JN VERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. SAN DIEGC 
 
 3 1822 00210 7670 
 
 CUL Anne: 
 
 PS 
 
 645 
 
 .C58 
 
 1915
 
 822002107670

 
 CLUB STORIES 
 
 Washington State Federation 
 of Women's Clubs 
 
 Lowman & Hanford Co. 
 
 Seattle, Wash. 
 
 1915 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SAN DIEGO 
 
 LA JOLLA. CALIFORNIA
 
 Copyright 1915 
 S. W. Hassell 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Rhododendrons Sophie M. C. Fisher 9 
 
 Queen Anne Fortnightly Club, Seattle. 
 
 Susan's Mountain .... Elizabeth Jane Haring 15 
 Shakespeare and Civic Improvement Clubs, Pasco. 
 
 Old Jud Watkins - - - Lula Shortridge Stewart 21 
 Women's Club, Spokane. 
 
 The Other Kind - - - Caroline Field Williams 35 
 Mutual Improvement Club, Marysville. 
 
 Reconciled Sara Byrne Goodwin 41 
 
 Queen Anne Fortnightly Club, Seattle. 
 
 "Rock of Ages" .... Gertrude Allen Knapp 47 
 Coterie Club, Seattle. 
 
 Deserted Louise Monroe Walton 51 
 
 Aurora Club, Tacoma. 
 
 The New Word - ... Jessie Hopkirk Davis 57 
 Twentieth Century Club, North Takima. 
 
 Tod's "Santy" Gertrude Allen Knapp 65 
 
 Coterie Club, Seattle. 
 
 Her Birthright - - - Gertrude Fulton Tooker 73 
 
 Mutual Improvement Club, Marysville. 
 
 The Disciplinarian Maude Farrar 81 
 
 Progressive Thought Club, Seattle. 
 
 "The Fine Country" ... Anna Brabham Osborn 87 
 Arts and Krafts, and Woman's Club, Puyallup
 
 REASONS 
 
 Twenty-two short stories were written by Wash 
 ington club women in a contest conducted by our 
 state literature committee. At the federation con 
 vention held in Spokane last June, the decision of 
 the judges was announced, the two stories ranking 
 highest were read and the enterprise was supposed 
 to be happily ended. 
 
 Some one said : "Publish them or at least a dozen 
 of them." The idea grew. There are now fifteen 
 thousand club women in the state. We are all more 
 or less interested in each other's work and would 
 want to read the stories. And so primarily they are 
 printed for our own club family and any profit 
 from the publication goes to the state endowment 
 fund. 
 
 There is another reason. Under the conditions 
 of the contest, the plot of each story was to be laid 
 in the Evergreen State. The result is they are full 
 of local color and have a value aside from their 
 literary worth. 
 
 Gentle reader or competent critic, whichever you 
 may be, if you enjoy only the literature that is 
 immortal you would better pass this little volume 
 by and reach up to the five-foot shelf for a classic; 
 if you must be thrilled or spell-bound, it were safer 
 for you to buy or borrow a best-seller; but if you 
 have broad sympathies and a heart that warms to 
 ward your kind, we are confident that you will find 
 something to like in our stories. 
 
 CLUB WOMEN OF WASHINGTON. 
 October the first, 1915. 
 
 6
 
 Four-Leaf Clover 
 
 I know a place where the sun is like gold, 
 And the cherry blooms burst with snow, 
 
 And down underneath is the loveliest nook, 
 Where the four-leaf clovers grow. 
 
 One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, 
 
 And one is for love, you know, 
 And God put another one in for luck 
 
 If you search, you will find where they grow. 
 
 But you must have hope and you must have faith 
 You must love and be strong, and so, 
 
 If you work, if you wait, you will find the place 
 Where the four-leaf clovers grow. 
 
 ELLA HIGGINSON.
 
 The mountain-lover does not always gaze at Kai- 
 nier or Olympus. He has learned that the foot 
 hills have a charm and an interest of their own. 
 And they too point upward.
 
 Rhododendrons 
 
 AWARDED FIRST PRIZE 
 
 I watched impatiently the men unwrap the pic 
 ture they had brought. It was a painting of Val- 
 iner's, a gift from Val himself. To possess a work 
 of his brush, was to be envied by the most discrim 
 inating collectors; it was to be classed with the 
 "fortunate rich;" it was to be numbered with the 
 ultra-faddists of the hour, for Valmer's work had 
 created nothing less than a storm of interest in 
 every quarter. 
 
 There was a power and fullness and beauty in his 
 work which held withal a subtle, sensitive quality, 
 difficult to define. It was a compelling, unexplain- 
 able thing of mind and soul that lay behind vision 
 and technique, and its message never failed to 
 reach me, in my exacting and saddening work as 
 an alienist, with a touch that refreshed and re 
 stored my questioning soul. 
 
 Valmer, tall, lean, distinguished-looking, followed 
 close upon his gift. The lion of the hour, compli 
 mented and courted, he had remained singularly 
 untouched by the world, with a heart dedicated 
 wholly to his art, and to one friendship. For me, 
 I believe, he reserved the only confidences he ever 
 gave, and our friendship was a fine, close-knitted 
 thing. We lighted cigars and Valmer adjusted the 
 shades.
 
 "Ah! Rhododendrons! I can smell them, Val! 
 Smell them? Why I feel the little puffs of warm 
 air that blow over them from the sun-heated 
 Sound." With a sigh of anticipation I sank into a 
 chair before the picture, scarce hearing Valmer's 
 low, "Flatterer, you inveterate flatterer!" 
 
 I was lost at once in the suggestion of the scene. 
 Rhododendrons! I had seen such a bank. Where? 
 Where? I seemed conscious of a familiar, compos 
 ite breath, as of the sea and sappy green things and 
 the faint exhalation of rhododendrons. It carried 
 me back as an actual odor will often do, and I saw 
 again the great building where I had spent the first 
 years of practice and training in the calling I had 
 chosen. It was the state hospital for the insane. 
 
 The Washington State Asylum stood on a gentle 
 slope commanding distant glimpses of the Sound. 
 Behind it rose great, tonic firs and, on the south 
 and west, acres of flowering shrubs mingled with 
 the evergreen of cedar, fir and madrone. Heavenly 
 surroundings for so sad a place. The hapless in 
 mates were gray shadows in my memory now. One 
 only stood out in sharp relief, a wild-eyed youth 
 who had come, emaciated and unkempt, clinging to 
 a battered, black box. He had been assigned to my 
 ward and proved quiet and docile when left undis 
 turbed to paint hideous forms which he seemed to 
 wipe out only to repeat over and over again on the 
 same canvas. We were overworked at the time, so 
 beyond ordering nourishing food and comparative 
 freedom for the boy, a month perhaps elapsed be 
 fore I could give him more specific attention. 
 
 10
 
 Rhododendrons 
 
 One day, observing the lad stooping over his 
 easel at a point where a bank of rhododendrons 
 was massed in full bloom against the blue sky and 
 distant Sound, I turned my steps in his direction. 
 He paid not the slightest attention to me as I drew 
 near, though a scowl darkened his thin face. I 
 looked over the narrow' back at the canvas he was 
 eternally bending over, and then I did the unfor 
 givable thing. I forgot professional caution and 
 cried out at what I saw. 
 
 The rose and mauve of that bank of bloom was 
 there, a living, glowing mass of color, blending 
 away into the silver and azure of the sky and 
 Sound, and it was done with the accuracy and 
 power of genius. In my astonishment I had re 
 laxed my watchfulness over the sullen figure and in 
 another moment I had caught the thin arm in a 
 quick strong grip, but to my utter dismay, I was 
 too late. With coarse, mad strokes he had drawn 
 a hideous form across the exquisite thing. 
 
 "Boy boy," I actually sobbed, "what have you 
 done what have you done?" 
 
 I had retained my grip on the thin arm but with 
 unlooked-for strength he tore himself free and 
 sprang to his feet. He faced me with the look of a 
 lost soul in his gaze, then flung himself face down 
 ward on the ground, shaking with hoarse, rending 
 sobs. I threw myself beside the poor, attenuated 
 form, filled with compassion for the anguish that 
 must be his in this hour of revelation. Had reason 
 come to him for a moment to show him the divine 
 thing he held within his breast only to leave him 
 
 11
 
 Rhododendrons 
 
 again in the dark shadow where his soul had dwelt? 
 I stroked the neglected hair and held the stained 
 hand in my own. 
 
 "Harold, my boy, my poor boy, come, we'll cure 
 you yet ! Why, we send numbers away every year. 
 If you will obey me and take the food and other 
 things I order, you'll do that again, and, my boy, 
 I could sell a few of those pictures for enough to 
 send you to the best specialists in the country." 
 At my words the boy sat erect. 
 
 "Could you sell that?" he demanded excitedly, 
 pointing to the defaced picture. 
 
 "Yes, and sometime," I added soothingly, "you'll 
 again paint like that." 
 
 "Paint like that!" he cried, "why, I have been 
 doing nothing else ! I tell you," he hurried on, his 
 voice rising, "I have made dozens of sketches like 
 that, and though it almost killed me, I covered 
 them with those hellish things. I had to you see, 
 I was afraid to let anyone see them." 
 
 "Yes, yes," I replied sadly as I saw his increasing 
 excitement, "Come, shall we walk back to the 
 house?" But he refused to be diverted. 
 
 "Doctor, Doctor," he repeated, rather wildly now, 
 "you promise to sell that if I do it again?" 
 
 "I promise," I humored him. 
 
 "Then listen, listen ! I am not insane no more 
 than you are. You won't be angry with me? I 
 had to paint. My father was an artist, and so poor 
 I think he and my mother must have died from star 
 vation soon after they came west when I was 
 about ten. I used to paint with my father. He 
 
 12
 
 was proud of me and would say I had it in me to 
 become a great painter; and because of his words, 
 but most of all because of something inside me, I 
 have worked and starved to buy paint and canvas 
 but I starved too often and I became ill. There 
 were times when I felt faint and dazed, but always, 
 I knew I must paint. One day I stole some tubes. 
 I was taken some place to jail, I suppose. When 
 the doctors questioned me, I was too tired to care 
 how I answered 
 
 "Then then I came here and you allowed me 
 to paint to spend all day in work, and it was so 
 beautiful, it was like like heaven to me. I 
 couldn't work fast enough to make sketches of all 
 I wanted to study. It wasn't food I had been starv 
 ing for it was just a chance like this. Then a 
 terrible fear came over me. I was in an agony of 
 dread lest I be sent away. I was afraid to show 
 my work, I was afraid to ask for another canvas, 
 and to keep up the appearance of insanity, I would 
 paint over the things I loved the horrible shapes 
 you have seen. It wasn't right it wasn't honest; 
 but I thought if I ate very little and now if you 
 sell my pictures I can pay you are not angry, 
 Doctor?" 
 
 I could not answer for the aching pressure in my 
 throat. In the imploring eyes that burned into 
 mine, was no trace of dementia, and I knew I was 
 looking into the soul of one anointed, who had 
 kept the faith, almost at the cost of the frail body. I 
 could only throw my arm about the slender form 
 and draw him to the grassy seat beside me. There 
 
 13
 
 Rhododendrons 
 
 we sat and talked until the shrubs above us cast 
 long shadows like giant crow's-feet across the path 
 and my name was called in the distance. 
 
 "And some day, you say, I may go abroad to 
 study?" 
 
 "In a year's time ; I pledge it, if it takes the last 
 sou you and I can earn." 
 
 I left him there among the rhododendrons, a 
 measureless gratitude in his eyes. And that was 
 twenty years ago ! 
 
 On my hand the ashes from my forgotten cigar 
 fell soft and warm as a breath of that May day as 
 Valmer's lean arm slipped over the back of my 
 chair. I was scarce roused from the spell his pic 
 ture had cast and his vibrant voice came like an 
 echo to my thoughts : 
 
 "Doctor, it was twenty years ago today !" 
 
 14
 
 Susan's Mountain 
 
 Travelers passing through the town of Pasco 
 are wont to comment on the long row of red houses 
 which are rented by the Northern Pacific railway 
 company to their employees and which are so alike 
 in color, size and style of architecture that to the 
 casual observer there are no distinguishing features. 
 
 During the summer months of the present time 
 their ugly color and harsh lines are quite con 
 cealed and softened by green vines and shade trees, 
 and the lawns are spacious and well kept; but six 
 or seven years ago any little bird would have told 
 you that there wasn't a decent tree in Pasco, the 
 lusty poplars and strong-limbed locusts of today 
 being then only slips of promise. 
 
 From the station the eyes are now delighted with 
 the smooth macadamized pavement and concrete 
 walks, and the illumination at night of numerous 
 cluster lights gives the place quite a metropolitan 
 aspect, but at the time of this narrative, the streets, 
 billowy with sand, were flanked with uneven, nail- 
 studded board walks, and citizens went abroad at 
 night in the perils of darkness. 
 
 It was at this unattractive period that Susan 
 Wells, the wife of a locomotive engineer, lived in 
 number sixteen in the Row; and on this particular 
 day she was there alone, wretched in body and 
 spirit. 
 
 It was in July and it would have been exceedingly 
 hot in the shade, had there been any shade, and Jim 
 
 15
 
 Susan's Mountain 
 
 and she had had their first quarrel! Now he had 
 gone out on his run, and she had not even put up 
 his lunch or said good-bye. 
 
 Many women under the stress of similar emotions 
 would have indulged in a good cry, but Susan had 
 such a horror of disorder that even now in genuine 
 grief and anger it was characteristic of her that 
 she should be sitting as she was, before the open 
 door, only the tightly clasped hands and brown 
 eyes mirroring the misery of her hour. 
 
 Before her a vast expanse of sage- and cactus- 
 dotted plain stretched to where the Columbia shim 
 mered placidly in the sun and waves of heat scintil 
 lated and danced in mocking spirals over the white 
 sand of her front yard. 
 
 Visualizing, in marked contrast to this, the little 
 white cottage with its lilacs and ivy they had left in 
 the East, Susan, bitter in rebellion, felt that to the 
 injury of giving up such comforts, Jim had added 
 an unexpected insult in suggesting that they take 
 his sister's little boys to raise as their own. 
 
 Naturally she, too, had been shocked by Nellie's 
 sudden death and had sympathized with her hus 
 band, for she knew that he loved his sister and there 
 was now no one to care for her children but him; 
 yet she felt that she had been very magnanimous in 
 offering to give up half her monthly allowance to 
 assist in their maintenance in some institution, 
 and at his uncalled for resentment at this disposal 
 of the boys, she had angrily made it clear that any 
 added burden to her already over-taxed strength was 
 not to be considered. Now he had gone and she 
 
 16
 
 Susan's Mountain 
 
 was unconsciously trying to justify her decision 
 by summoning before her all the disagreeable 
 phases of the situation. 
 
 Had she not swept and dusted and scrubbed con 
 tinuously ever since coming to this dirt-infested 
 region? And now to have the care of two boys! 
 
 Mechanically she noted that the atmosphere was 
 assuming the haziness attendant upon the ap 
 proach of a sand storm. The brilliancy of the sun 
 was gradually dimming and a bank of pale coppery 
 clouds was piling up in the west. A little current 
 of air whirled into the room, raced madly through 
 loose papers and sent cards and photographs flying. 
 
 With the hopelessness of a martyr, Susan began 
 closing doors and windows and the fact that the 
 air would consequently be agreeably cooled by the 
 storm was no compensation to her for the w r ork it 
 would entail. 
 
 Loose clapboards began to flap, windows rattled, 
 a dense gloom descended and the storm broke with 
 furious vehemence. 
 
 Huge balls of dried "tumble weed' rolled merrily 
 by, old papers sailed high in the air and the sand 
 beat against the panes like rain. 
 
 All kinds of objects blew past and once an empty 
 five-gallon kerosene can hurtled itself upon the 
 porch and clattered into a corner. Across the 
 street a tin bill-board, posting glaring inducements 
 to buy land in the vicinity and the familiar slogan, 
 "KEEP YOUR EYE ON PASCO/' lurched drunkenly 
 and crashed forward with deafening clamor. 
 
 The back door opened with a rush. 
 
 17
 
 Susan's Mountain 
 
 "Anybody living?" called a woman's voice. 
 
 It was Mrs. Allen who lived next door; she al 
 ways announced her coming in this way and al 
 though Susan showed her disapproval of her fa 
 miliar and easy manner the little neighbor seemed 
 cheerfully impervious to rebukes and inuendoes. 
 While Mrs. Allen was known to be a graduate of 
 Wellesly and was a general favorite in the Row, 
 the fact that she kept house with a total disregard 
 of order and professed to enjoy sandstorms placed 
 her without the pale of Susan's regard. 
 
 "Isn't this great!" she panted, plumping into a 
 chair. "Billy and the kiddies are finishing up a 
 two days' mess of dishes and they sent me over 
 here to keep you company." 
 
 And "Billy" who was a very efficient civil engi 
 neer, openly adored this inconsequential little 
 creature ! 
 
 "But," she rattled on, "I told them I was sure 
 you'd be delighted with this storm, for now you 
 would have a lot of new material for your moun 
 tain." 
 
 "Mountain !" repeated Susan blankly. 
 
 "Why sure," laughed Mrs. Allen. "You're for 
 ever digging for dirt and I suppose you contem 
 plate doing something with it eventually? Make a 
 pyramid or some such monument to your life's work. 
 This," indicating with a gesture the thick layer of 
 fine sand now covering window sills and floor, 
 "ought to cheer you up considerably." 
 
 At that moment the telephone rang and in the in- 
 terjectional conversation which followed, jests and 
 
 18
 
 Susan's Mountain 
 
 commonplaces were eliminated by a cataclysm of 
 real misfortune. Jim's engine had been wrecked. 
 Yes, he was seriously injured and she must get 
 ready at once to accompany him to Tacoma. 
 
 Afterward when her mind could adjust itself to 
 normal thinking, she recalled with surprise that it 
 was Mrs. Allen who had so capably managed her 
 affairs for her in her distress and it had been to 
 the little neighbor whom she had always regarded 
 as frivolous and incompetent that she had turned 
 in helpless subjection. 
 
 In the long days that followed, in the bare white 
 room of the hospital, with nurses and doctors in 
 grave-faced consultation over the bruised and brok 
 en body of her husband, she had ample time to 
 realize her own impotence and the insignificance 
 of the little things which had hitherto loomed so 
 large on her mental horizon. And how many 
 times in the innocent delirium of the sufferer was 
 her selfishness paraded before her agonized con 
 sciousness. 
 
 "Sue, dear," he would murmur, brokenly; 
 "they've put me into this clean bed with my greasy 
 overalls on and you'll never get these sheets clean." 
 And then 
 
 "Honey, I wiped my bloody hands on that em 
 broidered towel and the stains w^on't come out. Gee, 
 look at the tracks I've made." Then he would 
 start up and groan with the effort. 
 
 Sometimes he would think she was Nellie. 
 
 "Ah, little sis, don't cry ! I can't help it. Sue's 
 worked to death, digging and scrubbing all the 
 
 19
 
 Susan's Mountain 
 
 time. I'll take care of your little boys, Nell, but 
 Sue ain't strong and I dassen't take 'em home." 
 
 Once he laughed out heartily : 
 
 "There ain't nuthin' cuter 'n a little kid all 
 smeared up like that with jam !" 
 
 The nurse smiled interrogatively into the wife's 
 eyes, "You have a baby?" 
 
 Susan shook her head dully and a new pain 
 crept into her already overladen heart. 
 
 The night came at last, when, the crisis safely 
 over, the glad light of recognition and the weak 
 pressure of his hand was Heaven itself for Susan; 
 and in that moment she conceived a resolution the 
 birth of which was to bring future happiness for 
 all concerned. 
 
 Slowly but surely Jim regained strength and the 
 time arived when he obtained his release and they 
 were preparing to go home. 
 
 "Jim," faltered Susan on that morning, stand 
 ing behind his chair and caressingly running her 
 fingers through his thick ruddy hair, "I'm through 
 working on my mountain." 
 
 "Mountain !" he ejaculated. 
 
 "Well, I'm not going to explain about that now, 
 but I just want to tell you that the letter I got this 
 morning was from Mrs. Allen." She handed it to 
 him and smiled joyously into his bewildered eyes. 
 "And she says that Nellie's boys, our very own 
 now, for I've attended to all that since we've been 
 here, arrived safely and will be at the station to 
 morrow when we get back to dear old Pasco !" 
 
 20
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 "Yes, siree, take it from me, every man that lives 
 has hidden somewhere in his make-up, the soul of 
 poetry, or whatever you want to call it, that 
 something can touch at some time in his life to 
 arouse in him " 
 
 Old Jud Watkins turned toward me as he spoke, 
 and catching a puzzled expression on my face, 
 inasmuch as I hadn't the faintest idea of what had 
 led to this unexpected peroration, he stopped, 
 gave a short embarrassed laugh, and explained : 
 
 "You see, I have been here alone so much that I 
 sort of have the habit of talking with folks in imag 
 ination, and I start out and finish my side of the 
 argument out loud and suddenly find that I have 
 been doing all the previous talking just in my mind. 
 So don't mind me if I kind o' surprise you at times." 
 
 While speaking, he had been idly tapping on 
 his knee with a letter which the rural route post 
 man had brought a short time before, so I drew the 
 natural inference that its contents had something 
 to do with the old man's thoughts. 
 
 Ill health had sent me away from my city home 
 in the east to this ranch in the picturesque state of 
 Washington, situated in the big bend of a wide river, 
 where beyond the long, even stretch of meadow and 
 grain field rose the snow-peaked mountains. It 
 was an artist's dream of the beautiful; but what 
 
 21
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 was more to me, it contained all that could be de 
 sired towards helping me to regain health and phys 
 ical strength. 
 
 I had found this particular spot through an olcf 
 friend, who was also a friend of Jud Watkins : and 
 here I was, partly ranch hand, partly boarder, but 
 best of all, the trusted and fortunate confidant of 
 the old bachelor ranchman who was doing more 
 with his quaint and wholesome logic and healthful 
 habits, to put me back in my rightful place among 
 men, than all else in the way of medicine and diet. 
 Just how he had so vitally changed my own warped 
 outlook upon the world and life in general, and set 
 my feet firmly upon the safe and sane road to my 
 individual happiness, is "another story'' as Kipling 
 used to say: and this is another's story, not mine. 
 
 Noting the interest in my eyes, old Jud Watkins 
 reached over and tapped his pipe against the porch 
 railing until it was emptied to his satisfaction, then 
 carefully refilling and relighting it, continued his 
 preface as though there had been no interruption. 
 
 "Yes siree; no matter what for looks a fellow 
 might be, he still has some where within that 'di 
 vine spark' we read about, which somethin' can 
 reach, if it comes jest at the right time ; the 'psycho 
 logical moment' they call it. 
 
 "You've heard me speak of Tom Millard, <No- 
 Speakum', the ranch hands named him, who was 
 here with me up to about a year ago? Well, he 
 was the one fellow who it seemed to me at times, 
 was totally lacking in any spot through which he 
 
 22
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 could be reached. But I will tell you about him 
 from the first. 
 
 "You see, he drifted in her one evening at dusk, 
 about two years ago. Although he was footing it, 
 I sized him up at once as not being an ordinary 
 tramp, or for that matter, an ordinary fellow of any 
 kind. He asked for a night's lodging and as I 
 never turn any one away, being so far from rail 
 road stations and boat landings, I let him sleep 
 down in one of the bunk houses. Next morning 
 he offered to pay for everything, same as if he had 
 stopped at some fine hotel. I told him to keep his 
 money and his breath too, as he started to insist, 
 for he might need 'em both at some future time, 
 He looked at me kind o' queer, and then dropped 
 down on an old piece of machinery and sat still so 
 long, gazing off into the mountains that I won 
 dered what ailed the man. He seemed to have for 
 gotten my presence and everything else and it was 
 plain that somethin' was bothering him terrible. 
 After a long time he kind o' roused up and asked 
 me how far it was to the nearest postoffice. I told 
 him, but it didn't occur to me to mention that I was 
 on a rural delivery route. My answer seemed to 
 satisfy him on some point, for he nodded his head 
 as if he was answering some question to himself. 
 Pretty soon he looked up at me and asked abrupt 
 ly: 'Can I work here for you, for my board?' I 
 didn't know jest what to say for a minute then I 
 told him that I wouldn't be needing help much till 
 a month or so later when harvest would begin ; but 
 
 23
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 as I talked I watched his face, and such a look of 
 disappointment settled on it that I finished by say 
 ing that if he really wished to, he could work for 
 his board until that time, and then if he wanted to 
 make a regular harvest hand, I would pay him the 
 usual wages. I won't soon forget the look of grati 
 tude he gave me, and it set me to wondering what 
 was back of it all; why a man of his brains and 
 polish should be so grateful for permission to bury 
 himself out here on my quiet ranch; and what it 
 was that had left such a mark on his face. 
 
 "Well he stayed on, and I grew to know as much 
 about him as I do of that tallest mountain peak over 
 there, which has never been climbed. I couldn't 
 talk to him, cause if a fellow talks too long to him 
 self he begins to realize he's logy; and talking to 
 that man was sure like talking to yourself when 
 you don't expect an answer. After a while I quit. 
 When the harvest hands came later on they tried 
 as I had done, to pick up some kind of conversation 
 with him, and with the same results. Some fellow 
 gave him the nick-name 'No-Speakum,' and that was 
 all he was known by from then on. To me he was 
 'Tom', for that was what he had told me to call him, 
 and I never knew what his last name was until after 
 he had been here about six months. One day the 
 postman (and I never will forget the look of sur 
 prise and anger that came over Tom's face that first 
 time he saw the rural delivery man come by here ! ) 
 left a letter here addressed to Mr. T. J. Millard. I 
 called after the fellow as he started away, I had 
 gone down to the mail box when I saw him coming, 
 
 24
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 'Here, this is a mistake; there is nobody here by 
 the name of Millard.' As the postman started back, 
 Tom, who was near, spoke up quick as though he 
 had forgotten for the moment, 'Here, it is for me.' 
 I didn't say anything of course, but just handed the 
 letter to him, and the postman went on. But man 
 alive! When he looked at that letter and seemed 
 to recognize the handwriting, I never saw such a 
 look on any man's face as was on his ! He turned 
 chalky white first, then his eyes blazed like coals of 
 fire and he shook like a fellow with the ague. I 
 pretended not to notice. He hurried into the house, 
 caught up a pen and jambed it down into the ink 
 bottle, wrote something on the face of the envelope 
 after scratching off part of the address, then rushed 
 out of the house and ran a quarter of a mile like 
 a madman until he overtook the postman and gave 
 him that letter. 
 
 "For days after that, he seemed like a man in a 
 dream, and a mighty unhappy one at that ! I said 
 very little to him, and aside from asking the nec 
 essary questions, or answering one, he was more 
 silent than ever, if that were possible. 
 
 "Of course my curiosity was aroused by this 
 strange man. What could his past be? Certainly 
 he was not a criminal! nor was he a fugitive from 
 the law. (I won't say 'justice'.) He had as high 
 a sense of honor as any man I know, and I would 
 have trusted him with anything. 
 
 "About a month later, another letter came. This 
 time Tom wasn't at the house and I did not get the 
 mail until after the postman was out of sight. It 
 
 25
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 was addressed same as the first one, and I noticed 
 the writing this time as I carried the mail to the 
 house. It was a fine handwriting, surely a woman's 
 and easier to read than most of 'em. If what they 
 say is true about character showing up in one's 
 writing, I should have said the writer of that letter 
 was a good woman. Still, you never can tell. 
 Look at the writing of Jim Turner; clear cut and 
 fine as a copy book, and goodness, that fellow just 
 seems as if he never could be straight. And then 
 again, do you recall the handwriting of some of our 
 best men? Crooked and wobbly, as though they 
 had no backbone. I never could see as the hand 
 writing is much of a test. But I'm gettin' off my 
 story : When Tom came into the house and found 
 that letter lying there on the table, I just put it 
 there without calling his attention to it, as I didn't 
 know what else to do, that same look of white rage 
 came into his face, and it almost made me afraid 
 of him as if he could lay the blame on me. I was 
 busy with the newspapers that are always about a 
 week old when they reach here you know, and a 
 fellow is pretty anxious to know what's going on in 
 the world. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tom 
 take the pen as savagely as he did before, and 
 scratch the address and write something else on it, 
 then as if he was afraid of having the letter in the 
 house, he went down to the mailbox and threw it in, 
 although the postman wouldn't be by until next day. 
 
 "In about a month, another one came. Now I 
 suppose I did something that some fussy folks 
 would say wasn't just square, but I don't care. 
 
 26
 
 Old Jud Wdtkins 
 
 Sometimes I think the end justifies the means, and 
 this wasn't a thing that disturbed my conscience 
 so's I couldn't sleep. When I took some of my own 
 mail down for the postman to collect, I picked up 
 the letter Tom had thrown into the box same as the 
 others, and looked at it. As I say, I picked it up 
 and looked carefully at what Tom had written on 
 it, so's to remember it. 
 
 "He had written 'Return to sender,' and in the 
 corner was the name 'Mrs. T. J. Millard, Winns- 
 boro, South Carolina.' So he was married. His 
 wife had been writing to him, and he had been re 
 turning the letters to her, un-opened. And he was 
 a Southerner. I had suspected as much from his 
 talk; one of those hot-headed, proud sons of the 
 South who are governed by rash hearts instead of 
 cool heads. 
 
 "I was puzzling over the whole strange situation 
 that evening when Tom suddenly spoke to me in a 
 tone that made me fairly jump, intent as my mind 
 was on him. 'There won't be much work for the 
 next few weeks ; I'm going on a long tramp up into 
 the mountains.' 
 
 "He was gone for about two weeks. When he 
 came back his face was thinner and more worn than 
 ever with such a tired look in his eyes that I pitied 
 him in my heart. No matter where the fault lay, 
 that man was suffering the torments of hell! 
 When I looked at him and realized what a woman 
 can do with a man's heart, well, I felt deeply 
 
 27
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 thankful that I had been left with some sweeter 
 memories than had been this man's portion. 
 
 "Well, I'm a bit ahead of my story again. 
 While he was gone, I got busy. I had carefully 
 made a note of his wife's address, so one night when 
 I sat thinking the matter over, I wrote a letter to 
 her. I told her who I was and that Mr. Millard 
 lived with me here on my ranch. And then as care 
 fully as I could, so's not to fumble things, I asked 
 her where the trouble lay, in case she wished me 
 to know, and offered as delicately as I could, to 
 be of help to them both if she would let me. I 
 knew I run a big risk of getting into trouble and 
 bein' told to mind my own business. 
 
 "Well, I mailed that letter and then watched 
 for an answer like some love-sick swain, hoping it 
 would escape the sharp eyes of Tom. It came one 
 day when Tom was on the far side of the ranch. 
 And such a letter ! Man that I am, I'm not ashamed 
 to tell you that the tears were running down my 
 old cheeks before I laid it down ! That poor little 
 girl didn't spare herself; she told me everything, 
 and I believed her! And right then and there I 
 vowed I'd do everything in my power to help her 
 and that meant him too, of course. 
 
 "No need to go into the details of her story. An 
 up-to-date story writer could have made out of it 
 one of those three-sided affairs that magazine read 
 ers go crazy over ; only this one, being a true story, 
 didn't have the kind of spice that makes good read 
 ing to some folks. This woman was a good woman. 
 I knew it.
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 "I pondered over it for days and weeks, trying to 
 see what I could do without spoiling everything in 
 clumsy, man fashion. 
 
 "One night some neighbors were in and we were 
 sitting around the fire here, it was in early spring, 
 and the talk turned on a murder trial the papers 
 were full of at that time. A man had been found 
 dead on a train, and poison had been found in an 
 empty bottle that had contained whiskey which he 
 had evidently drunk. The man had a handsome 
 wife and they had not been on the best of terms; 
 in order to make everlasting fame for himself, some 
 young state's attorney had the wife thrown into 
 prison and was making desperate efforts to prove 
 her a murderess. Luck seemed against him. The 
 outcome was still in doubt at this time. 
 
 "While we were discussing this point, I had a 
 sudden inspiration. With all the eloquence at my 
 command I launched into a defense of the woman, 
 and all her unfortunate sisters. Leading on from 
 this I told a lot of instances where women had been 
 wrongfully judged and their lives ruined everlast 
 ingly just through circumstantial evidence. 
 
 " <I knew a case once,' I said, 'where a man and 
 his wife were separated by some little thing, and it 
 was wrecking both their lives, just breaking their 
 hearts! And the whole thing was only a misun 
 derstanding. The young wife was full of life and 
 natural animal spirits, and in a spirit of dare- 
 deviltry was a party in some foolish escapade with 
 several others, who were smooth enough to lie out 
 of it, which looked bad for her and one man in 
 
 29
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 a manner that would have hopelessly compromised 
 her in the eyes of the world had not her husband 
 straightened the whole thing out and turned it into 
 a joke, to the entire satisfaction of every one ex 
 cepting himself. He believed she had lied to him. 
 He left her like one insane, rushing off to the far 
 ends of the earth without ever giving any one a 
 chance to help clear up the trouble, not even his 
 mother. Jest see the misery his rashness and blind 
 pride caused, both to himself and his poor little 
 wife. And she had told him the truth.' 
 
 "By the time I had got this far, Tom had bolted 
 for the door, and he did not come back until after 
 every one was abed and asleep. I had no way of 
 knowing whether he had taken anything I said to 
 himself or not; but I knew it had at least stirred 
 things up and maybe set him thinking, and that 
 was a whole lot. That is, if it had started him on a 
 different tack than he had been on these many 
 months. How I hoped and prayed the unhappy 
 fellow would jest let down the bars long enough for 
 me to reach him in some way. 
 
 "One day as I sat reading a Spokane paper, I 
 ran across something that brought the tears to my 
 old eyes, and it gave me a thought. 
 
 "You know on the editorial page of the Spokane 
 Chronicle, there is a column headed 'Old Favorites/ 
 and under it they re-print old poems. What I had 
 come across was a poem by Bob Burdette that 
 would have softened a heart of stone it seemed to 
 me, it was so sweet and touching. 
 
 30
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 "I folded the paper so that page was uppermost 
 and with a devout prayer, laid it where I knew 
 Tom would pick it up as soon as he came in. Well, 
 he did that very thing. I sat like one froze to the 
 chair as I watched his eye light on this very poem, 
 then follow it down line after line. It was entitled 
 'Alone,' and this is how it goes for I know it by 
 heart : 
 
 " 'I miss you, my darling, my darling; 
 The embers burn low on the hearth, 
 And hushed is the stir of the household, 
 And still the voice of its mirth. 
 Rain splashes fast on the terrace, 
 The winds past the lattices moan, 
 The midnight bell rings in the darkness, 
 And I am alone. 
 
 " 'I want you, my darling, my darling; 
 I am tired with care and with fret, 
 I would nestle in silence beside you, 
 And all but your presence forget 
 In the hush of the happiness given 
 To those who through trusting have grown 
 To the fulness of love and contentment; 
 But I am alone. 
 
 "'I call you, my darling, my darling; 
 My voice echoes back on my heart; 
 I stretch my arms to you in longing, 
 And lo! they fall empty apart. 
 I whisper sweet words, you taught me, 
 The words we only have known, 
 Till the blank of the dumb air is bitter, 
 And I am alone. 
 
 " 'I pray for you darling, my darling; 
 With its yearning my very heart aches, 
 And the load that divides us weighs harder, 
 I shrink from the jar it makes. 
 Old sorrows rise up to beset me, 
 Old doubts make my spirit their own; 
 Oh, come through the darkness and save me, 
 For I am alone! Alone!' 
 
 31
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 "It must have been the 'psychological moment', 
 for that poem went straight to the mark. I 
 knew it by the way the muscles of his face twitched 
 and his quick intake of breath at the finish, almost 
 like a sob. My heart sent up a prayer of thankful 
 ness when he caught up his hat and started out on 
 one of his long walks. I knew I had won. 
 
 "When he came back I was prepared for his blunt 
 statement that he was starting for the nearest 
 station at once. 
 
 "He pressed my hand hard at parting, merely 
 saying he would write me soon. But I understood. 
 And some way or other, he seemed to feel that I 
 understood." 
 
 Again the old man seemed to drift off into his 
 dream country where the pictures made soft, ten 
 der reflections in his kindly eyes, and I was to be 
 forgotten for the time. Then turning as he had at 
 the beginning of the story when he had uttered his 
 belief in the divine spark in every man, he met my 
 expression of unsatisfied interest and it brought him 
 back to the present with an apologetic cough. 
 
 "Well, there isn't much more to tell." He looked 
 over at me with his benevolent, kindly smile that 
 had endeared him to me as much as the wholesome 
 philosophy which it usually accompanied. "If my 
 conscience ever had troubled me about the part I 
 played, it w r as soon appeased. Here is one of many 
 letters I have had from Tom Millard, you may 
 read it, but first, just look at this." And he drew 
 from the envelope a postcard photograph and 
 handed it to me. It was of a man and a baby of 
 
 32
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 perhaps a year and a half, and beneath was written 
 in a bold hand, "Tom, Jr., and Tom, Sr." 
 
 The picture alone would have put the right "finis" 
 to the story; for if ever I saw happiness, I read it 
 in the handsome, manly face in the picture, and 
 coupled with it was the just pride in the sturdy 
 little lad in his arms, a second edition of himself 
 in miniature. After just hearing his story, is it any 
 wonder I gazed with such interest at the pictured 
 faces of the principal actors in what might have 
 been such a tragedy but for the intervention of the 
 noble old man at my side? 
 
 He handed me the letter received that day, and 
 I read: 
 
 "Dear old friend: I am sending you the latest 
 of Tom, Jr., and his dad. The picture speaks for 
 itself. 
 
 "Just a year ago today since I reached home; 
 home! It seems ages ago, and yet but yesterday, 
 that I stepped unannounced into the home picture 
 of Edith, my poor little girl-mother, holding a 
 cooing baby in her arms, my son! of whose ex 
 istence I did not even know ! O, the self reproach 
 and misery that was mine! 
 
 "My pride my foolish, crazy pride broke then, 
 and my heart with it, as I dropped to my knees be 
 side my poor little girl, who had been left to pass 
 through that soul testing battle, for my sake, 
 alone! How I begged her to forgive me yet I can 
 never forgive myself! as I took them both in my 
 arms. And before I arose from my knees, I thanked 
 
 33
 
 Old Jud Watkins 
 
 God for the good friend out there in the far west 
 who had helped bring about this awakening of my 
 real self. If you never did another act of kindness 
 in your life, this one alone has earned you heaven. 
 God bless you ! 
 
 "Your grateful friend, TOM." 
 
 34
 
 "The Other Kind" 
 
 The short September day was near its close. 
 Three-year old Milly was asleep on a roll of wraps 
 at her mother's feet; but Johnnie and Helen and 
 Arthur and Catherine were still trying to keep pace 
 with their mother in pulling the hops from the pole- 
 embracing vines, when a strange man came up to 
 their box. 
 
 "My name is Brown," he brusquely stated. "I 
 am the owner of these hop-fields." For awhile he 
 watched the workers in silence, as if reluctant to 
 carry out his purpose. "I have a message for you, 
 madam," he finally said. "I have been notified by 
 the sheriff that I am violating the child-labor law 
 by permitting children under twelve to pick hops, 
 so I am obliged to tell you that your children will 
 have to quit." 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Brewster was stunned. Dur 
 ing the whole summer her children had earned 
 enough in the berry fields to pay the family expenses 
 thus enabling her to save her earnings for the time, 
 near at hand, when she would be the only bread 
 winner. The few weeks remaining of hop-picking 
 would not amount to much, but the future without 
 the help of the busy little hands looked very dark 
 indeed. "It's pretty hard," she said, "when a 
 mother has to do it all." 
 
 "Are you a widow?" asked the man, softened by 
 the plaintive answer. 
 
 35
 
 "The Other Kind" 
 
 "No," Mrs. Brewster faltered, "but I am all alone 
 for the present, my husband went away a year 
 ago to find steady employment and I don't know 
 when he'll return." 
 
 "Oh, I see," replied Mr. Brown. "Well, we 
 passed the mother's aid law for just such women as 
 you. Why don't you apply for a pension with pro 
 vision for these children?" 
 
 Mrs. Brewster gave an upward toss of her head. 
 "I am not one of that kind !" she flared. "I neither 
 accept charity nor allow my children to do so ! 
 However hard they work and whatever privation 
 they suffer, they shall not be cheated out of their 
 birthright of independence as long as I have the 
 power to prevent it." 
 
 "That's just my style," applauded Mr. Brown. 
 "It's the good old-fashioned spirit that turned out 
 men and women of backbone instead of the weak- 
 kneed, spineless specimens of these days. Why, if 
 things go on as they are it won't be long before one- 
 half of the people will be supporting the other half." 
 
 Mrs. Brewster had not stopped working, and the 
 children, with the thoroughness of an army of cater 
 pillars, had stripped their side of the pole while she 
 cleaned off hers. "Huh, this ain't work!" put in 
 laughing-eyed Johnnie. "It's fun to earn your own 
 sweaters and things. When I go back to school," 
 he added with a glance at his patched rags, "I'll 
 have everything new." 
 
 "Your kids don't seem to be suffering from over 
 work," grinned Mr. Brown, "they're as sunny and 
 sassy as so many dandelions." 
 
 36
 
 "The Other Kind" 
 
 "That's just what I want them to be," laughed 
 the mother "and not only as sunny and 'sassy,' 
 but as vigorous and pushing and clean, and as in 
 dependent, too!" 
 
 "S'pose you'll go on picking? the man inquired 
 as he turned to go. 
 
 "No, I couldn't do more than earn our expenses, 
 working alone," was the regretful reply, "so we 
 may as well go home." 
 
 Before noon the next days, Mrs. Brewster with 
 her bunch of "dandelions," was in the city all 
 elated to the lightness of the airy balloons of their 
 prototypes at being even so insigniflcent a part of 
 splendid Seattle. As they approached their own 
 three-room dwelling in the outskirts, so homelike in 
 its envelope of vines, the recreant father had not 
 left them homeless, Johnnie ran ahead. "Hello, 
 a letter!" he cried as he opened the door. "Guess 
 it's from Papa !" 
 
 Mrs. Brewster coming up and hearing the word, 
 "papa," snatched the letter, her face alight with 
 expectation. "Huh, nothing but a city notice!" 
 she sighed. "Hope it's not another assessment. But 
 that's just what it is," she declared, after a glance 
 at the brief contents. "Twelve dollars on that 
 boulevard twenty blocks away that we shall never 
 even see. It does seem as if the folks that ride in 
 automobiles ought to pay for their own roads !" 
 
 "It looks as if we was handin' out charity to 
 them," asserted Johnnie, "and I should think 
 they'd be ashamed to take it !" 
 
 37
 
 "The Other Kind" 
 
 "That's so, my boy," agreed the mother, recover 
 ing her spirit, "but I would far rather give than re 
 ceive even if it does pinch us a little. The satis 
 faction of living without charitable aid is life-long, 
 while the miseries of want are only for the time 
 being. But I hope Papa will come home before this 
 assessment is due," she smiled. 
 
 Then the routine for the winter began. Milly was 
 sent to a neighbor's while the other four were in 
 school, and Mrs. Brewster toiled in a laundry, won 
 dering and worrying about what the "kiddies" were 
 doing all day without her care. The home washing 
 and sewing she did at night, leaving the children 
 to manage the rest. 
 
 "We're getting along famously," she declared one 
 day, as the united family were eating their supper 
 of pea-soup and corn-bread. "If this keeps up we 
 may be able to afford a visit from Santa Glaus ; the 
 old fellow isn't very fond of poor folks, you know." 
 
 "Is us poor folks, mamma?" asked Catherine in 
 dismay. 
 
 Mrs. Brewster thought a moment. "Well, no," 
 she soothingly replied, "we're rich enough in every 
 thing but money." 
 
 That very night a part of their riches took flight. 
 Milly came down with the measles. Of course it 
 ran through the family and when quarantine was 
 raised, the devoted mother became ill. Too weak to 
 rise, she lay on her hard bed and sighed her heart 
 out with the deadly fear of having to ask for aid. 
 "I'd rather see my children dead than eating the 
 bread of paupers," was the goading reflection, that 
 
 38
 
 "The Other Kind" 
 
 like some disease-repressing medicament, reduced 
 her almost to the verge of the grave before its tonic 
 effects began to be felt. But at last the children 
 laughed again to see her about the house. 
 
 The day before Christmas, propped up in a chair, 
 she was making a necktie for Johnnie's present, 
 when her proud independence was put to the se 
 verest test. An automobile stopped before the 
 house. All the children but Milly were at a neigh 
 boring playground, so Mrs. Brewster tottered to the 
 door. A glance through the glass panel told her 
 what was coming. A large auto-dray, loaded to its 
 capacity, stood at the curb, and two men with arms 
 filled to overflowing were already on the porch. 
 
 "Some one has reported that we are destitute," 
 was the thought that burned through her mind, 
 "and we are not. We still have food and fuel !" Her 
 face was no longer pale when she opened the door. 
 "There has been some mistake," she said to the fore 
 most lieutenant of charity. 
 
 "I have your name and address, madam," was the 
 firm reply. "There can't be any mistake." 
 
 "Well, I ought to know," flared the resolute 
 woman. "I never sent my name to your paper and 
 no one else had a right to !" 
 
 "You may as well have the things, anyway," 
 smiled the man. 
 
 Mrs. Brewster thought of the bare cupboard and 
 the tiny heap of coal in the bin, and wavered. But 
 it was only for an instant. "You'll have plenty of 
 use for them," she said, and quickly closed the door, 
 shutting out her part of the bounty that a sympa- 
 
 39
 
 "The Other Kind" 
 
 thetic newspaper had collected from a generous pub 
 lic to relieve the city's destitute. "God forgive me 
 if I have done wrong!" she silently prayed, as she 
 led Milly back to hover over the stove. 
 
 The next morning dawned sunny and mild, and 
 laughter and shouts of "Merry Christmas !" rang as 
 merrily through the Brewster household as through 
 a palace. The mother's poor little presents had been 
 joyously received and the children were decking 
 themselves in their made-over finery, when a heavy 
 step was heard outside. Fearful that it might be 
 another emissary of charity, Mrs. Brewster started 
 to turn him away, but was too slow. The door was 
 pushed open and the visitor burst into the room. 
 "Hello ! Merry Christmas !" he shouted. 
 
 "It's Santa Taus !" crowed Milly, seeing only the 
 arms and pockets filled with mysterious packages 
 and not recognizing her father so opportunely re 
 turned. 
 
 "We're all right, now," shouted the man as soon 
 as the jubilee was over. "I've got a steady job on 
 a big farm and a shack to live in and 
 
 "That's glorious, Jack," cried the wife, too de 
 lighted to wait for all the good news. "We won't 
 mind the hardest work if only we can always save 
 our self-respect! We're not the 'charity' kind!" 
 
 40
 
 Reconciled 
 
 Florence Crichton, when a mere child, used to 
 watch from her home on a hill, the entrance of ves 
 sels to the harbor of Seattle, and she claimed the 
 finest of them and the harbor itself as her own. 
 
 With the coming of the automobile and the 
 growth of the city, boulevards were built to one 
 place and then to another. She grew with their 
 growth, and from playing the game of appropriating 
 all the beautiful things she saw, she came to live 
 the game. The first time her father took her out 
 on the boulevard overlooking Lake Washington, she 
 claimed the lake, twenty-five miles long, as her own. 
 And as they followed the drive into the deep green 
 woods, across bridges that spanned tiny brooklets 
 and great ravines and then swung out again into 
 the open, the great stretch of water below them 
 with its background of fir trees, and beyond, the 
 glorious Cascade Mountains, all seemed to her a 
 picture arranged for the sole purpose of complet 
 ing the joy of that wonderful drive. 
 
 The summer she finished her junior year at the 
 University, a fine road to Mount Rainier was com 
 pleted, and she was included in the first party to 
 drive over it. As the party left their machines and 
 climbed to a pinnacle nearby, she claimed, in her 
 accustomed manner, the mountain as her own, and 
 loved it. 
 
 41
 
 Reconciled 
 
 An untried optimist, she responded with love to 
 the native beauties of her birthplace, as simply and 
 naturally as a bird greets with song the dawn of 
 day in the spring time. 
 
 And as she stood on this pinnacle, drinking in the 
 beauties of the surrounding valleys, it seemed quite 
 fitting that Harold Comer should declare his love 
 and ask her to become his wife. There on the moun 
 tain top she made her vows of love, and as she de 
 scended the mountain, hand in hand with her lover, 
 the old, old story, ever new, glorified her face as in 
 all time it has glorified the face of maiden. 
 
 A year later, preparations for the wedding be 
 gan. Florence's life, thus far, had been one long 
 dream of delight. She had walked in perpetual 
 sunshine, a sunshine of love and happy dreams. 
 But one week before the day set for the wedding 
 her first cloud appeared suddenly, out of a clear 
 sky. And swiftly the tempest followed. 
 
 For the first time, illness assailed her. After a 
 few days of agonized suspense, and anxious weeks 
 of slow recovery, a consultation resulted in the an 
 nouncement that she would soon be all right with 
 the exception of her right arm, it was paralyzed. 
 
 This, her first trial, the first test of her strength 
 was met, by this erstwhile optimist, with blank 
 despair. 
 
 And when Harold, overjoyed with her recovery, 
 hurried to her exclaiming, "We'll be so happy, Little 
 Sweetheart! We shall not mind this small afflic 
 tion," her studied haughtiness was pathetic. 
 
 42
 
 Reconciled 
 
 "Is it then so small a matter that the best medical 
 authority in the country has pronounced me a life 
 long cripple?" she questioned. 
 
 "But oh, my Princess," he laughed. "It will be 
 my privilege to serve " 
 
 She interrupted him with another attempt at 
 haughtiness. "Do you think then, that I am the 
 kind of girl to burden the man I love, and spoil his 
 career with the care of a crippled wife? Oh, can 
 you not see that everything is changed? We had 
 made such beautiful plans, and now, look at this." 
 
 She tragically lifted with the fingers of the left 
 hand, the poor limp member which hung helpless 
 whichever way she turned it. 
 
 "And more than this." She stopped him with a 
 gesture when he would have spoken. "Perhaps you 
 can not understand, but two months ago this was 
 all mine." And she made an eloquent gesture to 
 ward the panorama seen from the window. "Look 
 at the tints on the water, and on the Olympics, be 
 hind which the sun has just disappeared. And 
 look at Mount Eainier. Oh, Harold, it rained last 
 night and the air is as clear as it was in June. 
 Then this picture was all mine. I lived in it and 
 loved it. Every breath of mine was a response to 
 the beauty and joy of it. 
 
 "But now, I look at my beautiful landscape and 
 it mocks me. The sunlight dances gaily on the 
 water, and Rainier, my mountain, my beloved moun 
 tain cries, 'Aha! 1 am yours no more.' The whole 
 picture just screams at me, 'You are finished. We 
 
 43
 
 Reconciled 
 
 care nothing for your misery! We are just as 
 beautiful just as complete without your joy.' ' 
 
 "Oh yes," she continued rapidly, fearing an in 
 terruption, "my career was a happy one while it 
 lasted. But 'tis ended and in going down I shall 
 not take you with me. No half-way measures are 
 possible. I can not see you again." 
 
 Again he would have spoken but she stopped him 
 and continued, "I am going to ask my father to let 
 me go away for a while until I get used to this, 
 and learn to live this other life. Meantime I beg of 
 you not to try to see me. Go and leave me now." 
 
 He kissed the top of the bowed head and laid his 
 cheek against it. "My poor little sweetheart," he 
 said. "Such foolish sick fancies are not like you." 
 
 But she shrank from him, pleading: "Don't, 
 don't make it any harder. I can not bear it." 
 
 With another soft kiss on her hair, and a gentle 
 pat, he assured her, "Yes Dearie, I will go. You 
 are all wrong. I shall not argue now, but I know 
 your love is not going to change for a foolish whim. 
 You will soon be yourself again and all will be 
 well." 
 
 And he departed, not doubting that she would 
 feel differently very soon. But despite the plead 
 ings of her family, she would not see him again, nor 
 open his letters. And at last they yielded to her 
 persuasion to let her go to New York. 
 
 It was three years later when she returned, with 
 the bitterness in her heart grown still more bitter. 
 She had cemented with self-pity the wall of unhap- 
 
 44
 
 Reconciled 
 
 piness about her. Suffering had clouded her eyes, 
 and hardened the soft curves of her lips. 
 
 The week following her return, her dearest friend 
 was to marry Harold's brother. She refused to act 
 as bridesmaid, Harold was to be best man, but 
 she could not refuse to attend the wedding. She 
 greeted Harold coldly, but could not hide from 
 him the signs of her misery. 
 
 As her family and friends were all in league 
 against her, it was perhaps not entirely accidental 
 that during the evening she found herself alone 
 with Harold on the veranda overlooking Lake 
 Washington. Fortune smiled upon Harold as he 
 stepped to her side. For at that moment the moon 
 peeped from behind a cloud, and bathed the lake, 
 the mountain and woods in its glorious light. Re 
 treat was impossible, so for a moment she stood, 
 staring into eyes filled with the old-time love. Then 
 she looked out over the lake, the glory of the moon 
 light upon it seeming from this distance to be 
 something almost spiritual in its beauty. 
 
 For a long time they stood thus, the silence be 
 tween them tense, while the bitterness, false pride 
 and wretchedness in her heart struggled desperately 
 against the melting warmth of love, an unnamed 
 gladness and the scenes so welcome to her home 
 sick heart. 
 
 At last he spoke gently, and as if continuing 
 their conversation of three years past. "Yes, this 
 and the view from your father's windows were 
 yours. In the goodness of your heart you loved the 
 pictures and did homage to the Maker. But, for- 
 
 45
 
 Reconciled 
 
 give me if I seem brutal, with your first misfortune 
 you forsook your better self, your love and your 
 homage. And, must I say it? you deserted me be 
 cause of your wounded pride." 
 
 Again the silence was tense. Again he spoke, and 
 his voice rang with love and pain. "Florence my 
 love, you can not remain false to both of us." 
 
 Once more there was a moment's silence, and then 
 "Yes, false to both," she repeated. "That is it." 
 And she turned to him a face radiant with joy. 
 "Look at this," and again she made an eloquent, 
 sweeping gesture. "I know now that I was wrong. 
 God's world was calling me to live life bravely 
 and to know myself. And I was afraid. I could 
 not understand. 
 
 "But now, with the homesickness gone, and all 
 this loved scene before me, and the wedding and 
 all and you so near, my panic and blindness 
 have gone like magic. I know now that I shall 
 never again be afraid of life. Oh I feel again the 
 old throb of life and joy. Harold ' 
 
 But Harold was staring amazed. And follow 
 ing his gaze, she too stared. They were looking at 
 her right hand, which unconsciously she had lifted 
 high in air, this time without the aid of strong 
 fingers. 
 
 46
 
 "Rock of Ages" 
 
 Mary Ann Baggs was in front of the cabin clean 
 ing two guns. Joash had planned to clean them 
 that morning, but a summons to court had come 
 the evening before, and he was off in his boat to 
 the main-land, on an unexpected trip, so Mary Ann 
 had promised to clean the guns. They said on 
 Vashon that Mary Ann was "mighty handy;" she 
 could row, fish, and hunt as well as any man on 
 the island, and she kept her cabin neat and her 
 children clean. 
 
 She Avas a strong, capable Avoman. Her old sun- 
 bonnet was pushed back on her head, and her dark 
 hair and bright eyes added to her interesting per 
 sonality. 
 
 The winter before a revival had been held in the 
 little school-house. Mary Ann had come under 
 conviction and got religion. It was the real thing 
 with her. She had a Bible and she read it; and 
 had taught her children the ten commandments and 
 the Lord's Prayer. 
 
 This morning as she worked she was humming 
 to herself "Rock of Ages," and thinking of the ser 
 mon of the previous Sabbath. The text had been 
 "Deliver us from evil." As she sang and worked 
 her eyes Avandered often to the waters of the sound 
 rippling in the morning sunshine. The tide Avas in 
 and the waves lapped gently against the jagged 
 
 47
 
 "Rock of Ages" 
 
 rocks that rose as a natural barrier about the open 
 space in front of the cabin. 
 
 Back of the cabin stretched the great forest of 
 tall Washington pines and firs; the voices of the 
 children came from the edge of it where they were 
 playing. 
 
 Plenty of tradition hung over the lonely spot. 
 The pioneers on the mainland still related tales of 
 Indian orgies on the island, and of a certain cove 
 called "Smugglers' Cove." Even now the peaceful 
 atmosphere was threatened. For months past a 
 band of lawless men had been operating along the 
 coast, committing robberies and depredations, with 
 the island as their rendezvous. Recently the 
 island itself had been the scene of a dastardly deed. 
 Not half a mile from where Mary Ann stood was 
 the deserted cabin of old man Lumley. He was 
 known to have money and had been robbed and 
 murdered by members of the band. Clint Boyd, the 
 leader, had been caught and jailed. His examina 
 tion was now in progress. Joash had gone as a wit 
 ness for the prosecution. Meanwhile the rest of the 
 band were still at large, threatening vengeance. A 
 rumor had come that some of them had been seen 
 a mile or two away. 
 
 Mary Ann was a strong advocate of peace at all 
 times ; but Joash believed that "forewarned is fore 
 armed." 
 
 The sun rose higher; the guns were about fin 
 ished; the children had come from play and were 
 watching their mother. 
 
 48
 
 "Rock of Ages" 
 
 A man on horseback came suddenly round the 
 bend in the narrow roadway leading up from the 
 shore. He was followed by another; and at once 
 two more came into view. Mary Ann gave one 
 look. "The Boyd gang, sure enough!" she said 
 under her breath, "but Joash isn't here. Praise the 
 Lord !" Then her thoughts turned to the old wallet 
 behind the loosened bricks of the chimney. It con 
 tained their savings to buy the bit of cleared land 
 adjacent to their own holding. Outwardly she was 
 calm. She picked up the guns and with Seth and 
 Hetty close at her heels, walked to the little veran 
 dah in front of the cabin. 
 
 The men dismounted, tied their horses to the 
 fence, and entered the yard. The foremost, evi 
 dently the leader, came rapidly towards the steps. 
 He wore brown corduroy trousers and a black shirt. 
 His trousers were tucked into high boots in typical 
 western fashion ; on his head was a slouch hat. His 
 face was dark and determined. 
 
 Mary Ann placed the guns against the side of the 
 house and turned to greet him. 
 
 "Somethin' to eat and that mighty quick, woman; 
 set out some bread and bacon and make the coffee 
 strong; now get a gait on ye. We're hungry men 
 and no time to fool. Must be out o' here in twenty 
 minutes." Without replying, Mary Ann disap 
 peared into the cabin, quickly prepared the food, 
 set it forth on the deal table, and called the men. 
 They filed in, a ruffianly-looking lot. 
 
 As they sat down, Mary Ann, standing at the 
 head of the table, said quietly: "Gentlemen, we 
 
 49
 
 "Rock of Ages" 
 
 allus have the blessin' before we eat," then she 
 folded her toil-worn hands, closed her eyes, and in 
 a solemn voice began the Lord's prayer. Hetty and 
 Seth stood on either side of their mother, and from 
 force of habit mingled their childish voices with 
 hers. 
 
 "Cut it out," began one of the men, but stopped 
 at a look from the leader. 
 
 The petition finished, the men in awed silence ate 
 rapidly and voraciously. Again and again Mary 
 Ann filled up their plates. Suddenly the leader ex 
 claimed : "Time's up, boys," and they rose from the 
 table. Mary Ann's heart stood still. 
 
 The leader turned towards her. "I want ye to 
 know that we ain't much on religion, but we do 
 know a brave woman when we see one. It ain't in 
 our minds to harm ye or the young 'uns, and we are 
 obleeged for the provisions." 
 
 With these words he strode through the door and 
 down the path. He was followed by the other men 
 and they mounted and rode away. 
 
 Mary Ann stood for a few moments in silence 
 looking down the way they had taken. Then she 
 brought the guns in, put them in their places in 
 the rack near the ceiling and went about her work. 
 As she worked, she sang, softly, 
 
 "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee." 
 
 50
 
 Deserted 
 
 "What is that you say, Betty?" 
 
 "The railroad is coming," exclaimed Betty. "Jack 
 just returned from The Dalles. He was talking 
 with the men. They are building rapidly this way. 
 Now if they buy your land, father, for the depot 
 site and pay for the right of way through here, our 
 fortunes will be made." 
 
 The old man shook his head and said, "Yes, if 
 they will. We have waited for so long, Betty, I 
 have lost faith in that Northern Pacific Railroad 
 Company. Your mother was just a slip of a girl, not 
 as old as you are, when we filed on our homestead, 
 and here we have lived and waited for the railroad 
 all these years. How many loads I have hauled to 
 The Dalles and back again in that time ! I do hope 
 I've hauled my last one." 
 
 The old man walked to the end of the porch and 
 shading his eyes with his hand stood looking to 
 ward the Old Town gap. "There is no other way 
 to get through the foothills except through that gap, 
 its got to go through my land ! "I don't mind for 
 myself, I have gotten used to it. But if mother's 
 hopes could be realized," he mused. "If Ben could 
 finish his college course and she could go back to 
 see him get his sheepskin. Bless her, she has never 
 been back to her old home since we left on our 
 honey-moon trip to take a homestead in Washington 
 
 51
 
 Deserted 
 
 Territory. What a brave little girl she has been," 
 thought the old man. 
 
 Spring had come very early that year, in fact 
 there had been very little winter weather and now 
 the garden was filled with blooming flowers. A 
 long row of hollyhocks stood guard between the 
 flowers and the vegetable garden. Back of the veg 
 etable garden a row of tall trees made a wind-break, 
 from which the breezes wafted the sweet odor of 
 the balm buds. Clover in blossom along the irri 
 gating ditches filled the air with its fragrance. 
 The little town on the river was filled with blos 
 soms, both wild and cultivated, for these old set 
 tlers were lovers of beauty and had taken time to 
 grow flowers and vines in profusion. Every house 
 was covered with climbing roses, and although 
 there were few tea roses and bulbs, there were all 
 the old-fashioned flowers and some of the newest 
 and latest things from the East. 
 
 Betty ran back to her own home across the 
 street and the pioneer went into the house to talk 
 it all over with his wife. 
 
 As she had just finished her work for the day, 
 they walked out into the garden, talking of the 
 prosperity that would come with the railroad. As 
 they passed the bed of white daisies, she stooped 
 and gathered a handful and said, "Ben, can't you 
 see little Margaret sitting there in the grass making 
 her daisy chain? Its twenty-five years since we 
 laid her away, and I never see those daisies with 
 out seeing her." 
 
 52
 
 Deserted 
 
 "Yes," said the father, "she looked just like you, 
 blue eyes and golden hair. I can't get over wishing 
 we could have kept her." 
 
 They walked on to the honeysuckle arbor and 
 set talking of their young life together. "Here, 
 Jack courted Betty. How happy they have been. 
 And over there under the sunflowers little Ben had 
 his garden," said his mother. 
 
 They watched the setting sun paint the dull gray 
 foothills gorgeous red and gold and then drop 
 down behind the mountains. 
 
 What dreams filled the mother's mind as she 
 slipped away in slumber that night, dreams of see 
 ing her son graduate from the State University 
 where she had attended school, and where her old 
 school-mate's son was studying now. 
 
 What a beautiful world it was to her that night 
 as she planned her trip and visit with the old friends 
 of her girlhood days. 
 
 "I told you so, Benjamin, 'All things come to him 
 who waits.' ' 
 
 "Yes, if you wait long enough," said the old man. 
 
 The weeks flew by on wings of hope. The whole 
 village was in a flutter of excitement. The rail 
 road official had been there the day before trying 
 to make a deal for the depot site, but as corpora 
 tions have no souls, the fact of the destiny of many 
 lives had no weight. 
 
 The official wrote hurriedly in his notebook, "Old 
 Yakima depot site too high priced," and ordered 
 the engineers to go on four miles north of the old 
 
 53
 
 Deserted 
 
 Yakima site and lay out a new town in the sage 
 brush. 
 
 The old settlers called a meeting in the church. 
 What did this mean? How could the railroad pass 
 through the town and not have a depot? 
 
 The mystery was explained by a railroad official 
 who caine in a few weeks and announced that the 
 company was ready to move every house off its 
 foundation up to a new lot in the new town of 
 North Yakima, which the railroad company had 
 laid out. 
 
 The women huddled together with tears in their 
 eyes. "Must we leave our flowers, our lawns, our 
 shade trees and our berries and fruit and go up 
 there to live in the sage brush? Not a blade of 
 green grass, nothing to be seen but sand and sage 
 brush for miles around !" 
 
 The younger men said, "We have no choice, the 
 railroad will make the new town and kill the old 
 one." 
 
 New comers were already arriving at the new 
 town site. Lots were selling rapidly. There was 
 no time to stop and grieve. In a few days only a 
 half dozen houses were left standing. A few of 
 the old settlers would not move and were left to 
 tell the tale, among them Benjamin Brown and 
 his wife. 
 
 The old pioneer said, "Jack, you and Betty go, 
 you are young and can make a home in the new 
 town, but mother and I will stay on the old place. 
 You will want a cool, shady place to spend your 
 
 54
 
 Deserted 
 
 Sundays; so we will stay here. A railroad surely 
 is a great thing when it can make or unmake a 
 town in a day. Well ! one generation must live 
 for the next. Our children will all be rich some 
 day." 
 
 His prophecy did come true, for Jack opened a 
 real estate office in the new town and could hardly 
 handle the business. The new town was wild with 
 excitement. Sales were frequent, with the same 
 lots being turned over two or three times, each time 
 at a big increase. 
 
 Many men had come through from the East with 
 the first train, eager to take up homestead claims: 
 Shacks sprang up like mushrooms in the night. 
 Lumber was scarce, but tent houses with board 
 floors were put up by the hundreds. Fortunes were 
 made in a day and the new town conquered the 
 desert and caused it "to blossom as the rose." 
 
 Young Ben Brown came back West without his 
 diploma and was elected mayor of the new town of 
 North Yakima. "I don't see," said his proud 
 father, "but Ben gets along all right without his 
 diploma." 
 
 "Well," said the mother, "he might have been 
 president of the United States some day, if he could 
 have graduated with his class." 
 
 In the old town, the yards and gardens filled the 
 air with their sweetness, but the blossoms were left 
 to fade alone, deserted. The birds taught their 
 young to fly unmolested by the small boy. Only a 
 
 55
 
 Deserted 
 
 few old couples sat on their porches in the evening. 
 They looked longingly toward the North Gap 
 where their children had gone to build a new city 
 in the desert. 
 
 56
 
 
 The New Word 
 
 "There's an exquisite suggestion !" 
 
 The exclamation fell from the lips of a passenger 
 on the slowly moving train. Instantly the man's 
 face had undergone a transformation. The deep, 
 gray-blue eyes flashed with pleasure, and the 
 corners of the tightly-closed mouth softened into 
 something that hinted of delight. 
 
 Pillowing both elbows upon his knees, he con 
 centrated his attention upon his magazine. Almost 
 audibly he read again : "There is an old legend that 
 runs something like this. On the day when the 
 Christ toiled on that upward path, with heart pal 
 pitating and muscles straining under His burden, 
 when it seemed He could go no farther, out from 
 the shadow stepped the sweet Saint Veronica, Ten 
 derly, with upturned face, and with lips murmuring 
 a prayer, she drew from her girdle a handkerchief, 
 and gently and lovingly wiped the damp brow of her 
 Master. And, the legend has it when she held 
 up the square of linen, all about her were amazed 
 and awed to see implanted there a perfect likeness 
 of the Savior's face." 
 
 The traveler ceased to read, but he did not move. 
 Nor did he arouse from his revery until someone 
 
 57
 
 The New Word 
 
 near him uttered a low cry of wonder. Then he 
 turned to the window. 
 
 The Northern Pacific train was threading its way 
 over the Cascade Divide, and they were passing 
 through a fairyland of sunlight, of mountain tops 
 aglint with blinding brightness and of huge fir trees 
 shouldering, with never a swerve, their burden of 
 ice jewels. The light that shone upon the eager 
 young face as he read the legend, was intensified 
 by a reflection there of the dazzling beauty without. 
 The Greatest of Magicians had surely been at work. 
 The man drew a deep breath that was full of the 
 spice that only the pine mountains know. He 
 shaded his eyes with his hand as he smiled out upon 
 the glory of the morning. 
 
 But the train was beginning to descend now, and 
 what was that just below them? No but, yes, it 
 must be a cloud, for they were already in the midst 
 of it. Suddenly drops of rain beat hard and fast 
 upon the window pane. The train sped on swiftly 
 through a thick fog to the Sound city. 
 
 The smile vanished slowly and gradually a frown 
 replaced it. After thrusting his note-book impati 
 ently into his pocket, the man opened the bag at 
 his feet and took from it a roll of type-written 
 pages. He glanced at them and then crammed them 
 back into the valise like so much waste paper. 
 
 It was sometime before he settled himself in a 
 restful attitude. Then he relaxed and mused of his 
 journey's end, where he expected to find the girl of 
 his dreams. Soon something conjured up before 
 
 58
 
 The New Word 
 
 him the picture of a girl and boy walking home 
 together from the rural school "in those dear old 
 golden rule days, when she was his queen in calico, 
 and he was her bashful, bare-foot beau." He saw 
 them later in Broadway High School in Seattle. 
 And still again his mind's eye viewed them walking 
 slowly across the Washington University Campus. 
 He had completed his journalistic course, and was 
 telling her, his under classmate by two years, good 
 bye. The sweet eyes were full of proud tears, for 
 she had foreseen great things ahead for him. 
 
 Nearly two years had elapsed since he had seen 
 the girl and he felt that he could wait no longer. 
 But what was he taking her? Had he "won his 
 joust"? Was he ready to go to her and ask for 
 that wonderful thing that he knew was his? Could 
 he face her with a traveling bag full of manuscript 
 worn with marks of their many journeys? A posi 
 tive shrug of the broad shoulders was answer 
 enough. On the mountain summit he had been tre 
 mendously uplifted, first by the startling beauty of 
 the old legend, and again by the sunlight wealth 
 of the Divide. But they dropped from the summit 
 and the sunshine, and grasp at it as he would, the 
 vision slipped away and failed to gild for him the 
 fog and the rain. He knew that he possessed real 
 ability to write. He knew as well that something 
 was lacking, but what it was 
 
 "Is John Gregory in this car?" The words were 
 thundered by the conductor. Our friend nodded in 
 
 59
 
 The New Word 
 
 recognition and received the yellow envelope. His 
 blanched face soon told the story. He could not 
 proceed on his journey to the girl. 
 
 At Auburn a tall, stalwart figure swung off the 
 step before the car stopped and took the first train 
 back to his boy-hood home among the hills. He 
 found the brave little mother very near death but 
 she had waited for her boy. Never could he forget 
 the long night when his lips endeavored in vain to 
 frame a prayer out of the depths of his anguish. 
 Forever would ring in his memory her last words 
 of faith and confidence in him. "I count on you, 
 my son, to fill your measure of a man's work to over 
 flowing. And when you come to the dark places, I 
 shall be there too, and my arms shall enfold you, 
 and when you come to the high places, there I shall 
 be too with my hand in yours." And then she 
 smiled and through Eternity would linger with 
 him the wonder of it. 
 
 The next day he made a path to the woods, far 
 out to the hills. He loved the companionship of 
 the lone bird's call and the wind in the trees. Be 
 fore many days the spirit of the woods lured him 
 as in his boyhood, until by and by it seemed that 
 a silent messenger dwelt in those bleak places and 
 brought him peace. 
 
 Then before he knew it, spring came along. Ever 
 since his mother's death, he had been working with 
 nervous determination upon a new book. He traced 
 his first inspiration for the story back to the legend 
 he had read that morning on the mountain summit. 
 
 60
 
 The New Word 
 
 But it was the mother's smile that had led him on, 
 and on, until his subject had gripped him with a 
 feverish energy, and now the book was well under 
 way. 
 
 One May morning he followed his path to the 
 woods. The south wind caressed the crisp, wavy 
 hair, and kissed away the last line of pain from 
 the youthful face. All about him there gleamed 
 and sang a symphony of glory and life and glad 
 ness. And rising out of it all, he seemed to see 
 the radiant face of the Besurrection Angel walking 
 toward him in shining garments and with out 
 stretched hands. John Gregory bowed his head. 
 
 But what fragrance was that wafted to him across 
 the violets? It must be from that wondrous burst 
 of bloom but a few feet away. Could it be, yes, it 
 was the very shrub that a few weeks ago had seemed 
 absolutely dead. In fact he had doubted greatly 
 that it would ever live again. He laughed aloud as 
 he touched the exquisite thing to make sure it was 
 real. The pine tops forgot their diginity and bent 
 and swayed to the rhythm of a joyous spring-song, 
 and it w r as echoed among the swelling rhododendron 
 buds and the leaves on the ash trees. 
 
 The boughs of the oak w r hispered to him of cour 
 age and strength, and told him a wonderful secret, 
 that at that very moment hundreds of dead-appear 
 ing acorns were sprouting with the faith that they 
 too would become mighty oaks. The clear call of 
 a lark sounded and he reached up both arms as he 
 moved toward it. Happy as a child was John 
 Gregory as he darted from this to that new delight. 
 
 61
 
 The New Word 
 
 He was relearning the secrets of root and mold 
 and leaf and flower and bird. Flashes and glimmer 
 ings of a new understanding lifted and buoyed him 
 with a strange consciousness. He saw and loved 
 life this morning as never before. 
 
 But what was that gleam of color yonder? Ah, 
 the first wild Iris! How often he and the girl 
 had gathered them near this same stream! How 
 well he recalled her childish delight when long ago 
 in this very spot he had told her what Euskin said 
 of the Fleur-de-lis, that it was the Flower of Chiv 
 alry "with a sword for its leaf and a lily for its 
 heart." He smiled tenderly as he remembered how 
 their young hearts had thrilled as they vied in re 
 hearsing for each other the stories of those brave, 
 pure-hearted knights of old. 
 
 Hereafter this flower would be to him alwaj^s a 
 symbol of hope and faith. It should stand for all 
 that he had learned today. There was a mist in 
 the man's eyes as he gathered an armful of the 
 glorious blue. Keluctantly he turned toward home, 
 but he carried with him hidden among the blossoms 
 something more priceless than gold. 
 
 It was Commencement week at the University. 
 The girl was hastening across the campus. Her day 
 had been full of pleasure and triumph, and tomor 
 row she walked more slowly now, and a wistful 
 smile lurked about the sweet mouth, she had so 
 hoped but a friend interrupted the revery. "Oh, 
 Ruth, a box has just been left for you. Do hurry 
 and open it now!" 
 
 62
 
 The New Word 
 
 A moment later the girl lifted from the box an 
 immense bunch of magically hued Iris. When she 
 was alone she opened the note that she had seen 
 peeping from the mass of blue. It contained only, 
 "I'll call for you at six John." 
 
 Long had they sat there beside the friendly rho 
 dodendrons. Soft for an hour had come the lapping 
 of near-by waves, mingled with the whisperings 
 among the alders. At last with luminous faces 
 they sought the beckoning water. 
 
 The lowering sun had charmed upon the restless 
 waves of Puget Sound a long, narrow line of won 
 derful color. The air was very clear and the distant 
 Olympic summits glowed with the rose light of 
 the Infinite. 
 
 John turned to Euth. That which had gleamed 
 at him from the upturned face of the legendary 
 saint, that which his mother's smile had breathed 
 into real life, and which had been fostered by the 
 wild Iris and the larks and the pine-tops, was now 
 clarified and consummated in the girlish figure be 
 side him. He could scarcely wait to finish the last 
 chapter of his book. 
 
 He drew the girl close until he breathed the fra 
 grance of the blue flower in her gown. Together 
 they gazed out over the wild tossing Sound waters 
 toward where they knew there was the mighty calm 
 ness of the Pacific beyond, and then out of the 
 strugglings of the man's soul was born a mighty 
 sense of peace. He felt the glad, promised pres 
 sure of that dear unseen hand, and then he knew 
 
 63
 
 The New Word 
 
 that he had sought out one of the highest of the 
 high places. 
 
 He seemed to see a word emblazoned in shining 
 letters of gold against the jagged, magic-hued peaks 
 of the Olympics; he seemed to hear falling softly 
 from unseen lips, as in a benediction, that new word, 
 Service. 
 
 64
 
 Tod's "Santy" 
 
 The "special" had come and gone, and the local 
 train, "The Owl," that had been sidetracked for 
 twenty minutes, switched to the main line. 
 
 Tod was behind the big sign by the water tank. 
 A little distance away on the end of a log, a brown 
 object had just appeared; sitting erect on its hind- 
 legs, it began to industriously manipulate its front 
 paws. Tod, oblivious to all else, watched it, fascin 
 ated. All at once, he started towards the log. The 
 brown object pricked up its ears, jumped off, and 
 disappeared into the ground right before Tod's as 
 tonished eyes. "It's sure a Jackie wabbit! A 
 Jackie wabbit!" he shouted and ran to tell Uncle 
 Nate and Rod, or anyone of the wonderful happen 
 ing. He emerged from behind the sign and looked 
 and looked again. Nothing in sight near him save 
 the tank, the tall Washington firs and pines and 
 the little spring. In the distance, rounding the 
 curve and speeding away from him was the local. 
 On it were mother, Uncle Nate, and Eod, his twin 
 brother. 
 
 Tod stared for a moment, then he began to howl. 
 The jack-rabbit had come out of its hole, and heard 
 w r ith amazement the unusual sound. As the train 
 entirely disappeared from view, Tod ran down the 
 track after it as fast as his short, fat legs could 
 carry him. Suddenly he stopped, overcome by a 
 
 65
 
 Tod's "Samty" 
 
 sense of desolation. It was a lonely spot, the nar 
 row entrance to the valley; the lofty range of the 
 Cascades rose on either hand, and the big trees 
 grew down close to the track save where a little 
 clearing had been made near the spring and the 
 tank. It was the only stop in the long stretch be 
 tween the big lumber camp and the valley town 
 thirty miles away. 
 
 Finally Tod turned and trotted slowly back to 
 the tank. All about him was silence and the great 
 trees; the rabbit had disappeared again. Near the 
 tank, stood the big new sign. It advertised the 
 fact that the Valley Mercantile Company was 
 "Headquarters for Santa Glaus." A generous sup 
 ply of red paint had been used to portray the old 
 fellow himself, lifesize, with his pack on his back. 
 
 Tod looked up at the big, red Santa Claus, and a 
 feeling of comfort stole into his little heart. "Santy 
 is coming tonight; on the train and everywhere; 
 mother said so. He will find me. He surely will !" 
 The ruddy face of Santy seemed to smile upon him, 
 and he thought there was a twinkle in his eye. At 
 length, overcome by exhaustion, he crouched down 
 in front of the sign, close to Santy's feet and fell 
 asleep. 
 
 The December sun had dropped out of sight be 
 hind the mountains the wind was rising and moan 
 ing among the tops of the pines. Snow had begun 
 to fall in large flakes, few and far apart. 
 
 A horseman riding slowly down the trail stopped 
 at a bend in the path and looked cautiously up and 
 
 66
 
 Tod's "Svnty" 
 
 down the track. "Coast is clear," he said aloud, 
 "nothing due now until ten o'clock tomorrer. Tom 
 said as how he would cache the provisions in that 
 clump of trees, same as t'other time. I'll get 'em 
 and be making tracks back afore it gets too dark. 
 Looks like we're in for a big storm. I shan't ob 
 ject." He rode across the track, straight up to a 
 clump of cedars on the opposite side. Dismounting, 
 he pushed away a big stone lying there, and a hole 
 in the ground was revealed. He reached in, and 
 pulled out a canvas sack. 
 
 "Bacon and meal, I judge, and coffee an terbacker 
 from the smell. Good for you, old Pard, you allus 
 know what a feller wants." He rolled the stone 
 into place, fastened the sack to the animal's neck, 
 and mounted again. 
 
 When he reached the track, he turned and rode 
 towards the spring. "Might as well give the cay use 
 a drink. Blamed if the Valley Mercantile Company 
 hasn't put up a new piece of architecture since I 
 was here afore. 'Headquarters for Santa Claus,' 
 and old Nick himself! Big head for business some 
 one must have ; something red on the ground there. 
 It's safe to investigate, I reckon." 
 
 He rode nearer, and looked down on Tod in his 
 red sweater, curled up against the sign, fast asleep, 
 two tears still visible on his freckled cheeks. 
 
 "The little vagabond ! what in the name of King 
 dom Come is he doin' here? Must have got left 
 somehow. Sorry we can't turn into a rescuin' party, 
 but circumstances are plumb agin it." He watered 
 his horse and came back to the sign. "Hate to leave 
 
 67
 
 Tod's "Santy" 
 
 the little chap, but it's too risky." He looked anx 
 iously around; night was coming on and the snow 
 was falling fast. His cap and old mackinaw were 
 already white. 
 
 The child stirred uneasily and opened his eyes. 
 The man stooped over him. "I fought you'd come, 
 Santy," murmured Tod sleepily, "Did you bring the 
 reindeer?" "You bet," replied "Santy," "the whole 
 six on 'em." "But my name's Jake," he muttered, 
 too low for Tod to hear, and "I'm in for it now." 
 
 Holding the child half-stupefied with cold with 
 one arm, with the other he guided the sturdy little 
 cayuse up the trail. The wind was blowing straight 
 from the canyon. Before they had gone a mile, a 
 furious storm was raging. Horse and man fought 
 their way in the teeth of a blizzard ; steadily higher 
 and higher they mounted to a little shack that faced 
 the trail. 
 
 Jake carried the child in and laid him on the rude 
 bunk built against the wall. Raking up the em 
 bers in the fire-place he piled on fuel until the 
 whole room was lit by a cheerful glow; then he 
 went outside, cared for the cayuse and brought in 
 the sack of provisions. 
 
 Tod was awake and was sitting up in the bunk, 
 looking around in bewilderment. Jake carried him 
 to a seat in front of the fire and as he began to 
 remove his shoes and sweater, Tod found his 
 tongue. "Is this your house, Santy"? Then, all at 
 once, he wailed, "I want my mother, an' I want 
 Uncle Nate and Roddy." 
 
 68
 
 Tod's 
 
 "All right, all right, Kiddie, we'll find 'em ter- 
 morrer. The reindeers will be ready to take us to 
 the ten o'clock, but we'll have to stay here tonight 
 on account of the storm. It's too much for my 
 reindeers, though they're pretty tough. Now you 
 just sit and toast your toes, while I hustle around 
 and get somethin' to eat." 
 
 Tod, warmed and fed, cuddled down in Jake's 
 arms. 
 
 "You're a funny Santy," he said after awhile, 
 "but I 'spose you're all right. I hope you brought 
 my little auto, I wrote you 'bout it, you know; 
 you may give it to me now, if you want to." 
 
 "Better wait till tomorrer, kid," replied Jake, 
 "you kin have this tonight," and he pulled out a 
 battered watch. 
 
 Tod took it and was silent for a time, turning it 
 over and over, in the firelight; then the torrent of 
 questions broke forth again. 
 
 "Did you bring presents to the Babe of Bethle 
 hem, Santy? when he was lying in the shed with 
 the cows and sheep? It's his birthday tomorrow, 
 mother said. I'm four years old, and I get presents 
 on my birthday. Did you 'member Him when He 
 was down here? I 'spose you've been alive ever 
 since the Lord made little boys and girls, haven't 
 you?" Suddenly he began to sing: 
 
 "While shepherds watched their flocks by night 
 A sitting on the ground." 
 
 "Mother sings that I don't know but just those 
 two lines." 
 
 69
 
 Tod's "Santy" 
 
 The fire on the hearth burned low. Jake put 
 Tod back in the bunk, and covered him carefully 
 with his old coat. The child slept peacefully. 
 
 When morning broke, the blizzard had spent its 
 force. The snow lay in huge drifts on the moun 
 tain sides. Above the cabin towered the snowy 
 peaks of the Cascades bathed in the morning sun 
 light. 
 
 Very early, Jake with Tod in front, astride the 
 cayuse, started down the trail. He knew full well 
 the risk he ran in making the ten o'clock, but his 
 promise to the child must be kept. There was no 
 other way. 
 
 Sometimes they waded snowdrifts that came to 
 the animal's neck; again the ground was bare, but 
 covered with ice that made traveling difficult. Tod 
 was happy and very sociable, but Jake grew very 
 quiet as they drew near the track. 
 
 "There's the train," cried Tod as a shrill whistle 
 was heard in the clear, still air, and the rumble of 
 wheels reached their ears. 
 
 "And there's Uncle Nate," he added, as the train 
 reached the tank and a well known form appeared 
 on the platform. 
 
 "I'm here, Uncle Nate," he shouted. "I stayed 
 all night with Santy. He's here too. I've had a 
 splendid time. Looky! Looky." He held up the 
 battered watch. "It's mine. Santy gave it to me." 
 
 The train stopped just long enough for Jake to 
 place Tod in his uncle's arms. "Tell me your name 
 and where to reach you," said Uncle Nate. Jake 
 shook his head. 
 
 70
 
 Tod's "Santy" 
 
 "Good-bye, Santy," piped a little voice. "You're 
 sure I'll get the auto." "Sure, sure," answered 
 Jake. "Good-bye, Kid." 
 
 As the train moved on, suddenly a shot rang out 
 and several horsemen rode into view, coming down 
 the opposite hill. 
 
 "We've got him all right," exclaimed Big Sam, 
 the sheriff, as he saw Jake reel and fall. Dis 
 mounting, he ran to the side of the prostrate man. 
 Jake opened his eyes, his dying glance fell on the 
 sign, and a smile drifted across his lips. "Christ 
 mas, and the little tad took me for Santy." 
 
 71
 
 Her Birthright 
 
 Louise Whitman paused in her dusting and 
 studied thoughtfully the rugged western landscape 
 framed by the window, pines, cedars and tama 
 rack in the foreground, volcanic rock in the middle 
 distance, and far away against a cobalt sky, many 
 purple mountains. She remembered how, when 
 her eyes had first rested on the scene, she had 
 thrilled at the prospect of reproducing it. Painting 
 had always given her a peculiar joy. She responded 
 with exalted emotion to any happy juxtaposition of 
 colors about her, and the successful transferring 
 to canvas of a mood of nature gave her acute 
 pleasure. 
 
 Five years ago ! And for nearly a year now she 
 had not opened her paint box. Her baby, now three 
 years old, had quite fully occupied her time, but 
 she knew that he had not been the real obstacle. 
 On the contrary, she saw that, other things being 
 equal, he might have contributed to her inspiration. 
 For the first year she had worked diligently and 
 happily, although she found with keen disappoint 
 ment that her husband took no interest whatever 
 in her efforts. About the end of the year however, 
 Paul's business affairs began to go badly, and at the 
 same time his attitude towards her painting 
 changed gradually from indulgent toleration to im 
 patience and active hostility. Then the baby ar- 
 
 73
 
 Her Birthright 
 
 rived, and for the next two years Louise was so 
 completely occupied with the normal and satisfy 
 ing cares of motherhood that the issue was lost 
 sight of. 
 
 One bright May morning when the air was vi 
 brating with sunshine, Louise tucked the baby into 
 his go-cart, and taking her paintbox under her arm, 
 started off for a nearby park intending to make a 
 day of it. From the first however everything went 
 wrong. The baby kept getting his fists into her 
 paints; she found that two years of almost com 
 plete idleness had played havoc with her skill, and 
 what divided attention she managed to give to her 
 canvas produced only the most discouraging results. 
 About the middle of the afternoon she gave up and 
 returned to the house. Paul had arrived, driven 
 home early it appeared by a headache, after an un 
 lucky day in business. His mood had not been im 
 proved by half an hour in the empty house, and 
 upon seeing the painting materials he gave vent to 
 his ill-temper in a bitter denunciation of her pas 
 sion for painting and her extravagance in indulg 
 ing it. Louise was deeply hurt, but after consid 
 ering the matter calmly she saw that the founda 
 tion of his complaint lay in money matters, and in 
 order to make her avocation, at least, pay for it 
 self if possible, she determined to make a few 
 sketches and try to sell them. For the next few 
 months she worked passionately and secretly; but 
 although she was able to do two or three things 
 which satisfied her moderately, she knew intuitively 
 that they were too impressionistic for any general 
 
 74
 
 Her Birthright 
 
 appreciation or market. Her pictures stood about 
 in an art store gathering dust until she removed 
 them in chagrin. After that she painted no more, 
 and tried conscientiously to fill the void in her life 
 with her domestic duties and her child. 
 
 Today as she looked out on the familiar scene it 
 failed to stir her. Had she lost her responsiveness 
 to the beautiful, she wondered? She finished her 
 dusting and went out to the kitchen to prepare the 
 lunch. 
 
 "Hello, Louise," called Whitman as he entered 
 the house that evening, "you'll never guess who's 
 here !" 
 
 "Why, Harry Collins, of all people!" Louise ex 
 claimed as she warmly grasped both hands of the 
 unexpected guest. 
 
 Collins, whom both of them had known since 
 childhood, had become the editor of one of Chicago's 
 great dailies. He had the alert, intelligent look of 
 a man who is keenly alive in an interesting world. 
 
 During dinner the talk centered about old 
 friends and doings "back east." Collins showed 
 himself to be an active participant in Chicago's af 
 fairs. He spoke of politics and the Press Club, of 
 the Thomas Orchestra and the Art Institute, in each 
 of which he had a personal interest. 
 
 "Harry," said Louise after a while, "it strikes me 
 that your own development has been quite as sur 
 prising as Chicago's. You used to be a very prac- 
 ticl sort of boy. How do you happen to know so 
 much about music and art?" 
 
 75
 
 Her Birthright 
 
 "Well," said Collins smiling, "I think this is the 
 first time I was ever called on to defend myself on a 
 charge of undue mentality, but if you must know, 
 I think I'll have to follow the example of Adam 
 and throw the blame on a woman. The fact is that 
 my wife has been educating me. Before I was mar 
 ried I used to think that the only suitable pleasures 
 for a man were hunting, baseball and poker. My 
 idea of absolutely nothing doing was Grand Opera 
 or a picture gallery. My wife has taught me that 
 the most satisfying pleasure in life comes through 
 studying things. Take Art for instance. Four 
 years ago I had never suspected that Art could be 
 interesting to anybody but an artist, and I thought 
 that artists were born, not made. Now it's my 
 favorite hobby, and in a small way I'm a collector. 
 What started me was a little book my wife gave 
 me on "How to look at pictures." It was delight 
 ful. I followed it up with a course of lectures at 
 the Institute, and I've been studying the subject 
 ever since. I have an idea that almost any subject 
 is interesting if you study it, and for a guide to the 
 good things in life commend me to an intelligent 
 and educated woman. What do you say, Whit 
 man?" 
 
 "Well," said Paul, "I subscribe to your senti 
 ments about women. I did my part in putting 
 through the suffrage bill. But as to the rest I have 
 my doubts. I don't know a thing about art myself, 
 and I don't believe there is any of it in me. It sim 
 ply doesn't interest me." 
 
 76
 
 Her Birthright 
 
 "It doesn't interest you because you never gave it 
 any of your august attention. You probably prefer 
 billiards. We men are all alike, and we're really an 
 awful set of asses. Here, come in the parlor a 
 minute," he continued, "and I'll prove to you that 
 pictures are interesting. Here for instance is a 
 sea-view. It isn't bad, but it doesn't compare with 
 that little landscape over there. See how true that 
 perspective is; you could walk among those trees. 
 Now look at the sea-scape. Don't you see that there 
 is something just a little wrong about the colors? 
 The water hasn't the solid, rolling look of a real 
 ocean, and " 
 
 For half an hour he talked, not pedantically, but 
 in the simple conversational way of a man who 
 knows his subject and wants to share his pleasure 
 in it. Louise saw with secret delight that Paul 
 was genuinely interested. 
 
 "By the way, Louise," said Collins finally, "it 
 just occurs to me that you used to paint. In fact 
 you were supposed to be quite a budding genius. 
 Are you keeping it up?" 
 
 "No," she replied laughing in embarrassment, 
 "if I ever had any genius I'm afraid it's a case of 
 'the light that failed.' " 
 
 "The light of genius never fails unless it's smoth-* 
 ered," he commented. 
 
 "Well," she answered, "a baby is pretty smoth 
 ering, and " 
 
 "Look here," said Whitman suddenly, "I guess 
 the fact of the matter is that I'm the smotherer." 
 
 77
 
 Her Birthright 
 
 "No," said Louise quickly, "that isn't true. I 
 have just lost interest. I was thinking of it today. 
 I don't long to paint as I used to. The baby and 
 the housework keep me busy, and I seem to be 
 quite contented." 
 
 "If that is true," said Collins, seriously, "it cer 
 tainly is a shame. You mean that you have given 
 up the immense pleasure of real work of striving 
 after the unattainable, for the pitiful satisfaction 
 of doing your drudgery well. It's a case of Esau 
 and the mess of pottage." 
 
 "Oh," she laughed, "I don't think I have sold 
 mine entirely. I have dabbled a little since we 
 came west. That little sketch in the parlor that 
 you seemed to like was mine." 
 
 "I suspected it," said Collins, calmly, "but I 
 meant every word of what I said about it. It's good. 
 It's the real thing. I'm positive I can sell it for a 
 hundred or so if you care to part with it." 
 
 "No," said Whitman quickly, "I want that sketch 
 myself. It's the first picture I ever saw that I cared 
 for." 
 
 Collins staid until midnight, and then Whitman 
 left also to take him to his train. The next morn 
 ing at breakfast Paul began courageously: 
 
 "Louise, I believe that if the dog in the manger 
 had ever learned to like hay himself, he would not 
 have been so mean about the matter. He probably 
 thought it was all foolishness for the cow to eat the 
 stuff. I'm ashamed of myself my dear, and I'm 
 sorry. I want you to go on with your painting and 
 
 78
 
 Her Birthright 
 
 I want you to educate me as Collins' wife did him. 
 Will you do it?" 
 
 For answer she reached a hand across the table 
 and Paul pressed it tenderly. 
 
 When he had gone, Louise stood at the window 
 and looked across at her favorite scene with shining 
 eyes. She knew just how she would begin to paint 
 it. 
 
 79
 
 The Disciplinarian 
 
 Thomas Carmichael was one of the pioneers of 
 the Sound country and all the people in the valley 
 loved him. His large heart yielded sympathy as 
 his broad acres yielded harvests and his farmhouse 
 was a caravansary from which no traveler was ever 
 turned away. And this capacious farmhouse with 
 its labyrinthic interior enabled his daughter Jennie 
 to elude the household order of rising with the lark. 
 
 This shrewd and tactful Jennie was soft and 
 round and dimpled and pink, the baby of the family 
 and pampered withal, notwithstanding her father's 
 efforts to bring her up in the way she should go. 
 Her winters were spent in a boarding school and 
 her summers in the hammock and in making raids 
 on the pantry between meals. Also, she exerted 
 some time and energy in trying to find a place to 
 sleep where her father could not find her and get 
 her up at sunrise in the morning. 
 
 When breakfast was well under way and the fam 
 ily and its helpers were awake and abroad, it was 
 Uncle Tom's habit to make a roundup of the house 
 to find Jennie and get her out of bed in time for 
 breakfast. This was no small part of the morning's 
 work, for Jennie changed her bed every time her 
 father discovered where she slept and it was often 
 difficult to locate her. But Thomas Carmichael's 
 interests were manifold and his attention had often 
 
 81
 
 The Disciplinarian 
 
 to be withdrawn from his sluggish daughter and 
 given to more important matters, whereby Jennie 
 profited. 
 
 Among his civic responsibilities was the chair 
 manship of the board of directors of the Rhododen 
 dron School. He sent no children to the school, 
 himself, his own having married and gone their 
 way except Andrew and Jennie, who w r ere supposed 
 to have outgrown the district school. But his in 
 terest in the local seat of learning was none the less 
 deep and he discharged his responsibility faithfully. 
 
 When harvest was in full swing and all hands in 
 the field hurrying in with the hay, a young woman 
 from another community came to the house to apply 
 to Uncle Tom for the winter school. They told her 
 that he was in the field with the men, and invited 
 her to stay over night and see him at supper time, 
 which invitation she accepted. The need of some 
 repairs to the machinery took Mr. Carmichael to 
 the station that afternoon and he did not reach 
 home until late at night, making it impossible for 
 the teacher to see him until morning. 
 
 The delay made no difference. It was expected 
 that Uncle Tom would give her the school because 
 it was hard to refuse a woman at any time, also 
 because his son Andrew had already spoken for 
 her. Andrew's interest in the young woman lay in 
 the fact that he had met her at country dances 
 down the river valley and had gotten himself en 
 gaged to her. To be sure, Andrew's engagements 
 were not taken very seriously by any one except 
 himself and the woman engaged, because there had 
 
 82
 
 The Disciplinarian 
 
 been so many of them. He had been making en 
 gagements since he was in his teens, and the girls 
 in the neighborhood who had once been engaged to 
 Andrew Carmichael were married and happy and 
 numbered their children by twos and by threes. 
 
 But one young woman near by, to whom he had 
 pledged his faith while he was yet a minor, was bid 
 ing her time. Clemmie Whiteside did not want re 
 venge, she wanted Andrew. She knew his character 
 and she knew his past; she knew all of his weak 
 nesses, and she wanted Andrew. She was not 
 handsome, red-haired and lofty, as was Mary Ham 
 ilton, the teacher, but she knew what she wanted 
 and she could wait. 
 
 Not long after Miss Hamilton was installed in 
 the house to await the return of Uncle Tom, led by 
 some instinct, Clemmie Whiteside came over to 
 sit in the hammock with Jennie and by some process 
 of telepathy impressed the thought upon Jennie 
 that she must ask her to stay all night; and while 
 Mrs. Carmichael and the women were at work in 
 the kitchen, Jennie was sent up stairs to make ready 
 a room for Miss Hamilton, who had been left read 
 ing in the living room. Clemmie went up with 
 Jennie. Half-way up the stairs she stopped to 
 steal a glance from ambush at the girl who had sup 
 planted her. Andrew had deserted the haymakers 
 as soon as he had learned that Mary Hamilton was 
 in the house and had found his way to her presence. 
 He was in his happiest mood. He was bantering 
 her and calling her "Mary Carmichael," and sing 
 ing snatches of Scottish folklore to her. 
 
 83
 
 The Disciplinarian 
 
 "You are fit to be a queen's maid of honor, any- 
 day," the girls heard him say, "and you shall live 
 to wear the name of two of Mary Stuart's maids 
 of honor, and surpass them both in beauty." And 
 then he trailed off into the swan song of another 
 Mary Hamilton who lived three hundred years be 
 fore her : 
 "Last night there were four Marys, tonight there'll 
 
 be but three; 
 
 There were Mary Beaton and Mary Seaton and 
 Mary Carmichael and me." 
 
 "Do you know who the other one was, my red- 
 haired sweetheart," he challenged. "She was Mary 
 Hamilton; and I know another Mary Hamilton, a 
 modern Mary Hamilton, who will be Mary Carmi 
 chael before the year is out, and who will have all 
 the graces of them both. I only asked dad to give 
 you the school so we could have you in the house 
 and I could make love to you every day." 
 
 But it became apparent to Clemmie on the stairs 
 that Mary Hamilton was hard to court; and that 
 she seemed only half in love with the ardent An 
 drew. She secretly exulted. "Come on," she said 
 to the waiting Jennie, "we have work to do up 
 stairs. Where are you going to put her to sleep?" 
 
 "Don't know," answered Jennie. "Don't know 
 where to sleep myself, to keep out of dad's way." 
 
 "Does he still whip you in the morning to get you 
 out of bed?" 
 
 "Yes, he does, if I don't keep out of his way. He 
 can't always find me." 
 
 "Where did you sleep last night?" 
 
 84
 
 The Disciplinarian 
 
 "In the room under the hemlocks." 
 
 "Did he find you?" 
 
 "Yes, and he will be back there again in the 
 morning, looking for me." 
 
 "Well, put her in there ! Put her in there !" 
 
 Jennie giggled. "Yes, but I don't know where 
 we can go, ourselves, there are so many people in 
 the house in haytime." 
 
 "That room opens on the veranda," suggested 
 Clem. "Put her in the hemlock room, and we can 
 sleep on the veranda. We can rig up some kind of 
 a curtain and make a bed on the veranda." Jennie 
 agreed. 
 
 In the morning they were awakened by the sound 
 of a shingle at work in the hemlock room, as they 
 called it, and looking through the window they saw 
 Uncle Tom bringing it down on the sleeping girl 
 and shouting: 
 
 "Now, will you get up? Now, will you get up!" 
 
 "A red head shot up from the pillows and a terri 
 fied voice answered : 
 
 "Oh! yes, yes, I'm getting up! I'm getting up!" 
 
 "When she got possession of her faculties she 
 saw glaring over her an old man who looked like 
 Andrew, and she knew it must be his father. She 
 turned on him with scorching eyes: 
 
 "I am getting up, yes indeed ! and I am going just 
 as soon as I get dressed, and if this is the way you 
 treat people who come to your house, I am glad to 
 know it before I am led into marrying the son of 
 a man like you !" 
 
 85
 
 The Disciplinarian 
 
 All this went on while Uncle Tom was recover 
 ing his breath and taking in the situation. He was 
 as much surprised at the red head which came up 
 out of the pillows as she was at the shingle. He 
 stared and stammered and choked, then bolted for 
 the door. He did not stop until he reached the hay- 
 barn and jumped into the hay to hide. 
 
 "What under heaven is the matter, father?" 
 asked Andrew, who was feeding the stock. "You 
 look as if you had broken a blood-vessel !" 
 
 "I don't know whether I have or not," answered 
 the old man, "but I know I've broken your engage 
 ment!" 
 
 "What ! What ! What do you mean !" exclaimed 
 his son. 
 
 "I've spanked the teacher! I thought she was 
 Jennie and I took a shingle to her to get her out of 
 bed! I suppose she will go and get out a warrant 
 and have me arrested, and I don't blame her if she 
 does ! I ought to be locked up in an insane asylum 
 for such a blasted blunder as that! I feel as if I 
 ought to go to town and surrender to the marshal." 
 
 Not Aunt Millie and Jennie and Clemmie and An 
 drew combined could placate the injured Mary. She 
 took her departure in lofty indignation, throwing 
 her engagement ring at Andrew's feet. 
 
 Not until Clemmie Whiteside was Andrew Car- 
 michael's wife by all the authority of the law and 
 the church did Jennie tell the secret of Andrew's 
 broken engagement. 
 
 86
 
 "The Fine Country" 
 
 AWARDED SECOND PRIZE 
 
 Helga was happy. She sang as she made the 
 toothsome small Christmas cakes with Elsa pud 
 dling with a bit of dough at the other end of the 
 fine table Oscar had made from the boards of a 
 packing box. 
 
 "It's the fine Christmas we will have," chirruped 
 Helga shaking a spoon playfully at little Oscar who 
 lay in his basket and stretched his thin little arms 
 toward his mother with a wan smile. 
 
 "It's the fine country. Is it not? Yes?" the 
 happy mother prattled on. "Green grass right to 
 the door and it Christmas, and the Christmas tree 
 growing on the hill behind the lot and such greens 
 Her eyes came to rest upon a wreath of Wash 
 ington holly, gay with a bow of red tarlatan, thrift- 
 ly saved from a fruit basket, that hung in the win 
 dow. 
 
 The Sandgrens had seen hard times. First, there 
 came the illness of Mother Sandgren, the expensive 
 operation that was not successful, and the simple 
 funeral that had swallowed up the last of the sav 
 ings. Then came the strike with Oscar out of work, 
 and the little family shifting to a poorer tenement, 
 and Oscar's being obliged to let his insurance "go 
 back," and many days when the cupboard rivaled 
 Mother Hubbard's for bareness. 
 
 87
 
 "The Fine Country" 
 
 Into these troubled anxious days little Oscar was 
 born, pale and puny. Often there was no fire in 
 the poor little rooms. Helga snuggled her frail 
 baby in the feather bed and trembled at the thought 
 of the winter. 
 
 Then came news of a far country of wonderful 
 climate and an abundance of work. Mother Sand- 
 gren's hand-woven sheets and table covers and the 
 quaint lace collars of strong thread and intricate 
 pattern procured the tickets to Seattle. The poor 
 little cottage on the ragged outskirts of the city; 
 with the red rambler stretching its bare runners 
 along its frail porch, looked like Heaven after the 
 crowded tenement. Little Oscar lay in his basket 
 under the naked rambler and breathed in the air 
 smelling of kelp and invigorating with a tang of 
 salt and stopped his pitiful moaning. 
 
 Each day Oscar went thankfully to his job where- 
 ever chance or good fortune called him and looked 
 forward hopefully to the spring and steady employ 
 ment in his own calling. 
 
 "For the Christmas," smiled Oscar, slipping a 
 gold coin into his wife's hand. 
 
 "Five dollars !" marveled Helga with happy won 
 der, "so much can we have? A rocking chair and a 
 rug it will buy, and a Teddy for little Oscar and a 
 Kewpie for Elsa." 
 
 That was the way Helga found Miss Grace. "It's 
 the church ladies' rummage sale for the grand bar 
 gains," Mrs. Kruppner told Helga. 
 
 88
 
 "The Fine Country" 
 
 Miss Grace's booth was in a hubbub. There had 
 been a near-accident. Investigation proved a badly 
 torn gown was the worst of it. 
 
 "It's like new, I can fix it," offered Helga, "my 
 mother do the fine sewing in the old country." 
 
 While the skilled needle flew in and out, Helga, 
 with little Oscar tucked under one arm and Elsa, 
 a flaxen-haired little fairy, pressed close to the 
 other side, opened her heart to the kindly inquisi 
 tive young ladies. The hard, hard days of the 
 strike, the bright little cottage "all to our own- 
 selves," and the happy Christmas-making under the 
 leafless rambler, all came out. 
 
 And, lo, the purchasing power of that gold coin ! 
 a really good rocker, a serviceable rug for the little 
 house, a cosy lounging jacket for Oscar, an open- 
 and-shut-eyed dolly for Elsa, a Teddy bear, a woolly 
 dog, and a red ball for little Oscar, not to mention 
 a dainty apron and a string of beads for Helga her 
 self. 
 
 Winter flowed on into spring. Little Oscar grew 
 plump and frolicsome. Helga worked happily in 
 her garden. 
 
 "So early the lettuce and the peas," she mar 
 veled to Mrs. Kruppner. "The fine country! Is 
 it not? Yes? In the old country all the time it is 
 the wars. The mothers raise their babies for the 
 guns ugh." 
 
 Then came the promise of Oscar's steady work. 
 "Tomorrow, I begin," he exulted, pulling the rocker 
 upon the rug and Helga upon his knee, with a glass 
 of beady brown home-brew held high, he toasted the 
 
 89
 
 "The Fine Country" 
 
 fine job. "The pay will be so fine. Soon we take 
 out the insurance one time more. Maybe some day 
 we buy the little place. Little Oscar will go to the 
 free school and get to be the boss. The fine country ! 
 Is it not? Yes?" 
 
 It was thus Miss Grace found them. "A Rem- 
 brandt! A Rembrandt," she cried at sight of the 
 tableau. 
 
 In an hour she was back with a present for Helga. 
 It was a small framed print of Rembrandt with his 
 wife, Saskia, upon his knee. He held aloft a glass 
 of wine. "An Hour to Happiness and to Wine," 
 she interpreted for Helga. 
 
 The next day, as Helga worked contentedly in 
 her garden, a workman appeared, rolling his hat in 
 embarrassment and stammering his tale with sor 
 row-choked gasps. At last, Helga understood. In 
 dustry had taken its toll. It was Oscar. Her 
 heart died within her. The springs of happiness 
 ran dry. She had seen this come to a score of 
 women. Now it had come to her. She could not 
 have quoted Kipling: 
 "Lift ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path 
 
 more fair or flat 
 
 Lo, it is black already with blood some son of Mar 
 tha spilled for that. 
 Not as a ladder from Earth to Heaven, not as an 
 
 altar to any creed 
 But simple service, simply given, to his own kind in 
 
 their common need." 
 
 but in her heart she knew the law and it crushed 
 her to an inarticulate stupified thing. Dumbly she 
 
 90
 
 "The Fine Country" 
 
 sat in the undertaker's room beside her loved clay 
 and held the cold hand that had held the glass of 
 ale to toast the fine job. 
 
 "So fine the pension you will get," comforted 
 Mrs. Kruppner. "It is twenty by the month and 
 five for each of the three children, Mrs. Slavonski 
 gets for her man." 
 
 But Helga recked nothing of employers' liabil 
 ities, and of pensions. Oscar, her Oscar was gone. 
 She seemed deprived of all power to move on into 
 the blackness ahead. Tearless and stricken, she 
 sat in the rocker on the rug and gazed with un 
 seeing eyes at the Kembrandt, her brain shocked 
 out of all capacity for thought. The children, their 
 pinafores soiled and their pretty faces unwashed, 
 crouched in a corner over the battered Christmas 
 toys, silent and joyless. 
 
 It was thus the charity commissioner found 
 things at the little cottage, for it appeared there 
 was to be no pension after all. A tardy enrollment, 
 a trumped-up charge of carelessness, somewhere 
 the corporation lawyer found a loophole. That was 
 his business, to find loopholes. 
 
 The conditions at the little cottage confirmed the 
 reports brought to the juvenile court. The charity 
 commissioner had to do his duty. At last he pierced 
 the pall lying over Helga's mind and she was made 
 to understand. 
 
 "Give up my babies," she shrieked, clasping both 
 darlings to her breast. 
 
 "The Home will give them good care," soothed 
 the officer, "and you could go out to service." 
 
 91
 
 "The Fine Country" 
 
 "Without my babies, I not cook ; I not eat ; I not 
 live," cried Helga panic-stricken. "They take my 
 Oscar. They not have my babies. I work. The 
 garden! the fine sewing! little Oscar go to the 
 free school! he get to be the boss. My Oscar say 
 it." 
 
 But the officer shrugged his shoulders and bore 
 them away to the juvenile court. It was his duty. 
 Rumors of all this reached Miss Grace. In the 
 court she made her plea and the case was given into 
 her hands. 
 
 The place she secured for Helga was in a large 
 department store. Helga was grateful. In the lit 
 tle housekeeping rooms down town, seated in the 
 rocker placed on the rug, her babies clasped in her 
 arms, her eyes on the Rembrandt, the blessed tears 
 came, at last, a long cleansing, saving flood. 
 
 "So fine the job I have," she told Mrs. Kruppner 
 on the last trip to the little house, "not till nine 
 of the morning do I go to work, and a stool to sit on 
 like any lady, and eight hours by the clock I work. 
 And all the day, the babies so happy at the grand 
 day nursery. So fine the lunch they have and such 
 pretty manners and games they learn, and only the 
 few cents to pay. And at night, " she folded her 
 arms passionately over her breast and spoke with 
 a tense fierceness "they are mine, mine. We sit 
 in the rocker on the rug and look at the fine pic 
 ture and feel Oscar right by." 
 
 But the hard times crowded their way over the 
 mountains into this favored land. Trade was slow 
 at the big store. There were anxious whispers' 
 
 92
 
 "The Fine Country" 
 
 among the shop girls. "Last come; first go," flung 
 out one with meaning looks at Helga. 
 
 The approach of Christmas brought a slightly 
 brisker trade, but still below the usual Holiday 
 mark. 
 
 "So tired my feet," panted Helga dropping upon 
 her stool 
 
 "There'll be plenty of rest after Christmas," 
 grimly from a dark browed girl at the notion 
 counter. 
 
 "Wouldn't wonder if there would be some vaca 
 tions passed around for Christmas presents in the 
 next pay envelopes," mirthlessly laughed a big 
 blonde by the thread cabinet. 
 
 "Ah, cut it out," ordered the dark one gruffly, 
 "she's got kids." 
 
 Again Helga understood. Her pay envelope con 
 tained one of the predicted vacations. Laid off ; no 
 job ; the rent ; the babies ! Miss Grace in California ! 
 too well she understood. What could she do against 
 the hard times? Even her Oscar had been power 
 less. 
 
 All night, she lay wide-eyed, dry-eyed, her babies 
 pressed close to her side. She tried to think of the 
 Christ child. She tried to recall what the kind 
 matron at the nursery had said about the Father 
 of the fatherless and the Friend of the widows. But 
 through her despairing mind beat the refrain : no 
 job ! the babies ! they would take them away. 
 
 Next morning Christmas morning she remem 
 bered the lesson of the juvenile court and tidied the 
 little rooms and washed and dressed the babies with 
 
 93
 
 "The Fine Country" 
 
 care and gave them the stockings filled with the 
 simple presents. 
 
 Then came the dapper little man with his blanks. 
 She was expecting him. It had come. Her babies 
 were to be torn from her. 
 
 Dully she answered his questions. Yes, she was 
 an American citizen. Yes, her husband was dead. 
 Yes, she had been in the state one year. 
 
 On down the list he went. The last question, 
 twice repeated, galvanized her stunned brain into 
 startled activity. What was he saying? Would 
 she maintain a home for her children if granted 
 a pension by the state? 
 
 A pension! A pension for what? For being a 
 mother. 
 
 Slowly Helga took it in. Would she maintain a 
 home for her children! Would she! She laughed 
 and she cried. She hugged her babies as if she 
 would never let them go. She wanted to kiss the 
 hand of the kind man. And oh, what a Christmas 
 they had. 
 
 The next day she scrubbed and polished the lit 
 tle house with the naked rambler running over its 
 frail porch. 
 
 "It's the fine pension I will have," she chatted 
 to Mrs. Kruppner. "With the garden and the fine 
 sewing we will do fine. It's twenty by the month 
 I'll get from the state until little Oscar is fifteen. 
 By then he be through the free school. He work. 
 Soon he get to be the boss. The fine country! Is 
 it not? Yes?" 
 
 94