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Dry Stories 
 
 BY 
 
 NARNIE HARRISON BELL 
 
 TO THE BOYS OF TEXAS 
 
 This Book is Affectionately Dedicated 
 
 By 
 
 The Author 
 
 h. 
 
 19 15 
 
 TELEGRAM PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 Temple, Texas 
 
. I 
 
 .&3. 
 
A STORY OF THE COTTON PATCH 
 

 A Woman's Strategem 
 
 When Anne Winter looked down at the 
 face of her first-born, she felt that mother- 
 hood was the supreme event of a woman's 
 existence. 
 
 She had been a clever artist in her time; 
 had painted some pictures that people 
 talked of noisily, had decorated the ceil- 
 ing of a big church in a big town, and 
 done a portrait in oil of one of the ladies 
 of the cabinet. 
 
 But on a certain January morning all 
 this seemed mere nothingness to the light 
 touch of tiny pink fingers like a drift of 
 rose leaves on her breast. The babe had 
 wailed because it had come into this big, 
 brutal world, and when she had hushed its 
 wailing, it seemed to her that she, Anne 
 Winter, for the first time counted for 
 something in this world. For the first 
 time, she was a real factor in the history 
 of humanity. 
 
 Her psychic senses seemed so quickened 
 that the simplest things had a new signif- 
 icance, and everything in earth or heaven 
 circled about that infant's head. A strip 
 of sunlight coming through the shutter, 
 and falling across the brow of the child, 
 was, to her, the prophecy of a brilliant 
 career; old nigger July told her that the 
 tiny purplish V in the middle of the fore- 
 head was **a shore sign he'd git money — 
 lots of it," and the nurse declared that 
 she knew a thing or two about babies, and 
 
2 DRY STORIES 
 
 she never saw a baby yet with its ears 
 doubled up like that, who didn't have 
 temper — plenty, and to spare. Anne 
 smiled contentedly. That was all right. 
 Everything was all right today. Temper 
 meant force of character, Anne said 
 proudly. 
 
 The child was a boy — otherwise this 
 force of character would have been rated 
 a defect unmentioned by either nurse or 
 mother. He looked exactly like his father, 
 of course; that chin, which was really 
 nothing but a wrinkled cushion of pink 
 velvet, was **Marse John Winter over 
 agin — wasn't nothing 'bout 'im like Miss 
 Anne 'ceptin' jes' the look outen his eyes" 
 — there wasn't any look yet. 
 
 Anne thought that the shape of the 
 baby's head resembled pictures she had 
 seen of Daniel Webster or Henry Clay — 
 she had forgotten which. She was ashamed 
 to tell this to anybody but July, who re- 
 torted, "Clay — who's he? Hump, 'is head 
 looks like a red apple — a big, fine red ap- 
 ple, though. Miss Anne — to me — but jes 
 look at that mouf, ain't it jes' zackly like 
 his daddy? — jes' for the world." 
 
 A light sigh fluttered from Anne Win- 
 ter's lips, and a shadow dimmed the edge 
 of her golden day. Her husband had not 
 yet held their first-born in his arms. This 
 morning he had to hurry to his work in 
 the city, and could not possibly come back 
 at noon. But how eagerly she waited his 
 home-coming tonight, for Anne Winter 
 thought when she should see her husband, 
 tall and strong, standing beside her, hold- 
 ing on his arm this wee bit of humanity, 
 this little life, which meant so much to 
 both of them, a new bond, more sacred 
 and more tender than before, would bind 
 their lives together. Surely, she said to 
 
DRY STORIES 3 
 
 herself, he would come home all right to- 
 night — this, the first night when they 
 could talk together about *'our boy." 
 
 For the dark thread running through 
 the golden pattern of today was the sick- 
 ening fear that John would not be **at 
 himself' tonight. The nights when he was 
 not at himself were too many in the last 
 year — though things had been better of 
 late, and she had hoped that the child's 
 coming would lead him away from the 
 hateful habit which scorched his life and 
 hers. Then a happy, helpful thought came 
 to her. Calling the nurse she dictated a 
 note to her husband, which she gave to 
 old July to take to him at his work. She 
 asked him to be sure to stop at a certain 
 dry-goods store on his way home tonight, 
 and buy the baby a shawl, blue and white, 
 with soft fringes, she had seen in the win- 
 dow there. 
 
 Then she gave the note to the old negro, 
 charging her especially not to wait for an 
 answer. **Hand it to Mr. John,*' she said, 
 **and hurry away, without even waiting 
 for him to read it, do you understand?" 
 Old July nodded. She understood very 
 well. She had helped in such tactful 
 strategems before. 
 
 . Then Anne lay back on her pillow and 
 closed her eyes, with a smile on her lips. 
 She felt that she had saved the day. For 
 him to buy the shawl on his way home 
 was to go to a dry-goods store near by. 
 To go to the dry-goods store was to miss 
 the saloon on the other side. To miss the 
 saloon, was to miss his chiefest tempta- 
 tion. Thus she felt that she had done the 
 very best thing to bring him home as he 
 should be tonight. 
 
 Just let him come home sober to her 
 and the wee laddie tonight, and surely his 
 
DRY STORIES 
 
 tender heart would feel the sanctity of the 
 hour. She would not say one word to him 
 of reform — only she knew that the solemn 
 power of their first night together with 
 their first-born would consecrate him to a 
 better life, if the heart and brain were 
 clear to feel, to understand. Tonight was 
 a pivot in the history of her life. She had 
 done well. All would be right, and swiftly 
 Anne Winter's thoughts ran along the 
 years before her; ran as a river singing 
 and smiling to the sea. Soon she would 
 hold the babe to the window at night to 
 reach for the slim, new moon, and a little 
 later to smile at the flash of spring's first 
 bluebird through a slant of silver rain. 
 How quickly would come the days when 
 his small fingers would curl around hers, 
 and she would lead him out to the garden 
 to tiptoe for the half-open lily buds. 
 
 Children grew so fast, people told her, 
 and how soon, he and she would stand 
 side by side watching the rose-flush fade 
 from the West, and the sentinel stars come 
 out. Then later they would go down into 
 the fields and drive the cows home, while 
 they heard the birds call from the thicket 
 edging the meadow pond. She would 
 teach her boy to see and to hear the beau- 
 tiful. To see and to hear it would be to 
 love it. To love the pure and beautiful, 
 would be to despise the vile and base. So, 
 lying there, and dreaming on, she saw the 
 wee one leap into years, when he hated 
 vice and the homes and haunts of it. He 
 would be careful of everything weak and 
 helpless that crossed his path, would step 
 , aside from the cricket in the grass lest he 
 should crush its chirp — would be tender 
 with the little new wobbly calf, or the old 
 tottering beggar passing by — she saw him 
 a big boy, strong, yet tender, so her 
 
DRY STORIES 
 
 thoughts ran — and she smiled, trying 
 hard to come back to the now and here. 
 But not yet; she saw her boy sitting by 
 his father's knee in the evening-time, and 
 listening to his father's tales of many 
 things. 
 
 The father would tell him great beauti- 
 ful stories of great, beautiful Texas, his 
 parents' native state; and the boy would 
 sit rapt in listening — of course he would. 
 There would be the story of the Alamo, 
 how Crockett fell, and Bowie smiling, 
 though pierced with gaping wounds; how 
 Travis had his cot lifted across the line 
 to fight, and how all the Texans died 
 there, scorning the surrender offered them 
 by the swarthy Mexicans. John would 
 tell him how only one woman and a girl 
 babe were left, who slipped out to life and 
 freedom from their pitiless enemies. 
 
 And John and she would know that the 
 blessedness of the hour was but the lineal 
 descendant of that pivotal first night, 
 when he, sober, strong, stood by her, and 
 in that first night with her first-born, 
 renounced his vice and consecrated him- 
 self to a better life. That brought her 
 back to the now, and the light stir of the 
 wee one at her side. Tonight they would 
 decide on the baby's name. 
 
 Just then she heard old July's return- 
 ing step. As she entered the room, Anne 
 lifted eager, questioning eyes. The old 
 negro shook her head sadly: **He made 
 me wait," she said, and then added 
 brokenly, **he sent the shawl." 
 
 Then she wrapped the shawl, blue and 
 white, with soft fringes, about the sleep- 
 ing child. 
 
 Anne Winter turned her face to the 
 wall and wept. 
 
The Emancipation of Bill 
 
 Marietta Hopkins belonged to the smart 
 set, so her wedding day meant weeks of 
 preparation. Picture hats, shower bou- 
 quets, lavalliere, Lohengrin — all of it — 
 was ready at high noon — everything but 
 the groom. 
 
 The society editor of the local news- 
 paper wrote a delicate paragraph for the 
 next day's issue, which stated that the 
 bridegroom had ^'mysteriously disappear- 
 ed on his wedding day; that foul play 
 was suspected, and the bride-to-be was 
 prostrated." 
 
 Coarser folks said bluntly that **Syd 
 Stowers had skipped; he had not been long 
 in the place, and thought Marietta was 
 rich, found out his mistake, and being in 
 it up to his n.eck, had simply jumped the 
 town. But coarse people will say coarse 
 things. 
 
 Marietta's heart was too elastic to keep 
 an open wound. Her vanity, however, so 
 suffered that she could not face the 
 smart set in which she moved and had her 
 being. 
 
 That is why she wrote a little letter to 
 her uncle Philip in Terrytown asking 
 him to secure her the position of teacher 
 in the country school at the close of the 
 free school term. 
 
 So she put away the fluffy trousseau, 
 packed her smallest trunk with her plain- 
 est clothes, and took the train to Terry- 
 
DRY STORIES 7 
 
 town, comforted in imagining the social 
 stir that her absence would create. 
 
 Even in her simplest clothes, Marietta 
 was a marvel to Terrytown. Her dainty 
 apparel, her delicate beauty, her quick, 
 light step — all of her, so permeated the 
 dingy little place that every morning on 
 her way to school, she was stared at by 
 half the population; by some with shy 
 suspicion — the women mainly — by others 
 with wide-eyed reverence. 
 
 Chief among the latter was Bill Wilson, 
 the biggest, stillest boy in school. Bill 
 had grown up in the place, but had little 
 to do with Terrytown or with Terrytown 
 folks; was generally alone, walking main- 
 ly in the woods, staring up at the trees or 
 stooping down to the grass, mumbling 
 sometimes to himself, until Terrytown 
 shook her head when she spoke of him, 
 tapped her forehead, and whispered 
 **queer.'' 
 
 Bill was queer. He had day-dreams 
 that Terrytown knew not, and Marietta 
 Hopkins was to him, the incarnation of 
 one of these. 
 
 He first saw her as she was leaving 
 the post office with a big square letter in 
 her hand. 
 
 The only gew-gaw that Marietta had 
 brought with her was the engagement 
 ring on her finger. It flashed under Bill's 
 eye, causing him to turn, look and stumble 
 backward in the rapturous surprise of 
 seeing one of his dreams in flesh and 
 blood beside him. Marietta smiled at the 
 stumble, and passed out. 
 
 After that he sat silent in the school 
 room, while the teacher went mechani- 
 cally through the classes, unconscious of 
 her biggest pupiFs adoration. 
 
DRY STORIES 
 
 He dared not speak to her, nor to come 
 near her. He worshiped afar. 
 
 One afternoon when school was dis- 
 missed and Bill waited — it being his turn 
 to sweep the school house — he was amazed 
 at the daring of Mandy Meadows, who 
 walked to the teacher's desk, talked easily 
 with her, just as she would with a Terry- 
 town woman, even toyed with the ring on 
 Marietta's white hand as she arranged 
 the bunch of wild flowers, placed there 
 in secret by Bill. 
 
 **That a dimint. Miss Hopkins?** Mandy 
 asked, touching the stone. 
 
 **Yes, a fine stone,'* answered Marietta. 
 **I*m a judge of diamonds, if I am any- 
 thing. My father let me select this for 
 my graduation gift, and the jeweler said 
 that I guessed correctly the value of near- 
 ly all the stones he showed me. I know 
 a real diamond the minute I see one.** 
 
 **There*s a whole lot o* dimints berried 
 some*ers in Terrytown,** Mandy remarked. 
 
 **Why, where?** Marietta was all inter- 
 est, and Mandy delighted to give the new 
 teacher the chief tradition of the neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 Bill slouched out, taking his pencil and 
 tablet to the flat rock by the spring. 
 
 He had heard that old story of the 
 buried treasure ever since he could re- 
 member. He knew every word that Man-^ 
 dy would say, and he was sick of it. So 
 he would sit by the spring till they left. 
 Besides, he had for many days been trying 
 to write a letter to his teacher, but always 
 ended by tearing it up. He was determined 
 to write one today, and to hand it to her 
 himself, unwilling to risk it in any mes- 
 senger*s hands. 
 
 Inside the school house, Mandy droned 
 
DRY STORIES 9 
 
 out the story, and Marietta listened 
 eagerly. 
 
 **Yer see, Miss Hopkins, that there big 
 white house up yonder on the top of that 
 there hill? Old Miss Nancy Brown lives 
 up there by herself — she*s kinder half- 
 witted, yer know/' Marietta nodded. 
 
 *'Well, her brother, Mr. George Brown, 
 he was rich, orful rich, made it ever bit er 
 farmin', and he died an left jes* Miss 
 Nancy. She was his sister. Well, afore 
 he died he made his will" — here Mandy 
 had to stop to swallow — it always made 
 her mouth water to tell a tale — **an he — 
 er — he said in his will he had done took 
 all his money and bought dimmits — 
 dimints with ever bit uv everything — only 
 jest the home fer Miss Nancy, an he 'lowed 
 in his will as he had made all his money 
 by diggin' — yer see he wuz a farmer — he 
 'lowed 'at anybody what got his money 
 would have to dig fer it — yer see he hid 
 the dimints — berried 'em, Miss Hopkins," 
 Nancy brought her fist down on the desk, 
 **and anybody what finds 'em by diggin' 
 gits 'em — that's eggsackly how the will 
 reads." 
 
 *'Has any one ever looked for them?" 
 Marietta asked in a low voice. 
 
 **Lord! Everybody in Terrytown has 
 been a diggin' ever since the ole man 
 Brown died. Miss Nancy starts into dig- 
 gin' fresh ever spring. Some folks 'lows 
 that's what Bill Wilson is after, a-goin' 
 around so much by hisself a-lookin' like 
 he's a-lookin' for sumpin' — but I don't 
 think Bill keers nothin' 'bout them di- 
 mints. He's so curus like — he jest likes 
 the wild things in the woods, I'm thinkin'. 
 He talks to 'em plum frenly, the rabbits 
 an' birds an' things. He's out there now 
 a-lyin' on the big flat rock by the spring, 
 
10 DRY STORIES 
 
 a-waitin' fer us to go so he can sweep, I 
 reckon/' 
 
 As they left the school house, Bill fol- 
 lowed close, his heart beating thickly un- 
 der the letter in his breast pocket. He 
 would hand it to Marietta when Mandy 
 left her, and then go quickly away for the 
 school mistress to read it alone. The 
 sweeping would be done afterward. 
 
 And this is the letter Bill wrote: 
 
 '*My Dear Miss Hopkins: 
 
 **I want to tell you how glad I am that 
 you come down here to teach. I have 
 dreampt about folks like you are, and 
 wisht I could be around them ever day, 
 so as I could kinder lift myself up to the 
 things they think about. Since I seen you 
 it's easy. Can't tell you what I mean, but 
 I will jest say: To know you and see you 
 makes me want to try harder to be bet- 
 ter ever day, and to make a good true 
 man, like folks are, that are like you. 
 **Your scholar, 
 
 **William Wilson." 
 
 When Mandy turned into the road lead- 
 ing apart from the school mistress, Bill 
 quickened his steps. Instead of going 
 home. Marietta walked straight up the 
 hill toward the big white house where 
 half-witted Nancy lived. 
 
 Bill's hand was on the letter ready to 
 deliver it as soon as he dared. Passing 
 a clump of trees, they came on Miss Nancy 
 digging by the hedge-row, enclosing the 
 garden plot. Marietta slackened her steps 
 and gazed at the woman curiously, just as 
 Miss Nancy with a smothered cry, dropped 
 her hoe, fell on her knees, picked up a 
 moldly leathern bag, and sitting flat on 
 the ground, hurriedly poured the contents 
 into her lap. 
 
DRY STORIES 11 
 
 Marietta leaned over the hedge breath- 
 lessly. She could touch old Nancy's shoul- 
 der, and she looked excitedly at the flash- 
 ing heap of gems on the worn gingham 
 apron. 
 
 Bill waited close behind. 
 
 After a moment's careful scrutiny, Mar- 
 ietta spoke lightly, touching Nancy's arm. 
 
 **Come," she said coaxingly, "sell me 
 those glass beads, will you?" 
 
 Nancy shook her head, folding her 
 apron over the pile of rainbows. 
 
 "Why, they are nothing but beads — 
 glass beads," Marietta persisted. "I'll give 
 you a dollar for them. See, here it is. I 
 want them to make a necklace for my 
 little sister's doll! Come, don't be a fool." 
 
 For answer, Nancy, half-crouching, half 
 walking, slipped stealthily into the house, 
 guarding her precious gems. 
 
 Marietta, muttering her vexation, turn- 
 ed homeward. 
 
 Bill stepped out of sight behind the 
 clump of trees, holding to a branch, a lit- 
 tle, to steady himself. 
 
 When the school mistress had passed 
 on, he took the letter from his pocket, and 
 because of his hands trembling, tore it 
 into bits with his teeth. The wind lifting 
 it, scattered it through the woods. That 
 moment was the emancipation of Bill. 
 
 And the end was but an expression of 
 the beginning, as it always is. 
 
 Way back in the early days of Ken- 
 tucky, the blue grass region knew a Hop- 
 kins family — blue-blooded, high stepping, 
 they called themselves. Race horses 
 stamping in the stables, cellars full of 
 wine, old Bourbon flashing on the side- 
 board — gentlemen of leisure lolling, 
 drinking, drowsing, telling tales of wom- 
 en and of wine. Children were born who 
 
12 DRY STORIES 
 
 did likewise. Their children thought the 
 same thoughts, of course, but a slow grow- 
 ing depletion of finances made the doing 
 impossible. 
 
 As years went on there was a falling 
 away of fine horses and bursting barns, 
 and the cellar's supply grew scantier. But 
 there was always the haughty spirit, the 
 love of luxury, the desire for show. 
 
 Then there came a day when one of 
 the Hopkins men forged a check to try to 
 save the stud that would soon be led from 
 the barn. 
 
 Gradually integrity of soul had been 
 drowned in the Hopkins family — drowned 
 by drink and by pomposity. Among this 
 forger's last remaining servants, was one 
 Bill Y/ilson, a gardener, who worshiped 
 his master, as being far above himself. 
 
 But the old gardener chanced to see him 
 sign a check with a name not his own, and 
 his loyalty was scorched into nothingness 
 at the sight. 
 
 Heredity is unconquerable, though a 
 strong hand may handle it with bit and 
 rein. Knowing this, can we blame Mari- 
 ietta, or can we wonder at Bill? 
 
My Friend, Dan Morgan 
 
 We boast much of America's democ- 
 racy, but I believe that every city ward 
 has its boss, every village its despotic 
 ruler. 
 
 If you should go into straggly, crooked 
 little Harrisburg, Tennessee, any day 
 about sundown, you could tell, with a 
 half eye, who was Harrisburg's un- 
 crowned king. 
 
 You would see him standing in front of 
 a group of men seated on two long benches 
 before Dan Morgan's blacksmith shop. 
 
 For an hour between working time and 
 supper, the business world of Harrisburg, 
 with a quid of tobacco in its cheek, a slim 
 pine stick in one hand, a pocket knife in 
 the other, settled down to discuss the 
 shortcomings and long comings of Uncle 
 Sam. 
 
 Dan Morgan, the blacksmith, was the 
 autocrat of the gathering. 
 
 Just how he came to be it is hard to 
 say, but something in him held sway and 
 it was a maxim in Harrisburg that **what 
 Dan Morgan says goes," and as I have 
 indicated he generally *'said" for an hour 
 at sundown, the crowd about listening, 
 chewing vigorously, spitting when some 
 special point was made, a nod, grunt, 
 chuckle, being their part of the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Dan Morgan's father, a full blood Irish- 
 man, and his mother, a Scotch woman 
 
14 DRY STORIES 
 
 who boasted a tartan and a clan, had be- 
 queathed to Dan a quick wit, a kind heart 
 and a deep-seated integrity. 
 
 They had come to America when Dan 
 was three years old, about thirty years 
 before, so that Dan's roll of his R's now 
 and then, and some quaint words sprink- 
 led through his speech to season it a lit- 
 tle, told of the blood in his veins, down 
 here in Tennessee valley, where he had 
 come a few years before, bringing Millie, 
 his bride — he married an East Tennessee 
 mountain girl — his sister Margaret, a 
 spinster — had built him a little home on 
 time payments, set up a blacksmith shop, 
 and by a sort of psychological supremacy, 
 had come to be the leader .and expounder 
 of Harrisburg's philosophy of life. 
 
 Gradually it leaked out in Harrisburg 
 that Miss Margaret was sixteen years older 
 than Dan; that for some reason or other 
 she did not come to America when Dan 
 and her parents did, but spent about a 
 year in Dundee and Killarney, coming 
 over later, living with them in a little 
 Hampshire village till they died. Then 
 Dan came west, as he called it. Miss Mar- 
 garet following v/hen he married Millie. 
 
 Harrisburg women said they didn't 
 know — they didn't like to start anything 
 — they never wanted to bother in other 
 folks business — but they somehow be- 
 lieved that Miss Margaret had been dis- 
 appointed in love. 
 
 **Mrs. Minerva Brown was over there 
 one day, and Miss Margaret went into her 
 trunk, and Mrs. Minerva could almost 
 swear she saw a pair of white shoes — any- 
 how it Was something done up in tissue 
 paper and they were lying on top of some- 
 thing that looked like a pile of white veil. 
 Apt as anyway she was engaged to a man. 
 
DRY STORIB^S 1fi 
 
 and apt as anyway he slipped onto a ship 
 and run off, and she followed him, and 
 apt as anyway when she got over here she 
 found he had married somebody else." 
 
 Harrisburg should not have hinted that 
 Miss Margaret had been disappointed in 
 love. She may have been disappointed in 
 a lover, which is a very different sort of 
 thing. 
 
 On this particular day of which I am 
 thinking, Dan's crowd, as they called 
 themselves, were chewing more vigorous- 
 ly and spitting oftener than usual, for 
 Dan in his slow, ponderous fashion, was 
 dealing sledge-hammer blows at the Ten- 
 nessee legislature which had passed a 
 law requiring the saloons to close at 9:30 
 at night. 
 
 **It's only another way of saying when 
 men shall drink and where,'* Dan de- 
 clared — '*this 9:30 law, and how much, I 
 guess. It's getting less and less a free 
 country — drawing the reins tighter every 
 day — and it is drawing the reins too 
 tight that makes a horse with any spirit 
 in him try to kick out of harness, I 
 reckon." 
 
 Amos Harper, the truck grower, spat 
 on the ground at that and Ike Rainey, a 
 corner grocer, took from the pine stick a 
 long swath with his knife. Dan Morgan 
 knew what he was talking about. 
 
 **And after all," Dan went on, ** a man 
 that wants to make a pig of himself — why 
 you can't law him out of it, can you? A 
 decent gentleman gets his decency from 
 inside of him; the law can't give it to him. 
 Why not let the saloons stay open as long 
 as they want to, like the dry-goods stores 
 and groceries, if they carry a license like 
 them? And then let men have common 
 sense and decency enough to patronize 
 
16 DRY STORIES 
 
 them like men, who want a little company, 
 not like pigs, that wallow in a trough/' 
 
 **It*s them wimmen's doin's,'* Amos ven- 
 tured to suggest. Dan nodded. **Spec so, 
 and I tell my woman, Millie, if she stays 
 at home and trains our boy right, she's 
 doing the biggest temperance work on 
 earth. Train him up to be a master of 
 himself, too strong to let stuff in a bottle 
 be master of him. Train him so he can 
 drop in, take a drink with a friend, like 
 a man and stop before he gets to be a fool. 
 If the women trained up the boys that 
 way, they'd be getting at the root of the 
 matter a hundred times more than all this 
 temperance reform." 
 
 Jim Duncan, Harrisburg's one old bach- 
 elor, snickered. **It looks that way to 
 me. Seems like wimmin are takin' too 
 much dish." 
 
 Everybody laughed. Jim passed for a 
 woman-hater. 
 
 **You all know me," Dan went on, lift- 
 ing his massive head a little. **I try to 
 live decent and honest. I'd lay down my 
 life for my woman and our boy. I don't 
 make no debts. I go to church every Sun- 
 day that comes, God knows I try to be a 
 man and I don't want some gimlet-headed 
 lawmaker telling me I can drop in Satur- 
 day night at Jim's place up there, have a 
 dram with a bunch of the boys, a game of 
 dominoes, but I must be sure to go home 
 at half past nine. Rot! As if I was a baby 
 and had to be sent to bed when time 
 comes! Strikes me that Tennessee in the 
 United States of America, has some of old 
 England's blood in her yet. What did we 
 fight for, if not for liberty?" And the 
 men nodded and laughed — Dan Morgan 
 knew a thing or two. 
 
 Just then Dan's little boy, three years 
 
DRY STORIES 17 
 
 old, came running up, **Mudder say turn 
 home to supper; you have to eat wite 
 now,'' and Dan, with a great laugh, swung 
 the boy to his shoulder, saying, **A11 right, 
 sir; you are the boss/' 
 
 The men began to scatter. **Great coun- 
 try this is, boys," Dan said to them. 
 **Home and state stand in together, I 
 reckon. State tells us when we shall 
 drink and the women tell us when we 
 shall eat. How's that for a free coun- 
 try?" and the rest of his words were lost 
 in the whirl of a loud guffaw. 
 
 **Supper was getting cold, Dan," Millie 
 said at the door. He gave her a whirl as if 
 she were a feather and seated her breath- 
 less and smiling in the big arm chair. 
 **You women are getting more and more 
 unruly." 
 
 **Getting more ruly, you mean, Dan," 
 his sister Margaret put in. **Ain't you 
 Irish enough to want Home Rule?" 
 
 **You bet you, but they tell me a lot of 
 women have been tampering with the fool 
 legislature." 
 
 Millie put her hand over her mouth. 
 "Eat your supper first, you monster," she 
 said, **then talk about the legislature. I 
 don't want to be till 1:20 getting the 
 dishes washed." 
 
 **A11 right, may I have a piece of ham?" 
 
 **I passed the shop an hour ago," Mar- 
 garet said, when supper was done, **and 
 heard ye trouncin' the legislature, Dan. 
 What's the legislature done?" 
 
 ''Closed the saloons at 9:30. Says we 
 must stop our jokes and drams and domi- 
 noes and get in bed by ten o'clock like 
 good boys. Wooden heads! Why can't 
 they let the saloons stay open as long as 
 they want to, like the dry goods stores? 
 What's the difference? 
 
18 DRY STORIES 
 
 *'I get disgusted at these lawmakers, 
 always a-meddling in the other fellow's 
 business. This 9:30 law is only another 
 way of saying how much a fellow shall 
 drink or how little. Where's the right in 
 that? Might as well tell me how much 
 turnips and hog jowl I shall eat for dinner. 
 What's the difference?" 
 
 "The difference is," his sister an- 
 swered, ''that no matter how much tur- 
 nips and hog jowl a man eats, it don't take 
 away his wits, but after two or three 
 drams, as you call it, he becomes — how 
 d'ye put it? — an irresponsible creature, 
 therefore a ward of the state. And it 
 takes jest about 9:30, I'm thinking, for 
 ye men to begin losing yer wits, then the 
 state takes hold of ye, like the other 
 lunatics, and turns ye in." 
 
 **Don't be a fool, Margaret," Dan re- 
 torted. 
 
 ''Can't help it — runs in the family," 
 Margaret laughed heartily, in which Mil- 
 lie joined and the baby crowed and 
 chuckled for company. 
 
 "Legislature ain't said yet how many 
 drinks we can take before 9:30," Dan 
 answered mockingly. 
 
 "No, nor after," his sister replied. "Now, 
 Dan Morgan, we've been sittin' here lis- 
 tenin' to ye spout a lot of stuff that ye 
 know yerself ain't got a thing in the 
 world to do with that new law. There 
 ain't a word in that law about how much 
 a man shall drink and you know it. When 
 the saloon closes at 9:30 at night, he can 
 take home a ten gallon jug on his shoul- 
 der and swill it all night if he wants to. 
 That's a matter 'twixt him and — " 
 
 "His wife," Millie put it. "Anyhow 
 the law ain't got a word to say about a 
 man's right to drink all he wants." 
 
DRY STORIES 19 
 
 **Same thing/' Dan protested. 
 
 '*What fun is there taking the jug 
 home? It's the jolly crowd we want — a 
 dram now and then with the boys, over 
 the jokes and the game. Who wants to 
 bring home his drams?" 
 
 *'0r his jokes, either,*' Margaret sug- 
 gested. **If ye were to bring them home 
 yer hands would be smutty v/hen ye got 
 here, Dan Morgan." 
 
 *'Well," he yawned, '*I guess it's time to 
 go to bed, except a Salvation Army lass, 
 and I'm going to see that the legislature 
 makes them stop handing 'round their 
 tracts after 9:30 at night. All I want to 
 say," he added more seriously, **is that no 
 outside restrictions on earth can make a 
 man be a man; they must be inside." 
 
 ^'That's right, Dan," his sister an- 
 swered, *'the man's inside, and he should 
 never take inside anything to kill the 
 man. Good night," and she paused a mo- 
 ment to lay her toil-worn hands on his 
 shoulder. Dan covered it with his palm. 
 
 "Ye are a good girl, Margaret." And 
 then his sister left the room. He turned 
 to his wife, Millie, and added, **but a lit- 
 tle sharp with her tongue." 
 
 **She's very wise, Dan." 
 
 **Yes, but don't you ever fear, Millie, 
 no matter how much nonsense we may 
 talk, that whisky'll be unmanning me." 
 
 **I know," Millie answered, '*had you 
 thought, Dan, that we were married four 
 years tonight? I've always meant to keep 
 a little book of our married life, writing a 
 sort of summary of every five years. **I'll 
 keep it twenty years, just to show how 
 things go with us. Won't that be beau- 
 tiful to read, dear?" 
 
 Dan drew her head down to his broad 
 shoulder. Only the firelight flickered over 
 
20 DRY STORIES 
 
 her tender face and the long hair loosened, 
 rippling in yellow gold fell to her knees. 
 
 **That it will, Millie mavourneen/* he 
 said gently, as he loved to call her some- 
 times, '*One year more before we have 
 the summary, eh?** 
 
 '*Yes, four years just gone. We have 
 the blessed boy, the home half paid for, a 
 good business at the shop, our dear Mar- 
 garet." "And our love and trust," Dan 
 added softly. **Please God that will always 
 stay. And when I talk about these foolish 
 laws, Millie, don't ever think I*m wanting 
 more drams than's coming to a decent 
 man. I'd like to see the stuff that could 
 master me and make me forget you and 
 laddie over there, see?" and he rolled up 
 his sleeves, drawing his muscles until they 
 stood out like whipcords. 
 
 Millie lay her slim fingers on the knot- 
 ted tendons. "Could anything master 
 you? I'm not afraid of that," she said 
 softly, as he kissed her. 
 
 The next night was Saturday night, the 
 regular night for Dan's crowd to meet at 
 Jim's place. There was always the smoke, 
 the string of yarns, the round of drinks, 
 the game of dominoes, which lasted till 
 midnight, generally. Be it said to the 
 credit^ of Dan Morgan, who ruled the 
 ranchT that the crowd was generally 
 what's called orderly; that is, nobody's 
 head was broken, and Jim's windows, 
 chairs and tables were treated with equal 
 respect. 
 
 Tonight was all important, for then 
 would be the discussion of the new law, 
 and when the hour came for meeting, 
 every man was at his post, the post being 
 most necessary for some after they left 
 Jim's place. 
 
 "A decent game of dominoes is done for 
 
DRY STORIES 2t 
 
 now boys. Who can make 250 by 9:30 
 o'clock/' Amos Harper said, by way of in- 
 troducing the subject. 
 
 **Aw, whose gointer quit then?" Lee 
 Balls put in. **Guess Jim ain't gointer 
 stand for that, air ye, Jim?" he said, with 
 a wink and a nod at Jim Simpson, the 
 owner and proprietor of Jim's place. 
 
 **Pretty hard on me," was the answer. 
 ''Saturday night, anyway. Half of the 
 rest of the week I don't make anything, 
 but you fellows droppin' in here Saturday 
 after yer git yer week's pay, kinder set- 
 tin' around, stayin' late, keeps things sor- 
 ter goin'." 
 
 Dan Morgan was silent, but everybocLj 
 looked at Dan to see what he would say. 
 After a little Jim Rainey stepped across 
 to the saloon keeper and in a loud whis- 
 per, said: '*A1 Hinson's all right. Al's got 
 sense enough to know there ain't no sense 
 in that law. He knows when to see things 
 and when not to." (Al Hinson was con- 
 stable). **Ain't that right, Jim?" 
 
 Dan shook his head. **No! When I live 
 in a country, I'll come under its laws, Jim. 
 This is a fool law, but when I can't stand 
 a state's laws I'll put out. If Tennessee 
 gets to sawin' on the bits too much, why 
 there's Arkansaw?" 
 
 That settled Al Hinson's deafness and 
 blindness so far as Jim's place was con- 
 cerned. When the closing law took ef- 
 fect the crowd dispersed at 9:30, but they 
 went oftener, and Margaret and Millie 
 gradually came to realize that instead of 
 Dan's one night in the week out, there 
 were two or three nights and as the weeks 
 slipped into months, the little cottage was 
 not as blithe as it used to be. Somehow 
 Dan was getting cross, and once or twice 
 when Laddie, as they called him, would 
 
22 DRY STORIES 
 
 liave climbed on his knee he pushed him 
 away half angerly, saying he was tired, to 
 let him alone. 
 
 Gradually, almost imperceptibly, he be- 
 gan to open his shop a little later, and 
 once or twice, a horse stamped impatient- 
 ly at the door. Then its owner rode him 
 away, too hurried to wait for Dan. 
 
 Margaret began to watch his face keen- 
 ly at meal time. *'You are not well, Dan," 
 she said to him one evening. "You are 
 not like yourself." 
 
 "Well, I*d like to be somebody else for 
 awhile. I*m getting sick and tired of this 
 drive. What's the use?" 
 
 "Come, that's not like you, Dan Mor- 
 gan, and I'm willing to say its your liver 
 that's makin' you talk like that and what's 
 the matter with your liver is ye are takin' 
 too much at Jim's place, and if ye'll jest 
 stick to it long enough it'll get the better 
 of ye, body and soul." 
 
 "There ye go preachin'." 
 
 "All right, call it preaching if ye want 
 to, and down with the drink is my text." 
 
 "That's what the boys do, Mag. We 
 down with the drink," Dan laughed. 
 "What does a woman know about it? 
 Can't I take care of myself? Millie, there, 
 ain't afraid I'll turn fool, are you mavour- 
 neen?" 
 
 "I haven't been," Millie answered sim- 
 ply, with a tinge of reproof in her tone. 
 Dan stopped and lifted Laddie on his 
 knees. "Dad was cross a bit ago. Laddie, 
 just tired, that's all. Now come give me a 
 great big hug. Dan's got to go and have 
 a round with the boys." 
 
 "That's four nights out this week," Miss 
 Margaret said. 
 
 "Well, what if it's eight nights this 
 week? Ain't I my own boss?" 
 
DRY STORIES 23 
 
 "Ye won't be yer own boss at this rate. 
 Now come, Dan; I've seen smarter, strong- 
 er men than you go down in slavery. 
 There's that in the stuff that makes a man 
 not care to be a man, and when he doesn't 
 care, he doesn't try, and when he doesn't 
 try he loses hold and falls, doesn't he? 
 You know my own story, Dan, my lad at 
 Killarney, the best and bravest man. Ye 
 know more! Ye know that Ireland is a 
 country of great minds, a land that had 
 its Grattan, O'Connell, Parnell, Moore, yet 
 ye know that Ireland has never taken 
 first rank in the world. She has always 
 been a sort of laughing stock among the 
 nations. Ye know that our own mother, 
 because she was Scotch, thought herself 
 a wee bit better than father, who was a 
 full Irishman, and why? Because Ireland 
 has always been a nation of drinkers. 
 That's the very thing that has kept down 
 the glory of the country. The pride that's 
 in ye, an the self-respect, goes to sleep 
 after the first dram or two; and how can 
 you expect it to do its work when you take 
 something that puts that pride to sleep, 
 and when it sleeps too long it's dead, and 
 only the grace of God can resurrect the 
 dead to fight the fight you have to fight 
 before ye win." 
 
 Dan Morgan did not play dominoes at 
 Jim's place that night. But there were 
 other nights that he did go and more than 
 one woman in Harrisburg began to wish 
 and pray that Jim's place wasn't there. 
 
 It wasn't long until there came the 
 time for Millie to write in the little book 
 the summary of the first five years of 
 their married life, and the last sentences 
 in the book were these: '*My Dan doesn't 
 go to church with me any more. He seems 
 tired on Sunday morning and wants to 
 
24 DRY STORIES 
 
 stay at home. We miss him, Margaret, 
 Laddie and I, and the sermons and songs 
 are not so sweet as when he sat by my 
 side/' 
 
 And the women whispered to each other 
 softly, **It's all from going to Jim's place, 
 and would to God it wasn't there." 
 
 I wonder how many women in the yorld 
 have whispered words like these? 
 
 About eight years of their married life 
 had gone by when one night, midnight 
 came, but no Dan. Through the cottage 
 window, Millie gazed, straining eye and 
 ear, for the first sight or sound of him. 
 The forge next door was deserted, dark. 
 The little town was silent as the grave. 
 Still she stared into the darkness, listen- 
 ing for his first footfall. Oh the agony 
 of such waiting! For the anxious eye 
 to fancy a shape in the gloom coming 
 hitherward, only to see the dim outlines 
 melt into nothingness. To strain the ear 
 to catch that faint far footfall which 
 comes no nearer, and proves to be but the 
 crackling of a twig, the fall of an acorn. 
 To guess, to fear, to wonder why the long 
 delay. To lie down for forced slumber, 
 to rise again, to long and look and listen. 
 God help all women who have kept such 
 vigils as this! 
 
 It was almost dawn when he came in 
 haggard and silent. Millie, who, some- 
 how, did not want him to find her watch- 
 ing, had crept back to bed at the click of 
 the gate-latch and roused up at his en- 
 trance to ask where he had been. 
 
 **At work," he said sullenly. **Didn't you 
 hear me in my shop? Didn't you look 
 over there and see the light? You've been 
 asleep." 
 
 The woman cowered in a heap; she was 
 cold, alone, absolutely. The iron had en- 
 
DRY STORIES 25 
 
 tered her soul and she could not find God's 
 hand just then, though she groped for it 
 as a child does in the dark. 
 
 Dan had told her a lie. The Dan she 
 loved and trusted with her whole heart 
 had left her. She was alone and fright- 
 ened. She had clung so to the great, 
 strong man. In the dim light she stretched 
 out her arms as if to catch something to 
 stay her soul. 
 
 The old ideal had shaken her off and 
 she was trying so hard to cling to it still. 
 
 Margaret knew at the breakfast table 
 what Millie's white, drawn face meant 
 and when Dan, too sick to work, went out 
 and sat on the wood bench, gloomily puff- 
 ing his pipe, she took her sister in her 
 arms. 
 
 '"Twas not th-e staying out," Millie 
 whispered with the drawn breath of one 
 who had been struck a blow. 'Twas the 
 lie he told." 
 
 **That wasn't our Dan," Margaret whis- 
 pered soothingly, '^that's the Dan that 
 Jim's place is making every day." 
 
 When ten years had gone by little Mil- 
 lie wrote the second summary which end- 
 ed thus: **Things haven't gone so well 
 with us. The home isn't yet paid for, and 
 Dan's work is falling off. My Dan has 
 changed, but I love him yet with all my 
 heart, and I pray God the old time trust 
 will come back to me some day." 
 
 And now as we begin the third section 
 of Millie's summary, I want you to look 
 upon my friend, Dan Morgan, not so much 
 as a weak and wicked man, as a man over- 
 taken by the disease of drunkenness. 
 
 The fact that a man becomes liable to 
 this disease is merely an accident nine 
 cases out of ten. He happens to be near 
 when whisky is sold and in a very simple 
 
26 DRY STORIES 
 
 way he acquires the appetite and in var- 
 ious individuals, various mental and phy- 
 sical faculties become diseased. In Dan 
 Morgan's case, physicians would say that 
 the higher emotions were in a state of 
 atrophy. The emotions of religion, of 
 reverence, of affection, of pride, ambition 
 were numbed by the drug and he had no 
 desire to conquer the habit which was 
 ruining his life. An intermittent desire to 
 do so was made inactive by a weak will, 
 a faculty which soon becomes paralyzed 
 by drink. 
 
 The personnel of Jim's place had chang- 
 ed some in the last ten years. A few of 
 the old topers had died, but a fresh relay 
 of younger men took their places, and the 
 business thrived 
 
 The line of steady drinkers that a sa- 
 loon must have to keep going was kept in 
 fairly good condition, for when one man 
 tumbled over out of line a new recruit 
 took his place — some boy brought up in 
 town. Dan Morgan was still the dictator 
 of the crowd, but he talked less than for- 
 merly, drank more and was one patron 
 that Jim's place could always count on. 
 In his cottage which had never been paid 
 for, his boy, now almost a man, was big 
 and strong like his father, and was learn- 
 ing a trade. 
 
 The two women took in sewing and 
 carefully hoarded their little earnings, for 
 the specific object of paying out the home. 
 Time and again they would take down the 
 little leather bag which they always hung 
 at the end of the mantel in a sort of hiding 
 place, and count over its contents. Mar- 
 garet often figured the money still due on 
 the place, and reckoned again and again 
 the time when they could hope to dis- 
 charge the debt. Laddie, as they still 
 
DRY STORIES 27 
 
 called him, was able to add a little to the 
 store and Dan Morgan did seem to have 
 a transitory shame when he saw the three 
 count over their little store, look at the 
 line of Margaret's figures, sigh and return 
 the bag to its hiding place. 
 
 One night a strange thing happened. 
 Dan did not come home to supper. The 
 two women had sewed till late. Laddie 
 was asleep, Margaret and Millie had just 
 lain down, when the door to Margaret's 
 room was pushed softly open and by the 
 flicker of firelight on the hearth she could 
 see Dan Morgan stealthily cross the floor 
 and feel along the mantel till he came to 
 the place where the little leather bag hung. 
 Margaret sprang from the bed and called 
 to Millie. **Don't do that, Dan," she 
 pleaded, as he took the bag from its nail 
 and dropped it into his pocket. Dan's 
 great arm pushed the women aside, and 
 lunging out of the room, he passed into 
 the darkness and was gone. 
 
 The two women looked at each other an 
 instant, and then with silent accord threw 
 on their clothes and hand in hand follow- 
 ed him. **I heard today that Jim Simp- 
 son was trying to borrow money to renew 
 the lease on the building where he has his 
 saloon," Margaret said, as they walked 
 swiftly on, just in time to see Dan pass 
 into the bright light, wedge his way 
 through the chairs and hand the little bag 
 to Jim Simpson, who took it greedily, 
 locked it in a drawer, slapping Dan Mor- 
 gan on the back and handing him a glass 
 of foaming beer. 
 
 Next day Harrisburg was all a-flutter 
 that Miss Margaret and Millie had walked 
 into Jim Simpson's saloon the night be- 
 fore. They had spoken to Jim and he had 
 handed them a little bundle after a mo- 
 
28 DRY STORIES 
 
 ment's hesitation. There were many the- 
 ories about it. **Maybe 'twas some sort of 
 message from that man that fooled her.*' 
 
 *'Apt as any he was there.'* **Did a man 
 fool her?*' a newcomer asked. "Well, 
 that's what we've always thought. Miss 
 Minerva Brown one time seen something 
 in Miss Margaret's trunk that seemed to 
 be a white veil and shoes and she never 
 was married, you know." **Why don't 
 somebody ask Dan?" **They did." '*Who 
 did?" '*Amos Harper." **What did Dan 
 say?" **Knocked him down." 
 
 Some time after Millie wrote her third 
 summary and the last sentence was this: 
 "Would to God Jim's place was gone. It 
 makes men lie and steal." 
 
 "I've a little more hope for Dan since I 
 heard he knocked Amos Harper down," 
 Margaret said. "I thought his pride had 
 been drowned in drink, but it ain't clean 
 dead, you see. Who knows but he'll take 
 a turn for the better — while there's life 
 there's hope," as the doctors say. 
 
 "If we could get some new medicine," 
 Millie said, falling into the thought. 
 
 Soon after that, by some influence, Har- 
 risburg didn't know what, a preacher from 
 the East Tennessee mountains, an old 
 man, with a message that gripped the 
 hearts of men, came down to Harrisburg 
 to preach for a while. The people he 
 wanted to talk to didn't come to hear him, 
 so he was asked to talk at the place most 
 natural to choose, Dan Morgan's black- 
 smith shop. Dan stood in the door and 
 listened, and the old preacher's text was 
 "Son, Remember," from the parable of 
 Dives and Lazarus. As he preached, Dan 
 Morgan's thoughts went back to a little 
 Hampshire town. He heard the bird's 
 call from the thicket edging the meadow 
 
DRY STORIES 29 
 
 pond and caught a whiff of the wild honey- 
 suckle in the woods. He saw his mother's 
 face. He saw Millie for the first time, her 
 yellow hair sweeping the ground as she 
 stooped to fill a pitcher by the mountain 
 spring, and as he asked her for a drink, 
 he heard her low, sweet laugh, like a 
 mountain waterfall. 
 
 Dan Morgan waked, shook himself, and 
 looked about him. Millie stood near him 
 and it seemed to him that she had been 
 away for a long time. He looked at the 
 boy as if he had never seen him before. 
 He had been numbed or drugged, or some- 
 thing. When the preacher ended, and 
 asked for any man who wanted to *'talk 
 over business with him," as he put it, **to 
 let him know where to meet him." Dan 
 Morgan beckoned him to come to the 
 blacksmith shop. 
 
 Margaret*s keen eyes saw, and as she 
 and Millie turned away quickly toward 
 home, she said **thank God, he's gointer 
 take Dan's temperature. Let us pray, 
 Millie, that he'll diagnose his case all 
 right." 
 
 **I've just waked up, parson," Dan said. 
 **It seems to me I've been stupefied or 
 paralyzed, in my mind, I mean, and I 
 don't mind saying I've kinder lost my grip 
 on things, on God, maybe. If you'll sorter 
 help me to take hold again I — I — do be- 
 lieve I can make it through all right." 
 
 *'Why, yes; I guess so, Dan Morgan," 
 the old preacher answered, without any 
 visible emotion or flow of sentiment, "lots 
 of men lose hold. I have often in my time. 
 Different things cause it, you know. 
 Sometimes it's money, sometimes it's fast 
 horses, sometimes it's one thing and an- 
 other. Sometimes it's strong drink. What's 
 been your trouble?" 
 
30 DRY STORIES 
 
 '*Well, drink, I reckon," Dan said, con- 
 fusedly. **The stuff can't master me, if 
 I don't want it to; but somehow all these 
 years, I didn't care if it did — until today." 
 
 ''Queer, ain't it, that the way whisky 
 ruins a man is by making him not care if 
 it does. Well, I'll be here two weeks, or 
 more, Dan, and we'll try to help each 
 other out. I've got to be up on Chestnut 
 Ridge to see a poor fellow up there that 
 imagines God has forgotten him. I'll drop 
 around in the shop tomorrow, and say, 
 Dan," he called, as he started off, ''I'll 
 just leave you to do your own praying this 
 evening while you are at work in the shop. 
 I've got so many folks to look after, and 
 you understand your case yourself pretty 
 well." 
 
 Dan smiled broadly at the parson's busi- 
 ness-like way of putting things. 
 
 "I can leave the praying to you, then, 
 can I?" 
 
 "O yes, I guess so, parson, if I ain't 
 forgot how." 
 
 "It's mighty simple, but a mighty cur- 
 ing thing, praying is, Dan. Just telling 
 God you are feeling lonesome and far-off, 
 because you have been soul-sick and ask 
 him to take hold of you and look after 
 you while you try to do your best. Good- 
 bye, I'll see you tomorrow." 
 
 Dan and the parson agreed to be confi- 
 dential friends and when the time came 
 he talked to Dan a little about Jim's Place 
 and wondered if they could get some one 
 to come down to Harrisburg and speak to 
 the people about voting out such places. 
 The question would be submitted soon. 
 
 "I don't think they'd listen to anybody 
 comin' in," Dan said. "Some of us around 
 
DRY STORIES 31 
 
 here might talk against it on the quiet, 
 kinder like.** 
 
 The preacher had not quite carried his 
 point. **Well, it will be a quicker way for 
 me to round up the fellows some day and 
 you and I sorter together, hand 'em a 
 package. What d'ye say?" 
 
 **0h, all right." 
 
 **Well, I'll read a chapter and lead a 
 song and you do the preachin'. How's 
 that?" Dan laughed a big old-fashioned 
 laugh. 
 
 **Me preach? Harrisburg'll think that 
 judgment day has come. Well, I'll go at 
 it if you'll let me take my own text." 
 
 ''What will be your text!" 
 
 "Jim's Place?" 
 
 And this is the sermon that my friend, 
 Dan Morgan, preached: 
 
 **The parson has just told you that he 
 has asked me to preach for him today and 
 take Jim's Place for my text. The preach- 
 ing part's a joke, but Jim's Place ain't, 
 I'm here to say, and I reckon I know if any- 
 body does. I ain't gointer talk to you fel- 
 lows about how much you ought to drink 
 or how little. 'Cause I've quit ain't no 
 reason I'm going to try to make you quit. 
 How much a man drinks or how little is 
 his own business, I take it — his and the 
 parson's and his homefolks, maybe. It's 
 no business of mine. I ain't yet got no 
 right to even calculate with you how much 
 you can take and keep your wits; for 
 about twelve years I ain't had room to 
 talk, room in my stomach, I mean. 
 
 **So I'll be stickin' to my text, which Is 
 Jim's Place. 
 
 **That is some of my business, as it is a 
 public institution with the strong arm of 
 the law back of it, and you and me are 
 supposed to help make the laws. Now, next 
 
32 DRY STORIES 
 
 month the people of Bedford county and 
 us here in Harrisburg, havin' got pretty 
 well acquainted with Jim*s Place and 
 others like it, we've got to say — the ques- 
 tion has come up some how or other — 
 whether Jim's Place and the others de- 
 serve to have the strong arm of the law. 
 Instead of the word 'arm,' I'll use license, 
 I believe. 
 
 **The higher courts of the country say — 
 we read it the other day — that the citizens 
 of any state, county or community have 
 a right to prohibit any trade or business 
 or place which interferes with the health, 
 peace or morals of the community — I 
 learned that by heart. Now the first 
 thing fer us to decide is whether Jim's 
 Place interferes with the health, peace or 
 morals of his community. Then you fel- 
 lows can decide fer yourselves whether 
 you want it to or not. To put it different, 
 is Jim's Place a public nuisance and do we 
 want public nuisances in Harrisburg? 
 We've got a right to decide that. That's 
 our personal liberty. You know we got 
 rid of that hog pen in the north part of 
 town last summer, but we have to handle 
 this a little different, fer that hog pen 
 didn't have no federal, state, county or 
 community fence around it; Jim's Place 
 has. Now does Jim's Place interfere with 
 the health of the town? Every fellow 
 here knows inside of him whether it does 
 or not. 
 
 "Of course you don't have to drink this 
 stuff if you don't want to, but you want 
 to. Do you want to because the taste is 
 born in you or because Jim's Place is here? 
 Tell me that! They tell me that if the 
 place wasn't there men would get whisky 
 some way, if they wanted it bad enough. 
 They would. They'd slip it in, steal it in, 
 
DRY STORIES 33 
 
 hunt it down on the creek, but it takes 
 years of trainin* in a convenient saloon to 
 make men want it that way. A tender- 
 foot don't. And do we want this trainin' 
 school in Harrisburg? But I'm off my 
 text. What I was startin' to say was that 
 Jim's Place does interfere with the health 
 of the town. 
 
 **Does it interfere with the peace of 
 Harrisburg? 
 
 **Ask Widow Brown and Widow Batts; 
 ask Amos Harper where's his other ear, 
 ask Jim Batts where's his other eye. 
 
 **That's how they celebrated Christmas 
 eve at Jim's Place. 
 
 **Now, about ten years ago, when any 
 row started up there I alius took pains to 
 quiet the fellows down, but I got so I 
 didn't care or I got too slow motioned to 
 stop it, I don't know which. 
 
 **Does Jim's Place interfere with our 
 morals? There ain't no use of discussin' 
 that. I might get arrested for usin' in- 
 decent language in public if I started 
 on that line. 
 
 "So we'll come back to our text. Is Jim's 
 Place a public nuisance? Somebody says 
 no, 'cause it brings money to the town. 
 Well, we are the town. Has Jim's Place 
 brought money to us? I don't call three 
 or four men in the town, the town, do 
 you? This town has 1,100 people. Take 
 out Jim Simpson and his folks, that's six, 
 Tom Taylor, that rents the building, and 
 his, that's eleven. Dr. Bradford, that has 
 to sew some of you up, that's twelve; that 
 old Mexican and his eight, that sell Chi- 
 huahua liniment fer bruises, that's twenty 
 that Jim's Place brings money to. Do you 
 call that twenty the town, or the other 
 one thousand and eighty? 
 
 **I know somebody's askin' why I'm 
 
34 DRY STORIES 
 
 pitchin' into Jim's Place when I've been 
 keepin' company with it all these years — 
 why? Because I wanted to; I've never 
 wanted to before. I always knew it was 
 a pest, a sore, a worm, eatin' out the heart 
 of Harrisburg, but I didn't care if it did. 
 How'd I come to care? 
 
 **Well, the parson come along and give 
 me a dose of what he calls spiritual med- 
 icine, and I come to myself. He got here 
 just in time. Makes me think of that nig- 
 ger we like to hung last summer fer some- 
 thing he never done. We caught him 
 hidin' (half the niggers in the country 
 was hidin'), and we took him out and had 
 him under a tree when Al Simpson came 
 lopin' up hollering *Hold on, that ain't the 
 right man.' When he got loose and could 
 speak, you all remember he said: 'Lord, 
 Marse Al, if you'd got here a little bit 
 later, I wouldn't keered whether you come 
 at all or not.' So I guess, boys, in my 
 case, the preacher got here just in time. 
 Ain't that the way of it, parson?" Dan 
 said, looking back of him for the first time. 
 
 **Why, Where's the parson?" Dan said, 
 confusedly. 
 
 **Lit out soon as you begun to talk," 
 a man on the outskirts said. **Told me 
 his stayin' here seemed kinder like a 
 stranger at a family reunion. Don't you 
 see him away off yonder on his clay bank 
 strollin' long Chestnut Ridge?" 
 
 '*Go on, Dan, we're with you," a voice 
 cried. 
 
 Dan's lip quivered for the first time. 
 Then he mastered himself. 
 
 ''All right," he said slowly, "if you fel- 
 lows stand by me next month we'll show 
 old Tennessee we know what a public 
 nuisance is, and we don't want one in 
 Harrisburg." (Applause.) 
 
DRY STORIES 35 
 
 '*What does a preacher do when he 
 quits?'* Dan asked sheepishly. 
 
 **They sing the doxology/' Pinley said, 
 proud of knowing the word. 
 
 **Aw, we don't know no doxology," 
 Amos Harper put in. 
 
 **Well, jest sing something ye all 
 know/' Dan suggested. **Don't have to be 
 no church song, I reckon." 
 
 After a little discussion it was decided 
 that the only thing everybody there knew 
 was the chorus of ''Old Black Joe." With 
 this they made the welkin ring. 
 
 Dan could not sing, except in his big, 
 warm heart. When they had done, he 
 added, with his eyes downcast: 
 
 *'That was all right! I guess we are 
 movin' on boys, and I reckon, in a kind of 
 different way, them angel voices are 
 callin' to you and me." 
 
 When the vote was taken the returns 
 were written precinct by precinct, on the 
 big board in front of Dan's blacksmith 
 shop. Dan stood watching them, his face 
 pale and tense with anxiety. Millie, a 
 trembling hand on his shoulder, stared 
 wide-eyed at the figures as they were 
 placed in line. When the last returns 
 were counted it was nearly dawn, but still 
 they stood, until they heard a voice call 
 out that Bedford county was dry as a 
 bone. At the words Millie swayed a little 
 toward the strong arm that caught her 
 and held her close, Dan's massive head 
 drooped to her shoulder, and he did what 
 every strong man — thank Heaven — does 
 some time — he sobbed like a little child. 
 
A Story of the Cotton Patch 
 
 Margaret Leighton belonged to a fam- 
 ily whose only inheritance was a coat of 
 arms, and a family tree. People did say 
 that if you climbed far enough, you could 
 find a man hanging on a limb of the fam- 
 ily tree. But Margaret's father never 
 spoke of that. He always boasted of their 
 pedigree, told of their great kinfolks who 
 owned big plantations on the banks of the 
 river James in Virginia, said his father 
 had a hundred slaves — his sisters never 
 combed their hair or laced their shoes — 
 Margaret didn't believe their children did 
 either — that he himself always had a nig- 
 ger to bring up his horse, **Spec," in the 
 morning, would ride or hunt till noon — 
 would bring home Tip Gilbraith or Jack 
 Marmaduke to dinner; after dinner, a 
 smoke, a snooze, a game of cards, a big 
 carouse in the big dining hall, and maybe 
 after supper a visit to the nigger quarters 
 to watch the niggers dance. 
 
 Margaret often listened to these stories 
 while she and her mother patched, darned, 
 or even washed out the clothes and hung 
 them up to dry. By hard work they man- 
 aged, with the help of wealthy relatives, 
 to keep the pot boiling and the wolf from 
 the door. But it was a hard pull and 
 sometimes the pot only simmered; some- 
 times they could see the gray wolf's teeth 
 as they lay awake in the night. 
 
 The women worked, as I have said. 
 
DRY STORIES 37 
 
 while John Leighton sat in a big chair, 
 talked ancestry, and smoked a meer- 
 schaum pipe that he declared used to be- 
 long to the step grand nephew-in-law of 
 Thomas Jefferson. And to hear that man 
 talk, Jeffersonian democracy was an in- 
 spiration. One morning when he was un- 
 usually eloquent along this line his wife 
 looked up and asked him if democracy 
 didn't mean free and equal rights to all 
 and special privileges to none. 
 
 He knocked the ashes from the meer- 
 schaum and shook his head disapproving- 
 ly. A woman's place, he said, with great 
 condescension, was to keep the home and 
 she had no business dabbling in politics. 
 Mrs. Leighton was tired that morning so 
 she answered the aristocrat by saying that 
 she thought it was much more suitable 
 for a woman to dabble in politics than in a 
 wash tub. Margaret noticed that the fea- 
 ture of those glorious old days most fre- 
 quently mentioned by her father was the 
 big sideboard on which he said always 
 stood bottles of wine, and Bourbon whis- 
 ky brought from Kentucky — Kentucky, 
 where the **corn is full of kernels and the 
 colonels full of corn.*' The sideboard was 
 the last relic to which they clung and 
 when at last one day, the big oak side- 
 board had to be sold the father managed 
 to keep — though the children needed food 
 and clothes — the cut glass decanters and 
 wicker covered demijohns. They were 
 full one day — he was next. That was the 
 only way he had of showing he was 
 brought up a gentleman. 
 
 Where Margaret went to school, the 
 teacher one day gave out the word **gen- 
 tleman" for the class to define, and poor 
 little Margaret wrote this: **A gentleman 
 is a man who does nothing but talk and 
 
38 DRY STORIES 
 
 get drunk.'* Years went by and the glass 
 decanters had to be sold — John Leighton 
 Avas his own demijohn. Periodical sprees 
 were now the only relic he had left where- 
 by he could prove to the world he was 
 a born aristocrat. How Margaret hated 
 those words, ancestry and aristocracy! 
 She began to believe that when people's 
 -only claim to respectability is that they 
 have descended from great ancestry, the 
 decent has been as emphatic as sliding 
 down hill, and the word aristocracy 
 sounded like ipecac to her. 
 
 During her father's periodical sprees, 
 he became more and more dangerous, and 
 one day when he came home with his brain 
 on fire, and the baby brother was sitting 
 at the head of a long flight of stairs, the 
 drunken aristocrat pushed the child with 
 his foot, and the baby fell backward over 
 a chair placed to prevent it going down 
 the stairs. 
 
 As the slow, sad years went by, a wist- 
 ful-eyed, queer little hunchback boy lived 
 to bear daily testimony that his father was 
 brought up a gentleman, with wine on the 
 sideboard — and the rest. 
 
 Then there came a day when the man 
 whose father owned plantations could use 
 only six-feet of earth — the same day that 
 comes to Vanderbilts and Astors. They 
 sold the old home for a song, went to 
 Texas to live with a relative, to work and 
 do their best. 
 
 Then the mother soon passed away, and 
 only Margaret and the little hunchback 
 were left. 
 
 When Will Mather, an awkward coun- 
 try boy, after fruitless efforts finally 
 managed to tell Margaret he loved her, 
 she, with the proper amount of hesitation, 
 accepted him on the spot. He wasn't very 
 
DRY STORIES 39 
 
 handsome, or very scholarly, but he could 
 work, and he made no pretentions of be- 
 ing an aristocrat. Best of all, he owned a 
 little farm, where they could grow cotton 
 for their livelihood. So they were mar- 
 ried and Margaret set herself with her 
 whole heart to make a home for the man. 
 Her relatives had told her that Will 
 Mather was a good man — would take his 
 toddy now and then — but that gave her 
 no concern. She had never been asso- 
 ciated with a man who did not drink more 
 or less — she considered it the natural con- 
 dition of men. 
 
 He put in his crops season after sea- 
 son, and things went fairly well, though 
 the cost of living made it impossible for 
 them to lay anything aside, and as the 
 man grew older, the drinking more or 
 less changed to drinking more. Children 
 came, and at last the season when the 
 women and children decided to go into the 
 cotton patch, and pick the cotton them- 
 selves. 
 
 They worked hard, laughing bravely 
 over their cotton sacks, and at last it was 
 all picked, ginned, baled, ready for to- 
 morrow's market, and the little family sat 
 down to rest. What joyous plans for to- 
 morrow! The oldest son was too grave 
 and dignified for such rejoicing, but little 
 Bill and Tom whispered on their pallet 
 about new hats, and even dared to men- 
 tion a new knife between them, little Bill 
 to have it in the morning, Tom from then 
 until night. 
 
 Mary pleaded for a new ribbon for her 
 hair. The mother smiled and patted the 
 baby at her breast. Maybe, if enough were 
 left after she bought the baby's shoes, 
 Mary was to have a new dress and hat. 
 Wouldn't the ribbon from the old hat do — 
 
40 DRY STORIES 
 
 No? Well, they should see — Mary had 
 worked hard in the broiling sun, her arms 
 were nearly blistered — never mind — 
 they'd see. 
 
 At last they were told by the mother to 
 go to sleep, for they must be off by sunrise. 
 And the man and wife sat alone and 
 talked of the outlay on the morrow. When 
 Will Mather looked at his wife's tired face, 
 he leaned over suddenly and kissed her. 
 She blushed like a girl. He had not kissed 
 her in a long time — not since the baby had 
 scarlet fever, took a turn for the better 
 and the doctor said he would get well. 
 Standing out there under the stars the 
 man had put his arm about his wife and 
 told her that if it had not been for her 
 nursing the baby would not have come 
 around, and he said he was going to be a 
 better man. So tonight she went to rest 
 the happier for the kiss, but lay awake 
 long trying to plan how to make one dol- 
 lar do the work of two. At sunrise they 
 started, the man on the big cotton wagon, 
 the family following in a spring wagon, 
 still chattering about their new things 
 they would buy. 
 
 In town the mother and children went 
 to a big department store where she was 
 to buy their clothes. Tom was to try on 
 a beautiful new suit, and so on, the father 
 was to go and sell the cotton and they 
 would have their usual meeting place — 
 in a little park where they would spread 
 their lunch — and oh, such a time they 
 would have! What did blistered hands 
 and scorched faces matter now? 
 
 Carefully Margaret made her purchases 
 — trying to please the little ones, and 
 still remember that sum to be laid by for 
 school. Then telling the salesman to have 
 the goods wrapped, she added that they 
 
DRY STORIES 41 
 
 would call and pay for them on their re- 
 turn home, after the cotton was sold. 
 
 Then they went to the park as happy as 
 birds and scattered over the grass. One 
 o'clock; John was late. Margaret spoke 
 cheerily — maybe the man who bought the 
 cotton was delayed. Two o'clock came; 
 into the daughter's eyes there crept a 
 shadow of fear. But the children were 
 hungry, so with trembling fingers Mar- 
 garet spread the lunch. She could not 
 eat. Three o'clock — four. 
 
 Then the oldest son went to search. A 
 hand of ice gripped the woman's heart. 
 It was nearly dusk when he came back 
 and told her the story, bit by bit, as ten- 
 derly as he could. His father was out 
 there in the wagon ready to go home. He 
 had found him drunk. Some one had told 
 him how, after selling his cotton the man 
 had gone into a near-by saloon, two old 
 boon companions following — a treat, an- 
 other, a frenzied brain, a man lending, 
 giving away money — then lurching out, 
 after hours to find his team, his pockets 
 gaping wide, and there he was — all his 
 money gone but a few paltry dollars — 
 lost, given away or stolen — no matter. 
 There he was, ready to go home. 
 
 If you should want a logical argument 
 against the saloon, I ask you to look at 
 that woman's and those children's faces 
 as they drive homeward through the dusk. 
 Is this tragedy a bit of fiction written by 
 a dreaming poet? Is it not a real story — 
 a true story? Is it overdrawn? Are not 
 the details scanty compared to every day 
 life? Is it a rare story? Does it happen 
 a thousand times over every year? What 
 then? Did simply whisky cause this 
 tragedy? Whisky that is bought from 
 bootleggers, as they call it? No; whisky 
 
42 ^ DRY STORIES 
 
 as presented in the saloon — the saloon 
 with all its surroundings, peculiar condi- 
 tions, companionship, so called sociability. 
 The open, ready, ever present, sociable 
 saloon then is the cause, every year, of the 
 ruin of thousands of Texas homes. What, 
 then? The men should be stronger, they 
 should resist the temptation? If they 
 were, there wouldn't be any saloons, 
 would there? He was a weak man with 
 an opportunity convenient for his weak- 
 ness. 
 
 The next day Margaret set her lips, 
 lifted her head and began to think of her 
 pedigree. Blood will count in emergencies 
 like this. She was a direct descendant of 
 William Henry Harrison. She faced the 
 fact that the man she had taken to pro- 
 tect her, guide her, or even to control her, 
 was the weaker of the two, and it was 
 a pitiful realization. They weathered 
 through the winter some way, but the old- 
 est son, Tom, fretted sorely because he 
 had to give up the promised schooling, 
 and he was always lifting his face from 
 the plow handles with that look of a 
 caged creature trying to fly. He hadn't 
 lived through the town, you see, to learn 
 to love the farm. It takes the cries of the 
 market-place, the tussel of the highway 
 to make the waterfall and bird songs 
 meaningful. You needn't expect a boy, 
 born on a farm, to want to stay there, 
 especially when the smoke of a city is in 
 sight. You may preach all day long about 
 the vices and temptations of the town, but 
 he is going to find out for himself. Mar- 
 garet knew this and a certain thought 
 made her shudder. 
 
 She knew that her boy might have from 
 both sides of the family an inherited ap- 
 petite for whisky. She knew how much 
 
DRY STORIES 43 
 
 more powerful an inherited tendency, an 
 ever present temptation is than an ac- 
 quired habit. This woman was beginning 
 to have convictions along this line and to 
 speak them. Hitherto she had accepted 
 the saloon as a necessary part of civic con- 
 ditions. She began to resent its existence 
 as unfair, unjust. She began to realize 
 that the people who say the saloon must 
 go are not the fanatics. The fanatics talk 
 the other way. That treacherous institu- 
 tion with its foaming mouth would always 
 be calling to her beloved — and she wanted 
 it taken away. 
 
 She began to talk to her husband in a 
 new way. Margaret hardly knew herself 
 about legislation against the evil and all 
 that. The man told her that there was no 
 chance to stop the sale of it. Should they 
 close the places, it would be sold in every 
 fish market, in every grocery store; but 
 he would always add humbly that he 
 hoped his boy would be a stronger man 
 than he had been, and be able to pass the 
 temptation by. 
 
 A simpler thing it would be to take the 
 temptation away, the mother made an- 
 swer, and she fell to wondering if a rattle- 
 snake were coiled on the square and had 
 the habit of staying in one place, would 
 they let it stay merely that people might 
 learn to keep out of its reach? Would 
 they have a great pit in the school yard 
 and cover the mouth with flowers, that 
 would lure the children to pick them to 
 teach them to be strong enough to stay 
 away? How many would be lost in learn- 
 ing the lesson? 
 
 Margaret was glad when a chance came 
 for her boy to enter the navy — the Span- 
 ish-American war was on — and new sights, 
 new sounds might help to take his mind 
 
44 DRY STORIES 
 
 away from the dreaded temptation. When 
 the boy left, his mother made no pretense 
 of teaching him that he should serve his 
 country, for to tell the truth she was losing 
 faith in Uncle Sam. 
 
 The cotton patch lost one of its best 
 hands, and two people there were, who 
 well knew that glasses of whisky held 
 across a bar were sending their boy on a 
 battleship instead of into college walls. 
 The mother mourned for her boy, the 
 father drank more heavily. 
 
 One night Will Mather was shot and 
 killed instantly in a drunken brawl in 
 the rear of a saloon. After the first shock 
 from the gushing wound and blank face, 
 Margaret knew that her way would be 
 easier. She could work now and at least 
 know where the proceeds of her work 
 would go. Then a drouth came and in 
 spite of the two women, two small chil- 
 dren and the hunchback's farm labor, the 
 sky was as brass, the crop parched in use- 
 lessness, the little farm was mortgaged. 
 
 About this time a young woman, an ac- 
 quaintance in the city, who came out for 
 a visit, pitied Mary for her rough work 
 and told them of what a fine position she 
 had — then of a business college with its 
 lightning methods of stenography and its 
 guarantee of a sixty-dollar position at the 
 start. Wouldn't Mary rather try that? 
 Sixty dollars a month sounded like a for- 
 tune to Margaret, who heaved a quick, 
 eager sigh. But again her pedigree protest 
 sounded in her soul. It was rough work, 
 but it was home work, and that was best. 
 Those proud old Virginia women, white 
 handed, silk robed dames, sheltered from 
 winds, called down the generations and 
 stood between little Mary of the cotton 
 patch and the outside world. 
 
DRY STORIES 45 
 
 But the mortgage, the sick child, the 
 drouth and Mary's pleading — so not long 
 after, another farm hand was gone. When 
 Mary's position was secured, her mother 
 went with her to see her employer, a bril- 
 liant lawyer, whose name meant wealth 
 and power. In a halting, tearful fashion, 
 Margaret begged the man to take care of 
 her little girl, and he promised her that 
 he would. The mother, stifling the sobs 
 in her throat, went away, leaving her 
 Mary, clear-eyed, white-browed, clean- 
 souled, in whose hands? In the guardian- 
 ship of a man whose nature had been cal- 
 loused and seared, who for years had ren- 
 dered a class of legal service which was 
 mere jugglery in court, who had used the 
 law to defeat justice, who had covered 
 facts with technicalities, who for years 
 had defended the guilty at the expense of 
 the innocent, who hundreds of times had 
 played on the emotions of an ignorant 
 jury to secure the verdict that he wished. 
 The man's conscience was dead — slain by 
 dollars. Of late years men said he was 
 losing his powers — he drank, they said, too 
 much. He went into the saloon across the 
 street a dozen times a day. Others said 
 that when he had a drink or two he could 
 handle the jury like wax. 
 
 As Margaret went home she passed a 
 saloon and trembled. She never had be- 
 fore. A Salvation Army woman handed 
 her a temperance pamphlet and she read 
 as she walked along slowly. The United 
 States in 1911 spent five times as much 
 money for whiskey as for boots and shoes; 
 two hundred and fifty million more for 
 whisky than for meat; five and a fourth 
 times as much for whisky as for public 
 education. Margaret read these figures 
 with a new interest, but more than all 
 
46 DRY STORIES 
 
 these to her was the bare fact that whisky 
 had placed her Mary, her lily, by that 
 typewriter upstairs. 
 
 People had told her that to close the 
 saloons would deprive the state of its 
 chief revenue, and she wondered if boots 
 and shoes and bread and meat were not 
 better revenue than dirty dollars gained 
 by ruining homes. What does revenue 
 to the state count for, if it doesn't mean 
 bread and meat for the masses? If any 
 traffic takes these away, is it revenue or 
 graft? But then Margaret was just an 
 inexperienced country woman and did not 
 understand. 
 
 As time went on little Mary found her 
 employer more and more familiar in his 
 manner, ruder, especially after he came 
 from the saloon across the street. The 
 girl — the lineal descendant of that Vir- 
 ginia dignity — thought these manners 
 were rather the manners of the scullion 
 toward the kitchen maids and clung to the 
 simple ideals she had learned from her 
 mother between the furrows as they plant- 
 ed or hoed their crop. But the man, how 
 he laughed at what he called her prim- 
 ness — jeered now and then at folks a hun- 
 dred years behind the times, joked about 
 old fashioned mothers, whispered some- 
 thing of love. Oh, love beautiful, how 
 we desecrate thee — and little Mary began 
 to lay aside her old ideals as she laid aside 
 the ribbon on her hair, or the bunch of 
 lilacs she used to bring in from her Sun- 
 day's visit home, but she did good work 
 and listened with interest to the many dis- 
 cussions on the liquor traffic in the law of- 
 fice. She often heard her employer say 
 that it was not the use but the abuse of 
 whisky that made fanatics fight it so, that 
 
DRY STORIES 47 
 
 he himself could drink whisky or he could 
 let it alone. 
 
 Mary noticed that never a half a day 
 passed that he would let it alone. He often 
 added: **I drink like a gentleman, and if 
 the other fellow wants to make a hog of 
 himself it is none of my affairs." Mary 
 pondered on that expression, **drinking 
 like a gentleman." She knew that the 
 man was never so coarse, so rude, so fa- 
 miliar, as when he had been for a few 
 moments to the saloon across the street. 
 She wondered if that were drinking like a 
 gentleman. She wondered, too, how much 
 or how little whisky it takes to make a 
 man less a gentleman. ^^st£TQft 
 
 Her employer often said thaf 
 town was a dead town, that without the 
 saloons the farmers would go somewhere 
 else to sell their cotton so they could get 
 whisky. Mary wondered why, because 
 she had heard them say that with the sa- 
 loons closed, they could get whisky just 
 as easily and she remembered a day when 
 her father came to town to sell his cot- 
 ton, where there were saloons and she 
 knew that one day had changed the whole 
 history of her home. 
 
 Saloons were a part of the business s-uc- 
 cess of a town — over and over she heard 
 him say, *'Take them away and you kill 
 the town." 
 
 So she remembered that, and sometime 
 after when her employer asked her to 
 make a list of the attractions of the little 
 city in which they lived, she looked up all 
 statistics on this line and made two hun- 
 dred lists. She must have them ready, 
 he said, for a crowd of boosters, he called 
 them, that were going down the road to 
 boost the town, to tell at other towns, etc., 
 the wonderful attractions they left. So 
 
48 DRY STORIES 
 
 faithful little Mary studied hard the busi- 
 ness directory and listed the leading in- 
 dustries, as she had been told. Among 
 other things she found the town had 
 thirty-one saloons and this item she gave 
 a conspicuous place on the list, knowing 
 that her employer would want this indus- 
 try, so necessary to a town's well being, 
 emphasized. The '^boosters'' surged into 
 the office one day to get the lists and Mary 
 handed them, neat and plain, to her em- 
 ployer, who distributed them. The men 
 glanced at them, and to Mary's surprise, 
 every man, without exception, took out 
 his pencil and drew a line through some 
 item on the list, some laughingly, some 
 sheepishly, some proudly, her employer 
 with a mutter and a scowl. Mary in sur- 
 prise asked him after they had gone, what 
 mistakes she had made. The man said 
 bluntly a mistake was made from lack of 
 common sense, and little Mary asked in- 
 nocently if the item **saloons'' was a lack 
 of common sense. 
 
 I wish, in telling this story, I could say 
 that innocence is the protection of inno- 
 cence and that weakness is its own shield 
 and buckler in the hands of the strong. 
 But I am trying hard not to be a dreamer, 
 but to tell real things and I must tell you 
 that gradually Mary lost her primness, as 
 the man called it. At last, one day, she 
 did not come to her work; her employer 
 wondered a little, then when the days 
 passed and she did not come back, he 
 passed up the matter lightly and decided 
 that the girl had become a part of the 
 drift-wood in the muddy current of the 
 town. 
 
 Out on the little farm a woman's heart 
 broke and Margaret had her Gethsemane. 
 When she came in to see the lawyer to ask 
 
DRY STORIES 49 
 
 him to help her find her girl, he told her 
 as was true, that he knew nothing of her 
 whereabouts and the only comfort he 
 gave was that he would try to keep a look 
 out for her. After the mother left, the 
 man did know one slight pang of remorse. 
 It was like a bird's high call from adown 
 the marshes. He was mentally uncom- 
 fortable for a moment, then went across 
 to the saloon, and the same stuff that had 
 made him less than a man, made him not 
 care what he had done, and then — forget. 
 
 In the cotton patch now were left only 
 the woman (the two little boys had died) 
 and the hunchback, always doing what he 
 could. The mortgage would soon fore- 
 close, but she did not care. They planted, 
 hoed, gathered in season. To the woman 
 nothing mattered much. 
 
 Then out of the long grass in the even- 
 ing, out of the twilight's hush, came a 
 voice to her, the voice of the Comforter. 
 
 Margaret had never been of a religious 
 nature, but in her desert of desolation she 
 learned to know that God was near. It 
 takes the Deeps and the Darks of life for 
 some of us to catch the radiance of the 
 Infinite. It is only through the cries of 
 sorrow that some of us can catch the 
 music of the still, small voice. Yet, thank 
 God, those of us who have to reach the 
 cross with blood-stained feet can look 
 backward and be thankful for every thorn 
 that pierced the way. 
 
 One day Tom came home, a medal on 
 his breast, and the mortgage did not mat- 
 ter then. And still the woman prayed and 
 waited. Then one evening at nightfall 
 a swift footed, sad eyed young woman — 
 a young woman who had simply been 
 strong enough to tear herself away from 
 unhallowed influences, came across the 
 
50 DRY STORIES 
 
 new plowed field, slipped up to the kitch- 
 en door, stealing in to nestle in her moth- 
 er's arms. Mary had come back to the 
 cotton patch. 
 
 Then the family knelt together under 
 the stars, and prayed, and the little hunch- 
 back bowing his maimed body close to the 
 earth, plead softly, **0h, God, make 
 whisky let people alone." 
 
 This is the prayer that the women of 
 Texas pray, and I do not believe that the 
 men of Texas will make that prayer in 
 vain. On the 21st day of April, 1836, the 
 men of Texas fought for the women of 
 Texas against their Mexican enemies and 
 scattered them like chaff. I do not be- 
 lieve that seventy-seven years later the 
 men of Texas will line up with every Mex- 
 ican in Texas against the women of our 
 state. I do not believe you will cast this 
 shadow on the glory of the field at San 
 Jacinto. 
 
 You have not forgotten that incident 
 during the Spanish-American war which 
 illustrated the military rule, that an of- 
 ficial of one country firing upon the flag 
 of another is equal to a declaration of war. 
 You remember that an American soldier 
 was condemned to be shot for some trivial 
 offense. The American consul begged a 
 respite until he could secure necessary 
 papers from the United States, but was 
 refused, and the American with three 
 Mexicans was marched out in the gray 
 of early morning to die. The consul asked 
 permission to pay a last tribute to his 
 countryman; this being granted, he drew 
 from under his long cloak the flag of the 
 United States, shook out its folds until it 
 flashed in the sun's first ray, stepped 
 across the field, wrapped his countryman 
 in his flag from head to foot, then turn- 
 
DRY STORIES 
 
 51 
 
 ing to the Mexican official, said calmly, 
 *'Sh.oot, if you dare!'' and the Mexican's 
 arm fell nerveless at his side. Ah, men of 
 Texas, do you remember that ninety per 
 cent of the saloons of Texas — the enemies 
 of our homes — are kept by foreigners? Do 
 not we women thus face a foreign foe? 
 Then, by the eternal glory of chivalry, I 
 ask you to protect the ballotless women of 
 Texas with the voice of our government, to 
 wrap them from head to foot in our Stars 
 and Stripes, thus saying to our foreign 
 enemy, ''Shoot, if you dare." 
 
52 DRY STORIES 
 
 A Tribute to Lee 
 
 (By Narnie Harrison Bell.) 
 
 How sweet it is, how sweet it is. 
 
 That through all stress and strife, 
 As we grow old, our hearts may hold 
 
 The poetry of life. 
 Though steps are slow and hearts beat low 
 
 And forms with age are bent. 
 You men in gray, claim still today 
 
 Your wealth of sentiment. 
 
 As you live on, you still love on. 
 
 Your old ideals still are dear. 
 The morning glories may be gone. 
 
 But evening's primrose blossoms here. 
 Our heroes dead, are heroes still. 
 
 The grand old past stirs you and me, 
 Our hearts beat quick, our pulses thrill. 
 
 At the very name of Robert Lee. 
 
 And as weak words and wavering lines 
 
 Do ill befit our Lee, 
 I look to wailing southern pines 
 
 And bid them speak for me; 
 I ask the gulf that laps our beach, 
 
 With seething sob and swell, 
 To lend its syllables to teach 
 
 Of him we loved so well. 
 
 I ask the Texas mocking bird, 
 
 With liquid minstrelsy. 
 To lend one note, from its full throat 
 
 To help me sing of Lee! 
 I ask our Texas prairie flowers 
 
 To write in words of flame, 
 That glorious deeds and splendid hours, 
 
 Illuminate his name. 
 
DRY STORIES 53 
 
 For our Southland, with mountains grand. 
 
 And peaceful valleys sweet; 
 With rock-ribbed hills and gentle rills 
 
 That laugh about their feet. 
 With storm-lit skies, and azure dyes 
 
 Still nooks, and prairies free — 
 These in their tenderness and strength — 
 
 Express the soul of Lee. 
 
 Whether we view him at Fredericksburg, 
 
 When victory blazed his path; 
 Or at Gettysburg with its struggle fierce. 
 
 And terrible aftermath. 
 Whether in leading retreating host, 
 
 Or whether advancing van — 
 With all his courage and his power 
 
 He was a gentle, loving man. 
 
 He met defeat, but years repeat 
 
 The glory of his fame; 
 His flag went down, but the laurel crown 
 
 Still rests upon his name. 
 O name so fair, O fame so rare — 
 
 You help all men to see. 
 That the noble heart, which bears its part 
 
 Meets always — victory! 
 
 In Lee's dear name, in Lee's clear fame. 
 
 May we this lesson trace: 
 A lost cause is not honor gone. 
 
 Defeat is not disgrace. 
 Come grief, come joy, as seasons roll, 
 
 Be the days dark or bright. 
 Keep we the brave, untarnished soul. 
 
 And we have won the fgiht.