this way ! " and, sure enough, my father walks arter him like a tame monkey behind the horgan. " What 's the lady 's name ? " says the lawyer. " Blessed if I know, no more nor you do," says my father, " but put down Mrs. Clarke, Susan Clarke, Markis O'Granby, Dorking; she'll have me if I ask, I des-say." The license was made out and she did have him, and wot 's more she 's got him now, and I never had any of the four hundred pounds, worse luck. Wot was it you wanted to know, my dear? Barmaid. Here 's the old gentleman. Tony Weller. Veil, Sammy. Sam. Veil, my Prooshan Blue. What 's the last bulletin about mother-in-law ? SCENES AND DIALOGUES 401 ToxT. Mrs. "Weller passed a wery good night, but is un- common perwerse and unpleasant this mornin', — signed upon oath, S. AYeller, Esq., Senior. That's the last vun as was issued, Sammv. Sam. No better yet ? ToxY. All the symptoms aggerawated. Vy, I tell you what, Samm}', there never was a nicer woman as a widder than that 'ere second wentur o' mine — a sweet creetur she was, Sammy; all I can say on her now is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasant widder, it 's a great pity she ever changed her condition. She don't act as a vife, Sammy. Sam. Don't she, though ? ToxY. I 've done it once too often, Sammy ; I 've done it once too often. Take example by your father, my boy, and be wery careful o' widders all your life, specially if they 've kept a public house, Sammy. She 's been gettin' rayther in the Methodistical order lately, Sammy ; and she 's uncommon pious, to be sure. She's too good a creetur for me. I feel I don't deserve her. Sam. Ah, that's wery self-denyin' o' you. ToxY. Wery. She's got hold o' some inwention for grown-up people being born again, Sammy — the new birth, I thinks they calls it. I should wery much like to see your mother-in-law born agin. Would n't I put her out to nurse ! What do you think them women does t' other day ? What do you think thev does, f other dav, Sammy? Sam. Don't know. A^Tiat? Tony. Goes and gets up a grand tea-drinkin' for a feller they calls their shepherd. I dresses myself out wery smart, and off I goes vith the old 'ooman, and up we valks into a furst floor where there was tea things for thirty and a lot of old women as begins whisperin' to one another as if they 'd never seen a rayther stout gen'lem'n of eight-and-fifty afore. By and bye, there comes a great bustle and a lanky chap witli a red nose, called Stiggins, rushes in, and sings out " TTere is a shepherd a-comin' to visit his faithful flock " ; and in comes a fat chap a-smilin' avay like clock-work. "The kiss of peace," says the shepherd, and then he kissed the women all round, and ven he 'd done, the man with the red nose began. I was just a-thinkin' whether I had n't better begin too, ven in comes the tea. At it they went, tooth and nail ; I wish you could have scon the shepherd walkin' into the ham and muffins. I never see such a chap to eat and drink, never. 26 402 SELECTED READINGS The red-nosed man war n't by no means the sort of person you'd like to grub by contract, but he was nothin' to the shepherd. Then the shepherd began to preach, and wery well he did it, considerin' how heavy them muffins must have lied on his chest. Presently they all began to groan, and he says, " Where is the sinner ? Where is the mis'rable sinner ? " " My friend," says I, " did you apply that e're obserwation to me ? " 'Stead of beggin' my pardon, as any gen'lem'n would ha' done, he called me a wessel, Sammy, a wessel of wrath. So my blood being reg'larly up, I give him two or three for himself and walked off. I wish you could ha' heard how the women screamed ven they picked up the shepherd from under the table. This here red-nosed man, Sammy, visits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy as I never see equalled. He 's sech a friend o' the family, that ven he 's away from us, he can't be comfortable unless he has somethin' to remember us by. Sam. And I 'd give him somethin' as 'ud turpentine and bees'-wax his memory for the next ten years or so, if I wos you. Tony. Stop a minute. I wos a-goin' to say, he always brings now a flat bottle as holHs about a pint and a half and fills it with pineapple rum afore he goes avay. Sam. And empties it afore he comes back, I s'pose ? Tony. Clean ! never leaves nothin' in it but the cork and the smell. Sam. I 've only got to say this here, that if I was the properiator o' the Markis o' Granby, and that 'ere Stiggins came and sat in my bar — Tony. What? What? Sam. I 'd pison his rum and water. Tony. No ! would you raly, Sammy ? would you, though ? Sam. I would. I would n't be too hard on him at first. I 'd drop just him into the water-butt, and put the lid on ; and if I found he was insensible to kindness, I 'd try the other persvasion. [*S'am tahes a drink of ale.^ Tony. Wery good power o' suction, Sammy. You 'd ha' made a uncommon fine oyster, Sammy, if you 'd been born in that station o' life. Sam, Yes, I des-say I should ha' managed to pick up a respectable livin'. Tony. I 'm wery sorry to hear as you let yourself be gammoned by that 'ere mulberry man. I always thought, up SCENES AND DIALOGUES 403 to three days ago, that the names of Veller and gammon could never come in contact, Sammy, never. Sam. Always exceptin' the case of a widder, of course. ToxT. Widders, Sammj', are 'ceptions to ev'ry rule. I have heerd how many ord'nary women one widder 's equal to, in pint o' comin' over you. I think it 's five-and-twenty, but I don't rightly know vether it ain't more. Sam. Well, that's pretty well. ToxT. Besides, that 's a wery different thing. You know what the counsel said, Sammy, as defended the gen'lem'n as beat his wife with a poker, venever he got jolly. " And arter all, my lord," says he, " it 's a amiable weakness." So I says respectin' widders, Sammy, and so you '11 say ven you gets as old as me. Vy, your governor, Sammy, he 's not free from it. He's going to be tried to-morrow for breach of promise, ain't he ? and ain't it a widder ? But wot 's that you 're a-doin' of — pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, — eh, Sammy ? Sam. I 've done now. I 've been a-writin'. Tony. So I see. Not to any young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy. Sam. A\Tiy, it 's no use sayin' it ain't. It 's a walentine. ToxY. A what? Sam. A walentine. ToxY. Samivel, Samivel, I did n't think you 'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you 've had o' your father's wicious perpensities ; arter all I 've said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought wos a moral lesson as no man could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' day ! I did n't think you 'd ha' done it, Sammy, I did n't think you 'd ha' done it ! Sam. Wot 's the matter, now ? ToXY. Nev'r mind, Sammy, it'll be a wery agonizin' trial to me at my time o' life, but I 'm pretty tough, that 's vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked ven the farmer said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market. Sam. Wot '11 be a trial ? Tony. To see you married, Sammy — to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital. It 's a dreadful trial to a father's fcelin's, that 'ere, Sammy. 404 SELECTED READINGS Sam. Nonsense. I ain't a-goin' to get married, don't you fret yourself about that; I know you're a judge o' these things. I '11 read you the letter, — there. Sam. "Lovely — " Tony. Stop. A double glass o' the inwariable, my dear. Barmaid. Very well, sir. Sam. They seem to know your ways here. Tony. Yes, I 've been here before, in my time. Go on, Sammy. Sam. " Lovely creetur." Tony. Tain't in poetry, is it? Sam. No, no. Tony. Wery glad to hear it. Poetry 's unnat'ral ; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy. Sam. " Lovely creetur, I feel myself a damned — " Tony. That ain't proper. Sam. No ; it ain't " damned " ; it 's " shamed." There 's a blot there. " I feel myself ashamed." Tony. Wery good. Go on. Sam. "Feel myself ashamed and completely cir — " I forget wot this here word is. Tony. \Vhy don't you look at it, then ? Sam. So I am a-lookin' at it, but there 's another blot. Here 'sac and a i and a d. Tony. " Circumwented," p'raps. Sam. No, it ain't that. " Circumscribed " ; that 's it. Tony. That ain't as good a word as "circumwented," Sammy. Sam. Think not? Tony. Nothin' like it. Sam. But don't you think it means more? Tony. Veil, p'raps it is a more tenderer word. Go on, Sammy. Sam. " Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it." Tony. That 's a wery pretty sentiment. Sam. Yes, I think it is ra}i;her good. Tony. Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin' is that there ain't no callin' names in it, — no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind. Wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy? Sam. Ah ! what, indeed ? SCENES AND DIALOGUES 405 Tony. You might jist as veil call her a griffin, or a uni- corn, or a king's arms at once, which is wery veil known to be a col-lection o' fabulous animals. Sam. Just as well. Toxy. Drive on, Sammy. Sam. " Afore I see you I thought all women was alike." Tony. So they are. Sam. " But now I find what a regular soft-headed, ink- red'lous turnip I must ha' been ; for there ain't nobody like you though / like you better than nothin' at all." ( I thought it best to make that rayther strong.) " So I take the privi- lidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as the gen'lem'n in diffi- culties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my heart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen, altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by and all in two minutes and a quarter." Tony. I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy. Sam. No, it don't. " Except of me, Mary, my dear, as your walentine and think over what I 've said. My dear Mar)'-, I will now conclude." That's all. Tony. That 's rather a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy ? Sam. Not a bit on it. She '11 vish there wos more, and that 's the great art o' letter writin'. Tony. Well, there 's somethin' in that ; and I wish your mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same genteel principle. Ain't you a-goin' to sign it ? Sam. That 's the difficulty. I don't know what to sign it. Tony. Sign it " Veller." Sam. Won't do. Never sign a walentine with your own name. Tony. Sign it " Pickvick," then. It 's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell. Sam. The wery thing. I could end it with a werse; what do you think? Tony. I don't like it, Sam. I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made a affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery. Sam. This sounds fine, though. " Your love-sick Pickwick." 406 SELECTED READINGS Tony. I must be a-goin', Sammy. Vot I came 'ere to see you about vos your governor. If he does get in prison I 've the thought o' a vay of gettin' him out in a turn-up bedstead, unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy, or dressin' him up like an old 'ooman vith a green wail. Sam. That would n't do at all. Tony. Me and a cab'net-maker has dewised a plan for gettin' him out. A planner, Samivel, a planner. Sam. Wot do you mean? Tony. A planner forty, Samivel, as he can have on hire; vun as von't play, Sammy. Sam. And wot 'ud be the good o' that ? Tony. Let him send to my friend the cab'net-maker's to fetch it back, Sammy. Are you avake now? Sam. No. Tony. There ain't no vurks in it. It 'ud hold him easy, vith his hat and shoes on, and breathe through the legs, vich is holler. Have a passage ready taken for 'Merriker. The 'Merrikin gov'ment vill never give him up, ven vunce they finds as he 's got money to spend, Sammy. Let him stop there till the widder is dead, and then let him come back and write a book about the 'Merrikins as '11 pay all his expenses and more, if he blows 'em up enough. Sam. But he ain't in prison yet, you old picter-card. He ain't tried till to-morrow. Tony. That 's true, Sammy, but it 's against a widder and he 's sure to lose. Howsomeever, I 've been a-tumin' the bus'- ness over in my mind. I s'pose he '11 want to call some wit- nesses to speak to his character, or p'raps to prove a alleybi, and he may make his-self easy. I 've got some friends as '11 do either for him, but my adwice 'ud be this here, — never mind the character, and stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing. Verever he 's a-goin' to be tried, my boy, a alleybi 's the thing to get him off. A alleybi, Sammy, a alle)^bi. Dickens. Arranged by Anna Morgan. SCENE FROM "THE MIGHTY DOLLAR" LOED CAIENGOEME. Well, madam, to resume our conversation. I contend that the American women are the prettiest in the world. It is very remarkable, you SCENES AND DIALOGUES 407 know, when you come to think of it — what a country you are, and what a short time you have had to become so pretty. Only think of it, two hundred years ago 3fou were red sav- ages, going about with feathers and tomahawks, and very little else. It 's astonishing, you know. You are not called a go-ahead country for nothing. Mrs. Gilflory. Vous ate trop hong; excuse me, my lord, for dropping so suddenly into French, but I 've lived so long abroad that it has become second nature to me. [Turning to her niece Libhi/, who is up the stage flirting with Charlie Brood.^ Libby, Libby dear, what are you doing? Excuse me, my lord, but that niece of mine has quite embarrassed me. I know you will excuse me, my lord; but, as I was saying, — Libby, Libby dear ! — Oh, she has driven what I was about to say completely out of my head. Excuse me, my lord, excuse me. Lord C. Really, if you would n't call me " my lord," you would oblige me very much. I feel that I am among simple republican people who set no value on titles except Judge, Mayor, Colonel, or General, and I feel sadly em- barrassed when I am addressed according to the custom of my own country. If you would only call me General or Judge, you don't know how much obliged I would be. Mrs. G. Qu£l plaisanterie I Excuse me, I 've lived so long abroad — but do not feel embarrassed, I beg. Our best society rather fancies lords. You would say so too, if you could see how it runs after them. Lord C. Now tell me, what are your theories about the equality of man? Mrs. G. Oh, we're not talking so much about that as we were — many of our best families feel so much better than their fellow-citizens that they would not object to wearing titles themselves, just to show the distinction. Say vray, my lord, say vray. Enter the Honorable Bardwell Slote Slote. You will excuse me, Mrs. General Gilflory. What you say may be quite true, but I flatter myself I am as good as any lord, by an a. 1. m. — a large majority. Lord C. I dare say you do. You look like one of the kind who think themselves better. [Aside.'] Another re- markable product for a young country. Slote. Well, Mrs. General Gilflory, we missed you from 408 SELECTED READINGS the ballroom — why, what 's the matter ? You seem an- noyed. Mrs. G. And I don't wonder at it. Libby gives me such a world of trouble. I wish she 'd venny seci. — Excuse my French, I 've lived so long abroad. Slote. Oui ? Mrs. G. Oh, do you speak French? Slote. Ong pew. I prefer English, by a large majority. Mrs. G, Oh, what a delightful language it is ! How poet- ical even the commonest things sound in it ! Pom de tare — oil, natural ! How different that sounds from boiled potatoes ! Slote. So it does; but then the potatoes taste the same in both languages, and there's where the potatoes have got the best of it, I think. Mrs. G. Well, to return to our muttons. Libby gives me such a world of trouble. Her mother being dead, I am her only protector. Sa sel protectress. I can't do anything with her; she will insist upon remaining unfashionable in spite of all my efforts to make her a woman of tong. She 's been all over Europe with me. Slote. So she 's been all over Europe with you, has she ? Mrs. G. Yes, she has seen the Colloshum at Naples; the Parthenian in London, and the Bridge of Sighs at Mt. Vesuvius, but she won't be refined. Sai triste, nes parf Slote. Of course, when you were abroad you visited the Dardanelles ? Mrs. G. Oh, yes ; we dined with them. — But she won't be refined. Sai triste, nes par? Slote. Oui. Mrs. G. Libby, Libby dear ! Oh, dear me, how she does annoy me ! It 's a maxim of mine that une wa-so don la mang vot de se larum. Slote, So I perceive. Excuse me, madam, but I did n't quite understand that last remark of yours. Mrs. G. a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Slote. Yes, yes ; if the one in the hand 's a turkey ! Mrs. G. Oh, you droll ! I have done my very best to improve her mind. I have only let her read the very best books, such as Charles Dickson's " David Copperplate," Jack Bunsby's " Pilgrim's Progress," and Tom Moore's " Maladies " ; and to think that after the instruction I have given her she should look no higher than that silly Billy of a man, Mr. Charlie Brood! SCENES AND DIALOGUES 409 Slote. Wliat, that youngster that I saw chasing her about here? Surely, you will never let her marry such a donkey as he is? Mes. G. Why, he is as rich as Creosote. He's worth a million. Slote. Oh, pardon me, madam; when I called him a donkey I did it in a parliamentary sense. [Aside.] I must cultivate the young man's acquaintance. Mes. G. Now, my dear Judge, you must remember that Libby's ancestors came over on the " Cauliflower " and settled on Plymouth Church, therefore I naturally look for somebody with blood to be her husband. Slote. Blood — well, you don't object to some flesh and bones, do you? Mes. G. Oh, you wag! So I have set my mind upon her marrying Lord Cairngorme. Slote."^ Lord Cairngorme — what, he of the eye-glass and shirt collar? Pardon me, madam, for keeping you standing so long. Let me present you with a seat; we can continue our conversation so much more at our ease. Mes. G. [Seated in a rustic chair.] Thank you so much. Judge, bu mo fectro dono. Slote. And so, madam, you tell me you lived in France for many years. Mes. G. Yes, Judge. I lived in Paris long enough to become a Parasite. Libby, Libby dear ! There 's that Libby flirting with Charlie Brood and neglecting Lord Cairn- gorme. Excuse me, Judge. Libby, Libby dear! Benjamin Edv^^aed Woolf. SCENE FROM "THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL" [This selection offers unusual opportunities for the cultivation of the voice and the acquiring of fine deportment.] Act II Sir Peter's House Enter Lady Teazle and Sir Peter, l. SIR P. Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I '11 not bear it ! Lady T. (r.) Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you please ; but I ought to have my own way in every thing ; and what 's more, I will too. What ! though I 410 SELECTED READINGS was educated in the country, I know very well that women of fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they are married. Sir p. [l.] Very well, ma'am, very well — so a husband is to have no influence, no authority? Lady T. Authority ! No, to be sure : — if you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not married me: I am sure you were old enough. Sir p. Old enough ! — ay — there it is. Well, well. Lady Teazle, though my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I '11 not be ruined by your extravagance. Lady T. My extravagance ! I 'm sure I 'm not more extravagant than a woman ought to be. Sir p. No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such unmeaning luxury. 'Slife ! to spend as much to furnish your dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suiflce to turn the Pantheon into a green-house, and give a fete champetre at Christmas. Lady T. Lord, Sir Peter, am I to blame, because flowers are dear in cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not with me. For my part, I 'm sure, I wish it was spring all the year round, and that roses grew under our feet! Sir p. Oons ! madam — if you had been born to this, I should n't wonder at your talking thus ; but you forget what your situation was when I married you. Lady T. No, no, I don't ; 't was a very disagreeable one, or I should never have married you. Sir Peter. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humbler style : — the daughter of a plain country squire. Eecollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a pretty figured linen gown, with a bunch of keys at your side ; your hair combed smooth over a roll, and your apartment hung round with fruits in worsted of your own working. Lady T. yes ! I remember it very well, and a curious life I led. — My daily occupation to inspect the dairy, su- perintend the poultr}^, make extracts from the family receipt book, — and comb my aunt Deborah's lap-dog. Sir p. Yes, yes, ma'am, 't was so indeed. Lady T. And then, you know, my evening amusements ! To draw patterns for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up; to play Pope Joan with the curate; to read a SCENES AND DIALOGUES 411 novel to my aunt; or to be stuck down to an old spinet to strum my father to sleep after a fox-chase. [Crosses, l. Sir p. (k.) I am glad you have so good a memory. — Yes, madam, these were the recreations I took you from; but now you must have your coach — vis-d-vis — and three powdered footmen before your chair; and, in the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you w^ere content to ride double, behind the butler, on a dock'd coach-horse. Ladt T. (l.) No — I swear I never did that: I deny the butler and the coach-horse. Sir p. This, madam, was your situation ; and what have I done for you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank ; in short, I have made you my wife. Lady T. Well, then, — and there is but one thing more you can make me add to the obligation, and that is — Sir p. My widow, I suppose ? Lady T. Hem ! hem ! Sir p. I thank you, madam — but don't flatter yourself ; for though 3'our ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall never break my heart, I promise you: however, I am equally obliged to you for the hint. [Crosses, l. Lady T. Then why will you endeavor to make yourself so disagreeable to me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense ? Sir p. (l.) 'Slife, madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant expenses when you married me ? Lady T. Lud, Sir Peter! would you have me be out of the fashion? Sir p. The fashion, indeed! "Wliat had you to do with the fashion before you married me? Lady T. For my part, I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste. Sir p. Taste — Zounds ! madam, you had no taste when you married me ! Lady T. That 's very true indeed, Sir Peter ; and after hav- ing married you I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's. Sir p. Ay, there's another precious circumstance — a charming set of acquaintance you have made there. Lady T. Nay, Sir Peter, they arc all people of rank and fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation. 412 SELECTED READINGS Sir p. Yes, egad, they are tenacious of reputation with a vengeance: for they don't choose anybody should have a character but themselves ! Lady T, What! would you restrain the freedom of speech ? Sir p. Ah ! they have made you just as bad as any one of the society. Lady T. Wli}^ I believe I do bear a part with a tolera- ble grace. But I vow I bear no malice against the people I abuse. — When I say an ill-natured thing, 't is out of pure good humor; and I take it for granted, they deal ex- actly in the same manner with me. But, Sir Peter, you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too. Sir p. Well, well, I '11 call in just to look after my own character. Lady T. Then indeed you must make haste after me, or you '11 be too late. So, good-bye to ye. [Exit Lady Teazle, r. Sir p. So — I have gained much by my intended ex- postulation: yet, with what a charming air she contradicts everything I say, and how pleasingly she shows her con- tempt for my authority ! Well, though I can't make her love me, there is great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; and I think she never appears to such advantage, as when she is doing everything in her power to plague me. [Exit, L. ElCHARD BrINSLEY ShERIDAN. Abridged by Anna Morgan. SCENE FROM "THE RIVALS" LUCY. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it; I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at. Lydia. [Seated on a sofa.l And could not you get " The Reward of Constancy " ? Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am. Lydia. Nor "The Fatal Connection"? Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am. Lydia. Nor " The Mistakes of the Heart " ? Lucy. Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 413 Ltdia. Heigho ! — Did you inquire for " The Delicate Distress"? or, "The Memoirs of Lady Woodford"? Lucy. Yes, indeed, ma'am, I asked everywhere for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read. Lydia. Heigho ! Well, child, what have you brought me ? Lucy. 0, here, ma'am ! This is " The Man of Feeling " and this " Peregrine Pickle." Here are " The Tears of Sensibility " and " Humphrey Clinker." Lydia. Hold ! Here 's some one coming — Quick, see who it is! Luci'. 0, ma'am, here comes your aunt. Lydia. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick ! Enter Mrs. Malaprop Mrs. M. There sits the deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shilling. Lydia. Madam, I thought you once — Mrs. M. You thought, miss ! I don't know any busi- ness you have to think at all — thought does not become a young woman. But the point I would request of you is, that )^ou will promise to forget this fellow — to illiterate him from your memory. Lydia. Ah, madam ! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget. Mrs. M. But I say it is, miss; there is nothing on earth so eas}' as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I 'm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never existed — and I thought it my duty so to do ; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman. Lydia. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus? Mrs. M. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise me to do as you are bid? Will you take a husband of your friends' choosing? Lydia. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that had I no preference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion. 414 SELECTED READINGS Mrs. M, What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion f They don't become a young woman; and you ought to know that, as both always wear off, 't is safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he 'd been a blackamoor — and yet, miss, you are sensible what a wife I made ! and when it pleased Heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed! But suppose I were to give you another choice, will you promise to give up this Beverley? Lydia. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words. Mes. M. Take yourself to your room. You are fit company for nothing but your own ill humors. Lydia. Willingly, ma'am. I cannot change for the worse. l^Exit.'] Mrs. M. There 's a little intricate hussy for you ! I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a prog- eny of learning. I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman ; for instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning; neither would it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments. — But I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding school, in order to learn a little ingenuity, and artifice. Then she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; above all, she should be a perfect mistress of orthodoxy, that is she might not mispronounce or misspell words so shamefully as girls usually do ; and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she is saying. This is what I would have a woman know, and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it. — Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her from imder my intuition; she has some- how discovered my partiality for Sir Lucius O'Trigger. — Sure, Lucy can't have betrayed me ! — No, the girl is such a simpleton, I should have made her confess it. — Lucy ! — Lucy ! — Enter Lucy Lucy. Did you call, ma'am? SCENES AND DIALOGUES 415 Mrs. M. Yes, girl. Did you see Sir Lucius while you was out? Lucy. No, indeed, ma'am, not a glimpse of him. Mrs. M. You are sure, Lucy, that you never men- tioned — Lucy. Oh, Gemini ! I 'd sooner cut my tongue out ! Mrs. M. "Well, don't let your simplicity be imposed on. Lucy. No, ma'am. Mrs. M. So, come to me presently, and I '11 give j^ou another letter to Sir Lucius; but mind, Lucy, if ever you betray what you are intrusted with (unless it be other people's secrets to me), you forfeit my malevolence for ever; and your being a simpleton shall be no excuse for your locality. Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Abridged by Anna Morgan. DIALOGUE FROM "CRITIC OF THE SCHOOL FOR WIVES" Scene 1 Uraine, Elise UR A^ What ! cousin, has no one come to visit you ? El. No, not a soul. Ura. Really, it does surprise me that we both have been alone all day. El. Well, I 'm surprised myself, for 't is not customary ; your house, thank God, is the usual refuge of all the idlers of the court. Ura. To tell the truth, to me the afternoon seemed very long. El. And I, I thought it short. Ura. Fine minds, they say, love solitude. El. Fine minds, indeed ! You know it was not that I meant. Ura. Well, as for me, I own that I like company. El. I like it too, but then I like it choice. The number of silly visits one has to endure among the rest is often the yery reason why I like to be alone. Ura. Delicacy can only bear the presence of those who arc refined. 416 SELECTED READINGS El. People are too compliant in tolerating with com- posure all sorts of persons. Ura. Well, I enjoy the wise, but I divert myself with all the silly ones. El. Yes, but the silly ones do not get far before they bore you; most of them are not amusing on their second visit. But, apropos of silly people, will you not rid me of your troublesome marquis? You can't expect to leave him on my hands forever, or that I will long endure his ever- lasting punning. Ura. Punning is all the fashion; they think it wit at court. El. Alas for those who strain all day to talk such empty jargon ! A fine thing truly, to drag old jokes, raked from the mud of markets into the palace conversations ! No won- der those who affect that style of language know it is silly. All the worse therefore to take such pains to be so silly and make themselves such sorry jesters knowingly. I think them the less excusable, and if I were judge of the world I know well to what I would condemn such punsters. Ura. Well, let us drop the matter, which nettles you too much. Scene 2 Galopin, Uranie, Elise Gal. Climene is here, madame, and asks to see you. Ura. Oh, Heaven ! what a visit ! El. You grumbled because you were alone, and Heaven has punished you. Ura. \To Gal.] Quick! go and tell her I am not at home. Gal. She has been told already that you are. Ura. What fool said that? Gal. 'T was I, madame. Ura. Little wretch ! I '11 teach you to give answers from yourself. Gal. Then I '11 go tell her, madame, that you say you are out. Ura. Stop, you little animal! Let her come up; the mischief 's done. Gal. She is^ talking still to some one in the street. Ura. \To El.] Ah! cousin, how this visit does annoy me ! Just at this moment, too ! SCENES AND DIALOGUES 417 El. The lady is annoying in herself ; I have always had a furious aversion to her ; and, begging her quality's pardon I think her the silliest fool that ever took to reasoning. Ura. Your epithets are rather strong. ISl. Well, she deserves them all, and more to boot if people did her justice. She is the most affected creature in the world. It really seems as though the structure of her body were out of order, and that her hips, her head, her shoulders were jerked by springs. She affects that languid, silly tone of voice, purses her mouth to make you think it small, and rolls her eyes to make them larger. Uea, Oh ! gently, please ; suppose she heard you ? El. No, she has not come up. I can't forget the night she wanted to see Damon, on the strength of his repute and the fine things the public say of him. You know the man, and his natural laziness in conversation. She invited him to supper as a wit, and never did he seem so stupid; the half-dozen persons she had gathered to enjoy his talk sat gazing at him with round eyes, as though he were a being not like others. They all considered he was there to feed them with hons mots, and that every word that left his lips must be impromptu wit, if he but asked for drink. He fooled them all by silence, and my lady was as much displeased with him as I with her. Ura, Hush, hush ! I am going to receive her at the door. El. Stay, one word more. I 'd like to see her married to that marquis. What a pair 't would be ! Uea. Do be silent ! here she comes. Scene 3 Uranie, Elise, Climene, Galopin Ura. Eeally, you are very late — Cli. Oh ! for pity's sake, my dear, give me a chair at once. Ura. [To Gal.] An armchair, quick ! Cli. Ah, heavens ! Ura. What is it? Cli. I cannot bear it ! Ura. But what's the matter? Cli. My heart is failing ! Ura. Is it hysterics? Cli. Oh! no, no. 27 418 SELECTED READINGS Ura. Shall I unlace you? Cli. Good heavens, no ! — Ah ! Uea. But where 's the pain ? WTien did it seize you ? Cli. Three hours ago — at the Palais Eoyal. Uka. How ? Cli. For my sins, I went to see that wicked rhapsody " The School for Wives." I am fainting still from the nausea that it gave me — I think that I shall not recover for weeks. El. Just see how illness takes us unawares ! Ura. I don't know what our constitutions are, my cousin's and mine, but we both went to see that very play last night, and came back gay and healthy. Cli. What! you have seen it? Ura. Yes, and heard 'it too, from end to end. Cli. My dear! and you did not go into convulsions? Ura. I am not so delicate, thank God ! For my part, I thought the comedy more like to cure its hearers than to hurt them. Cli. Oh ! how can you say so ? How can a person with common sense put forth that proposition ? You cannot, with impunity, fly in the face of reason. Candidly, is there a soul that can relish the mawkish stuff with which that comedy is seasoned ? For myself, I own I could not find a grain of spice in all of it. El. I thought myself the play was good, but madame's eloquence is so persuasive, she turns things in a manner so delightful, that we must all agree in sentiment with her, no matter what our own opinion is. Ura. As for me, I am not so complying. To tell my honest thought, I think that comedy among the best the author has produced. Cli. Ah ! When you say that you make me pity you ; I can't endure that you should have such poor discernment. How can any one possessing virtue find pleasure in a play which keeps our modesty forever in alarm and soils the imagination constantly. El. How charmingly she put it ! You are indeed a cruel critic, madame. Cli. [To Ura.] My dear, correct your judgment. For your own honor's sake, don't tell the world you liked that comedy. Ura. I do not see what you can find there to offend your modesty. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 419 Cli, Alas! the whole of it. I do maintain no honest woman can see that play without confusion. Ura. For my part, I see no harm in it. Cli. So much the worse for you. Ura. So much the better, it seems to me. I look at things on the side they are shown to me ; I do not twist them round to search for what should not be seen. Cli. a woman's virtue — Ura. a woman's virtue is not in cant. It ill becomes her to assume to be more virtuous than those who are truly virtuous. Affectation is worse in this particular matter than in others. I know nothing so ridiculous as this supersensi- tive virtue which finds evil everywhere, supposes criminal meaning in the most innocent words, and takes offence at shadows. Believe me, those who make this great ado are not considered better women. On the contrary, their whispering severity and their affected airs excite the censure of the world against the actions of their lives. People are charmed to find some blame to put upon them. To give you an example: opposite to the box in which we sat to see this comedy were certain women who, by their behavior throughout the play, — hiding their faces, turning away their heads affectedly — excited men to say a hundred slighting things about their conduct, which would not have been said without it. Cli. Ah ! heavens ! say no more ; you cast me into un- utterable confusion. [To Uranie.] Now we are two against you, and obstinacy ill becomes a clever woman. MOLIERE. SCENES FROM "THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII " lONE AND NyDIA Scene: A room in Tone's House. Ione sealed at table, right; two fan girls at hacTc of Ione. Enter slave, left. SLAVE. A messenger from Glaucus desires to be ad- mitted. [Paii^e.^ She is blind. She will do her com- mission to none but thee. Ione. [Speaking to herself.'] What can he want with me? What message can he send? [Slow mtisic; curinin is drawn aside, and Nydia, led by an attendant, enters with noiseless step, bearing a beautiful vase of flowers; 420 SELECTED READINGS remains silent a moment as if listening for some sound to direct her.l Nydia. Will the noble lone deign to speak that I may know whither to steer these benighted steps, and that I may lay my offerings at her feet? loNE. [Soothingly.'] Fair child, give not thyself the pain to cross this slippery floor. My attendant will bring to me what thou hast to present. [Motions handmaid to take vase.~\ Nydia. I may give these flowers to none but thee. [Crosses slowly to Ione, kneels and proffers floivers. Ione takes flowers and places them on table at her side; raises Nydia gently, and attempts to seat Nydia on low stool at her side. Nydia resists.'] Nydia. I have not yet discharged my office. [Takes letter of Gladcus from her hosom.] This will perhaps ex- plain why he who sent me chose so unworthy a messenger to lone. [Ione takes letter with trembling hand, which Nydia de- tects; sighs; stands with folded arms and downcast look before the proud and stately Ione. Submission — Ione waves for attendants to withdraw. Exeunt attendants. Ione gazes upon form of Nydia luith surprise and com- passion; retires to left centre, opens and reads letter.] Ione. Glaucus to lone sends more than he dares to utter. Is lone ill? Thy slaves tell me "No,"' and that assurance comforts me. Has Glaucus offended lone ? Ah ! that ques- tion I may not ask from them. For five days I have been banished from thy presence; thou hast banished also the common flatterers that flock around thee. Canst thou con- found me with them? It is not possible. Have they slan- dered me to thee, lone ? Thou wilt not believe them. Deign to see me, listen to me, and after that exclude me if thou wilt. I meant not so soon to speak, but I love thee. Accept my homage and my vows. One word more — Think not too highly of the Egyptian. Arbaces is not one to be trusted. Believe nothing that he can say to my disfavor. Farewell. [Kisses letter, places it in her bosom, turns to Nydia, who has remained in the same place and the same posture.] Wilt thou sit, my child, while I write an answer to this? Ny^dia. [Coldly.] You will answer it then. The slave that accompanied me will take back your answer. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 421 loNE. Stay with me, Nydia. Trust me, your service shall be light. [Nydia bows her head.^ What is your name, fair girl? Xydia. They call me Xydia. loNE. Your country? Nydia. The land of Olympus-Thessaly. loxE. [Caressingly.] Thou shalt be to me a friend. Meanwhile, I beseech thee, do not stand. [Nydia sits at table.] There, now thou are seated, 1 can leave thee for an instant. [Exit.] Nydia. She loves him. Ah ! what happiness, what bliss to be ever by his side, to hear his voice ! And she can see him. Oh, Glaucus, three happy days of unspeakable de- light have I known since I passed thy threshold; and now my heart tears itself from thee, and the only sound it utters bids me die. Re-enter Tone reading letter " lone to Glaucus, greeting : Come to me, Glaucus ; come to-morrow. I may have been unjust to thee, but I will tell thee at least the fault that has been imputed to thy charge. Henceforth fear not the Egyptian; fear none. Thou sayest thou hast expressed too much, — alas, in these hasty words I have already done so. Farewell." Nydia. [Starting from her seat.] You have written to Glaucus? loNE. I have. Nydia. And will he thank the messenger who gives to him thy letter? [Pausing and speaJcing in a calmer to7ie.] The lightest word of coldness from thee will sadden him; the liglitest kindness will rejoice. If it be the first, let the slave take back thy answer. If it be the last, let me. lONE. [Evasively.] And why wouldst thou be the bearer of my letter? Nydia. It is so, then. Ah ! how could it be otherwise ? Who could be unkind to Glaucus? loNE. [With reserve.] My child, thou speakest warmly. Glaucus, then, is amiable in thine eyes? Nydia. Noble Tone, Glaucus has been to me what neither Fortune nor the gods have been — a friend. Tone. [Bending down and hissing A^ydia.] Thou art grateful, and deservedly so. Why should T blush to say tliat Glaucus is worthy of thy gratitude? Go, my Nydia; take 422 SELECTED READINGS to him thyself this letter; but return again. Nydia, I have no sister; wilt thou be one to me? ISTydia. [Embarrassed, kissing Ione's hand.'] One boon, fair lone, may I dare to ask it? loNE. Thou canst not ask what I will not grant. Nydia. They tell me that thou art beautiful beyond loveliness of earth. Alas, I cannot see that which gladdens the world. Wilt thou suffer me then to pass my hand over thy face ? That is my sole criterion of beauty, and I usually guess aright. [Without waiting for a reply Nydia passes her hand over Ione's face, hrotv, hair, cheek, neck, etc.] I know now that thou art beautiful, and I can picture thee to my darkness henceforth and forever. [Slow music. Exit ISTydia with her attendant, left. Ione draws forth the letter and kisses it. If no curtain, Ione slowly passes out — R.] Julia and her slaves Scene 2. [Julia, in her chamber, surrounded by five or six slaves, table containing mirror, cosmetics, perfume, paints, jewels, combs, ribbons; gold pin at feet of Julia ; nearby a second table containing a silver basin, an extinguished lamp, a roll of papyrus. Julia leans indolently back on her seat, while hairdresser piles one above another a mass of small curls. Slave stands be- side hairdresser ; other attendants grouped about.] Hairdresser. Put that pin more to the right, — lower, stupid one. Now put in the flowers. What, fool ! not that dull pink; it must be the brightest flowers that can alone suit the cheek of the young Julia. Julia. Gently! [Stamping foot violently.] You pull my hair as if you were plucking up a weed. Hairdresser. [To slave.] Dull thing! Do you not know how delicate is thy mistress? Now, then, the ribbon. That 's right. [Presenting hand glass.] Fair Julia, look in the mirror. Saw you anything so lovely as yourself? [A slave, hitherto idle, now arranges jewels: earrings, two in each ear; massive bracelets of gold; chain to its talisman cut in crystal attached; buckle on left shoulder; girdle of purple ribbon wrought with gold; rings fitted to every joint of the fingers. Julia regards herself with complacent vanity, as she reclines upon her seat.] Julia. [To slave, in listless tone.] Now read to me the SCENES AND DIALOGUES 423 enamored couplets of Tibullus. [Slave takes papyrus and seats herself on low stool beside Julia, as another slave ad- mits Xydia.] Xydia. [Stopping, crossing her hands upon her hreast.1 Julia, I have obeyed your commands. Julia. You have done well, flower-girl. Approach, — you may take a seat. [Slave places stool hy Julia, and Nydia seats herself. Julia, looking sharply at Nydia, and motioning attendants to withdraw, speaks mechanically.^ You serve the Neapolitan, lone? Nydia. I am with her at present. Julia. Is she as handsome as they say? Nydia. 1 know not. How can I judge ? Julia. Ah ! I should have remembered. But thou hast ears, if not eyes. Do thy fellow slaves tell thee she is hand- some ? Nydia. They tell me that she is beautiful. Julia. Ahem ! — Say they that she is tall ? Nydia. Yes. Julia. Why, so am I. Doth Glaucus visit her much? Nydia. [Sighing.] Daily. Julia. Daily, indeed ! Does he find her handsome ? Nydia. I think so, since they are soon to be wedded. Julia. [Turning pale and starting from her couch. Pause. Betrays e7notion.~\ They tell me thou art a Thessalian? Nydia. And truly. Julia. Thessaly is the land of magic and love-philtres. Knowest thou of any love charm? Nydia. How should I? No, assuredly not. Julia. The worse for thee. I could have given thee gold enough to have purchased thy freedom hadst thou been more wise. Nydia. But what can induce the beautiful and wealthy Julia to ask that question of her servant? Has she not money, youth, and loveliness? Are they not love-charms enough to dispense with magic? Julia. To all but one person. Knowest thou no magi- cian who possesses the art of which thou art ignorant? Nydia. Yes. I have heard that less than a league from the city, at the base of Vesuvius, there dwells a powerful witch. Her art can bring thy lover to thy feet. Seek her and mention to her the name of Arbaces. She fears that name, and will give thee her most potent philtres. 424 SELECTED READINGS Julia. My father has invited him to a banquet the day following to-morrow. I shall then have the opportunity to administer it. I will seek her this very day. Nay, why not this very hour? Nydia. {^Anxiously. 1 May I visit thee afterward to learn the result? Julia. Yes, come hither at the same hour to-morrow, and thou shalt know all. Stay! take this bracelet for the new thought thou hast inspired me with. Nydia. [Pushing bracelet asideJ] I cannot take thy present, but young as I am, I can sympathize unbought with those who love, and love in vain. Julia. Thou speakest like a free woman, — and thou shalt be free. \_Slow music. Exit Nydia — L. — with her attendant. Cur- tain. If no curtain is used, let Julia exit — B. — fol- lowed hy all her attendants.'] [Note: These scenes make an effective and interesting study in characterization and pantomime. The costumes should be simple Grecian ones, and the background soft green curtains. When a classic couch and stools are not available, boxes covered with dull stuff may be utilized. lone should be tall and fair, classic in style. The suc- cess of the girl who plays Nydia depends largely upon her ability to effect an appearance of blindness. Julia should be a brunette, proud and dictatorial in temperament.] lONE AND GLAUCUS From the Same Scene : The witch's cavern Enter Glaucus and Ione, accompanied by a slave. Thunder and lightning Glaucus. Dost thou fear? Ione. [Softly.] Not with thee. Glaucus. [Removing his cloaTc and putting it about Ione.] "We must find the best shelter we can. [They discover a cavern in which a fire burns, and over it a small cauldron; a rude lamp stands on a tall thin column of iron; a profusion of reeds and herbs about. An old hag sits before the fire with stony eyes turned upon them.] Glaucus. It is a dead thing. Ione. [Clinging to Glaucus.] Nay, it stirs. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 425 Slave. Oh, awa}- ! Away ! It is the Witch of Vesuvius. Witch. Who are ye? And what do ye here? Glaucus. We are storm-beaten wanderers from the neigh- boring city ; we crave shelter and the comfort of your hearth. Witch. Come to the fire if ye wilL I never welcome living thing save the owl, the fox, the toad, and the viper; so I cannot welcome ye; but come to the fire without wel- come. [Glaucus relieves Ioxe of her outer garments, places her on a log of wood, fans the fire; slave also removes her long palla and creeps timidhj to the opposite corner of the hearth.^ loNE. We disturb you, I fear. Witch. [After a pause.] Tell me, are ye brother and sister ? lONE. [Blushing.'] No. Witch, Are ye married? Glaucus. Not so. Witch. Ho! Lovers! Ha, ha, ha! [Pantomime of fear between Glaucus, Ione, and Slave.] Glaucus. [Sternly.] Why dost thou laugh, old crone? Witch. [Absently.] Did I laugh? Glaucus. [Whispering.] She is in her dotage. Witch. Thou liest. Glaucus. Thou art an uncourteous welcomer, loxE. Hush, provoke her not, dear Glaucus. Witch. I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered ye were lovers. It was because it is a pleasure to the old and withered to look upon young hearts like yours, and to know the time will come when you will loathe each other — loathe, loathe, ha-ha-ha! loNE. The gods forbid ! Thou knowest little of love, poor woman, or thou wouldst know that it never changes. Glaucus. Hast thou dwelt here long? Witch. Ah, yes. Glaucus. It is but a dread abode. Witch. Ha, thou raay'st well say that. Hell is beneath us! [Pointing to earth.] I will tell thee a secret; the dim things below are preparing much for ye above — you, the young, the thoughtless, and the beautiful. Glaucus. Thou uttcrest but evil words, ill becoming the hospital)le. In future I will brave the tempest rather than thy welcome. 426 SELECTED READINGS Witch. Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me, save the wretched. Glaucus. Why the wretched ? Witch. [With ghastly grin.l I am the witch of the mountain ; my trade is to give hope to the hopeless : for the crossed in love I have philtres; for the avaricious, promises of treasure; for the malicious, potions of revenge; for the happy and the good, I have only what life has — curses ! Trouble me no more. [Glaucus discovers snake, seizes log and deals a dexterous hlow.'] * Witch. [Spi'inging up, confronting Glaucus with flash- ing eyes, with slow, steady voice.'] Thou hast had shelter under my roof and warmth at my hearth; thou hast re- turned evil for good; thou hast smitten the thing that loved me and was mine, — now hear thy punishment. I curse thee : May thy love be blasted ; may thy name be blackened ; may the internals mark thee; may thy heart wither and scorch ! And thou, — [Turning to Tone.] Glaucus. Hag, forbear ! Me thou hast cursed, and I com- mit myself to the gods. I defy and scorn thee; but breathe one word against yon maiden, and I will convert the oath on thy foul lips to the dying groan. Beware ! Witch. [Laughing wildly.'] I have done, for in thy doom is she who loves thee accursed. Glaucus, thou art doomed ! [Turns her face and kneels beside the fire.] loNE. [Terrified.] Oh, Glaucus, what have we done? Let us hasten from this place. The stonn has ceased. Good mistress, forgive him, recall thy words; accept this peace offering. [Places purse on hag's lap.] Witch. Away ! Away ! The oath once woven the Fates only can untie ! Away ! Glaucus. [Impatiently.] Come, dearest, come. loNE. [Bursting into tears.] Preserve us, ye gods! Preserve my Glaucus. [Arbaces appears at mouth of cavern, pauses, crosses the stage with stealthy mien. Witch starts upon seeing him.] Witch. Who art thou? Arbaces. I am he from whom all cultivators of magic have stooped to learn. * This action should take place at the entrance or behind a screen, when the scene is given on a platform. SCENES AND DIALOGUES 427 "Witch. There is but one such man, — Arbaces, the Egyptian. Arbaces. Look again. [Drawing aside his robe he reveals a cincture seeminghj of fire around his waist, in the centre an engraved plate which the Witch recognizes, rises hastily and throws herself at the feet of Arbaces.] Witch. [In a voice of deep humility.'] The Lord of the mighty Girdle! Vouchsafe my homage. Arbaces. Eise, I have need of thee. [Seating himself where Ione had sat, motions Witch to resume her seat. She obeys.] Thou sayest that thou art the daughter of the ancient Etrurian tribes. [Witch bows her head.] Hear me, then, and obey. Thou art deeply skilled in the secrets of deadly herbs; thou knowest those which arrest life. Do I overrate thy skill? Witch. Mighty Hermes, such lore is indeed mine own. Arbaces. It is well. There cometh to thee by to-morrow's starlight a vain maiden, seeking of thine art a love-charm to fascinate from another the eyes that should utter but soft tales to her own; instead of thy philtres, give the maiden one of thy most powerful poisons. Let the lover breathe his vows to the Shades. Witch. [Trembling violently.] Pardon, dread master, but this I dare not. The law is sharp and vigilant, they will seize, will slay me. Arbaces. For what purpose, then, thy herbs and potions ? "Witch, [Hiding face in hands.] Years ago I was not the thing that I am now. I loved, I fancied myself beloved. Arbaces. [Aside.] This foul thing has yet human emotions. Love is fit only for youtli, age should harden our hearts to all things but ourselves. [Pacing the cavern.] Accursed be it, — this insect, this Glaucus ! I tell thee by Nemesis, he must die. Witch. [Glaring fiercely.] Glaucus, saidst thou, mighty master? Arbaces. Ay, so he is called, but what matters the name? Let it not be heard as that of a living man three days from this date. Witch. Hear me ! I am thy thing, thy slave ! spare me ! If I give to the maiden thou speakest of that which would destroy the life of Glaucus, F shall surely be detected; if, instead, I give that which shall blast the brain, and make 428 SELECTED READINGS him an abject, raving, benighted thing, will not thy venge- ance be equally sated, thy object equally attained? Arbaces. 0, witch, no longer the servant, but the sister, the equal of Arbaces, how much brighter is woman's wit, even in vengeance, than ours ! Thou shalt have twenty years' longer date for this. [Casting heavy purse on floor.'] Farewell; fail not, outwateh the stars in concocting thy beverage. To-morrow night we meet again. [Witch follows his steps to entrance, gazes after him; moon- light streams upon her form and face. She slowly re- enters; droningly picTcs up purse.] 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 ! Edward Bulwer-Lytton. Arranged by Anna Morgan. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY jeles •mSGHARGE rhis book is DUE on the last date stamped below. UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY mill II "i|n||iii| h ' AA 000 408 085 >] }/ U?01 M82s