LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
 AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 N819u0c 
 v. 2 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://archive.org/details/sketchesinpurple02clar 
 
SKETCHES IN PURPLE 
 
 VOLUME II. 
 
 CONSISTING OP REPRESENTATIVE RBETORICAL 
 EXERCISES WRITTEN DURING THE COLLEGE 
 YEAR 1900-1901 BY UNDERGRADUATES IN THE 
 COLLEGE OF LIBERAL ARTS OF NORTHWEST- 
 ERN UNIVERSITY. 
 
 SELECTED AND COPYRIGHTED 
 
 By J. SCOTT CLARK. 
 
 EVANSTO.v: 
 
 EVANSTON PRESS CO. 
 lOOl, 
 
c 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 We have three objects in publishing this, the second volume of 
 "Sketches in Purple": First, to provide for our pupils a pleasant 
 memento of an interesting phase of their college work; second, to 
 furnish them with a stimulus toward good writing that we have found 
 to be more fair and vastly more effective than any system of prizes; 
 third, to exhibit the results obtained from the methods of teaching 
 English composition here at Northwestern University. These methods 
 are largely negative, especially those used during the required course, 
 which is mainly Freshman work. That is to say, we drill our pupils 
 continually in the avoidance of the most common violations of good 
 style, taking pains to warn each writer, individually, against his own 
 besetting literary sins. Along with this negative work is given, of 
 course, information and suggestion as to the best means of gaining 
 effective expression in the five varieties of general composition. It is 
 frequently asserted that the use of such a negative method as ours 
 serves to check the natural outflow of the pupil's thought and fancy, 
 and that his attention should rather continually be called to good 
 English and never to errors in composition. Whether the articles 
 printed in this little volume justify such an assertion, let our readers 
 decide. They are entirely the work of their student-authors. They 
 have not been "edited." The only revision that the themes have 
 received has been through the application by their authors of certain 
 principles of good form and style, suggested by the instructors by 
 means of numerical references to these principles, placed in the mar- 
 gin of the manuscripts when first presented. The longer articles, 
 occupying pages 1 to 209 are the work of Juniors and Seniors in an elec- 
 tive course; the longer articles, on pages210-288are the work of Fresh- 
 men in a required course. The work of the rhetorical department in 
 any college differs from that of all other departments in that it deals 
 with an art rather than a science. It is therefore to be judged only 
 by its product. The conditions surrounding the production of prize 
 orations and other public literary efforts of students make it impos- 
 sible that these should be a fair criterion of the literary work done by 
 the undergraduates as a whole. A fairer criterion is to be found in 
 such a volume as this. In all our work we aim at sincerity and 
 simplicity rather than, profundity, and we ask that this fact be borne 
 in mind in judging our work and that of our pupils. The articles in 
 
 1 
 
this volume pretend to be nothing but what they are — the honest work 
 of college undergraduates. The first volume of "Sketches in Purple," 
 published in June, 1900, was somewhat widely copied in various jour- 
 nals without credit being given as to the source of the articles copied. 
 This year's volume is copyrighted, not for the sake of excluding from 
 reprint anything that may be thought worthy of such honor, but in 
 the hope that the borrower may thus be induced to acknowledge the 
 source of the articles borrowed. One-half the cost of publication is 
 met by students' preliminary subscriptions. A friend of the University 
 has kindly shared the financial risk involved in publishing the whole 
 volume. 
 
 Evanston, 111., June, 1901. 
 
 J. SCOTT CLARK, Professor; 
 
 OLIN CLAY KELLOGG, Instructor; 
 
 GINEVRA P. TOMPKINS, Assistant. 
 
THE MAGAZINE CLASS 
 
 Few of our students are aware of the Pact that Northwestern has 
 a magazine, issued twice a week, full of brief articles of intense inter- 
 est, well illustrated, and with little or no advertising. Its editor-in- 
 chief is a man well drilled in the use of the blue pencil, whose edi- 
 torials are short and always to the point. As we glance over its pages 
 in some leisure hour our attention is drawn to a clever pen-and-ink 
 sketch of a bit of sea coast, with its lights and shadows faithfully por- 
 trayed; following that comes a bit of verse, graceful and airy as the 
 spray on the frontispiece. A sober article on "Political Reform" is 
 followed by a humorous Irish story, while the next article deals with 
 the character and life of some of the masters of men. Once more .we 
 are recalled to this sordid world by an earnest appeal in behalf of the 
 saloon-keeper; with a gasp of astonishment we turn in relief to the 
 simple, homely tale of a beautiful life lived in the fear of God, yet 
 full of love for man. Then the old lady's favorite author, "Tobey Con- 
 tinued," puts in his few words, after which the gifted pen of the next 
 contributor leads us to the sunny South, with its gentle peace and 
 quiet. In sharp contrast a laughable cinematograph picture of a winter 
 scene and poor, fallen humanity occupies the next page. Besides these 
 miscellaneous articles the editor of the "Farm and Country" column 
 always has something of interest, arranged in pleasing form; while 
 the department of "Verse and Reverse" attracts a great deal of atten- 
 tion. The Magazine is on sale at no bookstore and has no copyright; 
 its name is short but emphatic, "English G." — Ruth Woodley. 
 
 A SMILE. 
 
 He was a wolfish-looking little fellow; and he sat on the front 
 seat in the Mission School, not by choice, but by compulsion. His 
 unkempt black hair hung in strings around his dirty face, while his 
 restless eyes gleamed maliciously. Whatever brought him to Sunday 
 School would be hard to say, for he was the ringleader of "de fit ward 
 gang." Across the aisle, and facing him, sat a well-dressed young lady, 
 evidently a visitor. A hymn was given out, but as she had no book, 
 she waited until she caught the restless glance of the urchin before 
 her. A quick motion made known her wants, and, as she leaned for- 
 ward to take the book he offered her, she smiled her thanks. An 
 answering smile lighted up the face of the boy, but it quickly disap- 
 peared, leaving instead, a look of mingled sadness and longing. He 
 sat almost motionless, the cunning look gone from his face, the rest- 
 less glances quieted. Poor little fellow! No one at home ever smiles 
 like that. At school the teacher always frowns, while even the team- 
 
 3 
 
sters in the street are his foes. It was only a smile; but oh, the lesson 
 it taught of the inequality of this life's burdens, that one little glimpse 
 into the happy side which he could never enter! — Ruth A. Woodley. 
 
 "LIGHTS OUT.' 
 
 The carriage slowly filed in through the vine-covered archway at 
 Rosehill, the clatter of the horses' hoofs rudely waking the slumbering 
 echoes of the vaulted passageway. Winding along the graveled road- 
 ways that led through that part of the cemetery dedicated to the 
 "Army and Navy," they drew up before the monument inscribed, 
 
 x "To the Memory 
 
 of 
 The Brave Men who Fought, Side by Side, in the Twenty-Second 
 Illinois Infantry, Company D." 
 
 The warm spring afternoon was drawing to a close; the newly 
 awakened grass was smiling a welcome to the bursting buds in the 
 tree-tops, while here and there on the green mounds bright dandelions 
 lay like golden medals. 
 
 On the still air came the solemn words of the "Service of Com- 
 mittal": 
 
 "In the midst of life we are in death earth to earth 
 
 dust to dust: looking for the general Resurrection through our 
 
 Lord Jesus Christ." A squad of gray-haired veterans stepped silently 
 into place, raised their rifles, and fired a solemn salute. The echoes 
 of the volley died away in the distance as the Colonel's old bugler, 
 putting his beloved instrument to his trembling lips, sounded the well- 
 remembered call, "Lights Out." 
 
 The last rays of the setting sun lingered for a moment, casting 
 a silent benediction on the sorrowing group of comrades, then lightly 
 kissing the folds of the tattered flag that lay across the grave, they 
 disappeared in the twilight. — Ruth A. Woodley. 
 
 PICTURES FROM MEMORY. 
 (With apologies to Alice Cary.) 
 
 Among the horrible pictures 
 That hang on Memory's wall 
 
 Is one of an English paragraph, 
 That seemeth the worst of all; 
 
 Not for its gnarled jokes olden, 
 4 
 
Strung in a laboring row. 
 Not for the similes golden 
 
 That sprinkle the page below; 
 Not for the bad punctuation. 
 
 Of "pity-sakes" work the pledge, 
 Coquetting all day with the numbers 
 
 Marked thick on the paper's edge; 
 Not for the words in the corner, 
 
 Where the surname is written first, 
 Nor yet for the "C" at the bottom 
 
 It seemeth to me the worst. 
 
 I once had a little fancy, 
 
 A thought that was new and bright; 
 In the midst of that English paragraph 
 
 It lieth, a fearful sight: 
 Light as the down of the thistle, 
 
 Free as the winds that blow, 
 I felt as I looked at that fancy. 
 
 And I said, "This w r ill surely go." 
 But I felt my feet grow w r eary. 
 
 And my breath did not come so free, 
 As I rose with my little fancy, 
 
 To show it in English G. 
 Slowly the Master's fingers 
 
 On the chair arms took a brace, 
 As the light of immortal agony 
 
 Silently covered his face; 
 And when I had finished the paper, 
 
 And down in my seat had sat, 
 He said, in his saint-like accents, 
 
 "You'll have to write better than that." 
 Therefore of all the pictures 
 
 That hang on Memory's wall, 
 The one of that "punk" old paragraph 
 
 Seemeth the worst of all. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 THE UPLAND PLOVER. 
 
 You perhaps know something of the delicate flavor of his poor 
 little body, but if you would know something of his spirit, you must 
 forget how he looks hanging, with his companions, from a butcher's 
 hook; you must obliterate for a time the memory of shop and town, 
 of garnished meats, of delicate flavors. You must go for a long walk 
 on an April afternoon across brown fields turned purple in the sunset. 
 
The air is cold, and the wind is nipping. The faintest suspicion 
 of smoke greets your nostrils, and you think of old bon-fires and 
 autumn leaves and nutting trips in lumbering hay-racks. Some- 
 how, the memory of autumn always makes the spring seem pleasanter, 
 and you begin to feel that you understand better what is the great 
 truth of life. 
 
 The purple windflower nods at your feet as you cross the rocky hill- 
 top, and seems to whisper of some unwonted activity in the great, 
 silent ground beneath. A high-holder calls across the valley with 
 a shout of welcome to you, a votary of nature. You descend the hill 
 and traverse the desolate marsh, where last year's faded grasses and 
 broken mustard stalks try to hide the mantling greenness underneath. 
 Across the level land the naked willows fringe the glowing bosom 
 of the west. The beams from the sunken sun bathe in exquisite 
 crimson a tiny cloud, a fragment of the sunset. 
 
 Up the slope beyond you go, across the oat stubble, where sparrows 
 cheep or meadow larks call plaintively. The crows, like clumsy gal- 
 leons of the air, are sailing homeward to the woodlands. Up from the 
 dusking fields comes that indescribable smell of spring, that name- 
 less fragrance of the awakened land. It is dark now. Orion hangs in 
 the southern sky. Lights gleam far away in cottage homes. A dog 
 barks aimlessly. 
 
 You have now reached the top of the hill. Pause here a moment 
 to receive the full meaning of it all. The faintest stirrings of awaken- 
 ing spring. Be silent, and listen for that voice coming from the 
 innermost sanctuary of nature. Ah, did you hear it? From the 
 ground, from the fields, from the sky, whence came it? It is the 
 voice of the upland plover, the still, small voice that comes from the 
 heart of spring. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 ON STORMY NIGHTS. 
 
 On stormy nights the drifting cohorts come, 
 
 Shrieking their battle-song upon the gale; 
 They sweep the forests with their distant hum, 
 
 They trail their mantles over hill and vale. 
 A tattoo sounds upon the frosty pane, 
 
 And all the air is thickened with the flights 
 Of snowflakes, where old Winter stalks amain 
 
 On stormy nights. 
 
 On stormy nights my crackling wood fire glows, 
 My cozy cricket chirps a merry tune, 
 
 And howling winds and frost and drifting snows 
 Bring brighter visions of the skies of June. 
 6 
 
When constant friends bid loneliness depart. 
 
 And books provide a store of old delights. 
 We find that summer reigns within the heart 
 
 On stormy nights. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 A HOSPITAL EXPERIENCE. 
 
 The opening of the elevator door is heard, and the patients' cart 
 comes slowly along the hall and in through the door. A sober interne 
 in snowwhite costume follows the cart and pushes it up beside my bed. 
 All the morning I have been expecting him. My friends tell me that 
 everything will come out all right, that there is every indication that 
 the operation will be a success. However, I recall the poor man in 
 the cot across from mine. He was suffering from the same malady, 
 and he was carried away one bright morning to the operating room, 
 never to return. The night nurse had told me that he had been 
 removed to another room, but I later bribed the hall-boy, and learned 
 from him that the man had succumbed during the operation. Collapse, 
 the doctors called it. 
 
 But here is the interne shooting some morphine into my arm, and 
 telling me to be of good courage. He and the nurse help me upon the 
 cart, and I am quickly borne away to the elevator. On the floor above, 
 the odor of iodoform pervades the air. Snow-white nurses rush nois- 
 lessly about. I am wheeled into a bright, clean room, in the center of 
 which is an iron frame with a glass top. I am placed upon this, and, 
 as I look about, great pans full of gleaming knives, saws, and forceps 
 leer from the table. The interne enters, opens a can of ether, and 
 passes a bit of cotton, soaked in the fluid, before my face. The sicken- 
 ing fumes enter my nostrils. I choke. He tells me to breathe deeply 
 and slowly. I gradually become accustomed to the nauseating odor. 
 He places a cap over my face, and I mentally bid good-bye to earth. 
 Then my limbs and body begin to feel far away. I rise, I float, I fall. 
 Suddenly an awful sound roars in my ears. Really it is only the 
 nurse at the faucet, but it sounds to me like a thousand buildings 
 falling about my head. Amid it all I can hear my brother saying, 
 "You're all right, old man." Suddenly there is a crash, as if my whole 
 being had gone out in a puff of smoke — and I know no more. — H. E. 
 Russell. 
 
 THE SINGING PINES. 
 
 On a gentle slope overlooking a highway was a grove of pines. 
 A river, winding past the base of the hill, strayed away through a 
 valley rich in grain fields and vinevards, dotted with haughty castles 
 
 7 
 
and stately abbeys. In the distance, along the highway, rose the 
 roofs of a great city. Many a breeze, coming through the valley, 
 murmured . in the grove of pines, so that travelers were wont to say 
 that the pines talked like human beings. 
 
 One evening, as twilight was deepening, a band of wayfarers passed 
 the hill in their journey to the distant city. They were a motley band, 
 evidently drawn together for protection against outlaws. Some rode 
 upon steeds richly caparisoned, others plodded wearily afoot through 
 the dust of the road; some laughed and sang snatches of songs, others 
 were sternly silent. The murmur of the pines came audibly upon 
 the air. 
 
 "They tell us," said one of the travelers, "that these pines speak 
 with a human voice, and have a message for us, have we but ears to 
 hear. Come, friend," addressing a companion, "what do the pines 
 seem to say to thee?" 
 
 The other was a young man pranked out in gay colors. He 
 blushed, then said, softly, "They sing of love. They tell of a fair maid 
 impatiently waiting for her lover to come to her." 
 
 "Nay, nay, my son," said another, a lean, closely cowled monk, 
 "thou hast not heard the song aright. The pines do murmur of a 
 heavenly country, of palms and crowns and singing and meetings of 
 friends." 
 
 "Yet, father, such do I not hear," exclaimed a knight in the 
 strength of manhood. "I seem to hear the blasts of bugles, the splint- 
 ering of lances, and the applause of fair ladies. But tell us, silent 
 stranger, what dost thou hear in yon voices?" 
 
 The one addressed rode apart, nor did he often deign an answer 
 to his companions. His face had been hidden in his black mantle; 
 but now, drawing his cloak aside, he revealed a face so ghastly, and 
 eyes so sunken, that his companions started as if they had seen a spirit. 
 
 "What do they say?" he replied. "Ah, they mock at me; they 
 hiss at me; I seem to hear the groans of a dying man as the murderer's 
 fingers tighten about his neck. I hear the cry stick in his throat, the 
 whisper die upon his lips. All this the pines say to me, then they cry 
 out at me, and call me — " 
 
 The party had now passed on into the darkness, so that the words 
 of the speaker were no longer audible. Yet the pines murmured softly 
 as the cool night air tarried in their boughs, ere it sped away to visit 
 the sleeping valley. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 A SKETCH IN PURPLE. 
 
 I sat at night upon a lonely shore beside a silent sea. Far off 
 over the crimson waters the bloody moon glared luridly, and cast his 
 baleful spell over the troubled land. Silhouetted against the warm 
 
sky stood the inky shapes of poplars, rooted, as if by enchantmenl 
 upon the barren hill. No motion was there against the sea, or land, 
 or sky, save where, low skimming the distant horizon, a huge night 
 bird swept along, his mighty pinions moving athwart the moon like 
 the fingers of a ghoul. Suddenly a shudder, thrilling the surface of 
 the glassy water, broke in a sobbing whisper at my feet. The moon 
 turned darkly red, and although no wind agitated the stifling air, 
 the poplars writhed and swayed as if each were a damned spirit. 
 And now the mists of the sea, like sheeted ghosts, crept in along toe 
 land, and as they glided toward the hill, from the bowels of the 
 earth came murmurs,' such as might come from dead men speaking in 
 their graves. 
 
 The waves were now moaning and crawling and hissing, and 
 slipping up and down the sands at my feet. A sudden chill came 
 in across the ocean, and the air grew murky. The sheeted figures 
 among the poplars stood rigid as marbles upon a tomb, each pointing 
 toward the distant horizon. The whole scene became as motionless 
 as stone. I could not help looking away in the direction indicated 
 by the pointing figures. 
 
 Suddenly a mighty ship came out of the deep, and bore rapidly 
 toward land. Against the black sky gleamed all its spars a pure white. 
 The dark waters slunk away from it, yet on it came, straight for the 
 spot where I sat upon the shore. Surely it would strand among the 
 shallows — no, on it came, seemingly riding the air. A mighty ship 
 of ancient pattern, it loomed high above me, and ghosts trod its deck. 
 A figure now appeared at the prow, the figure of a woman. 
 Something in her features led me to try to recall her name. She 
 turned reproachful eyes upon me, eyes full of blighted love, of 
 nourished revenge, and I cried to her: 
 
 "O thou whom I dimly remember, but cannot name, if I have ever 
 injured thee, ever, in some existence which I now have forgotten, 
 done thee aught of harm, I pray thee forgive me, for in this life 
 I have tried to live aright and to expiate the evils done in former 
 states. O thou avenging spirit of the past, forgive me, I — " 
 
 I awoke, and found myself bawling forth in the darkness of my 
 chamber. Late suppers are not generally recommended by physicians, 
 but they often result in some novel theories in philosophy. — H. E. 
 Russell. 
 
 MEDITATIONS OF A WEATHER-COCK. 
 
 Whew, how that north wind comes howling past my ears! And 
 I've got to stand and face it, too, and look off over house-tops, and 
 barren farms and distant hills with their naked forests and low, 
 blue clouds leering at me from the horizon. I wonder if the wind 
 comes out of those clouds. Or perhaps it is made in the forest, 
 
 9 
 
for often have I seen the trees tossing their branches, and almost 
 immediately I've felt the breezes in my wattles. How bleak the 
 country looks! And March at that, with spring only six weeks away! 
 Look at the man coming with a load of wood over yonder hill-top! 
 How the steam rises from the horses' nostrils! I can sympathize 
 with them, for already my feet feel like lead instead of zinc double 
 riveted. Down in that back yard a proud young Shanghai is lead- 
 ing his band of devoted hens around the barn. Through what per- 
 versity of fate am I, whose breast yearns for the companionship of 
 my kind, doomed to stand here alone with my feet nailed to a 
 block and to play the part of an inconstant admirer,- now to the 
 cross on the church spire, now to the yellow ball on the school- 
 house flag-staff? Long ago in the tin shop I once heard the story 
 of a man chained forever to a rock on a mountain. I wonder if 
 he's there yet. Perhaps it's that very mountain whose white peak 
 looms far in the distance. Cock-a-doodle-do! Hail there, friend in 
 adversity — 
 
 Hello, what's this? The wind has switched my fickle tail around 
 again, and now I am looking down upon the village street. This 
 position of mine on the town hall procures me much attention, for 
 notice how the creeping citizens below crane their necks upward to see 
 in what direction I'm looking. Fickle weather, gentlemen. Don't 
 go much by what I say. I'm heartily ashamed of those tail feathers 
 of mine, flirting with every errant breeze. Strange, isn't it, how a 
 person is often influenced by those things that he wishes to put 
 behind him? Just see that young fellow in the doctor's office across the 
 street, how he looks over my way! But I don't flatter myself. There's 
 a pretty typewriter girl in the room just below me. 
 
 But there I go again, and this time I am looking off into the 
 blue southern sky. Somehow, this southern breeze has an odor 
 about it that I like, an odor of warm mold and newly turned soil 
 and big fat worms and green grass. Would you believe it, I actually 
 hear a bluebird singing. Yes, spring is coming sure. Listen to that 
 rooster crowing. He knows that soon there'll be plenty of grubs and 
 insects. I'd like to flap my wings now, but they're fastened to my 
 side. Never mind. Life is jolly, anyway, and I want no better occu- 
 pation than to bear to the good folk of the village the tidings of com- 
 ing birds and grass and flowers. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 THE VOICES OF THE WINDS, 
 
 O eastern wind, 
 Across the lake, from out the morning sky 
 You come to me, and in 3 01; r vr.'ce I hear 
 
 1!) 
 
The varied murmur of the teeming earth: 
 The breath of city streets I feel, and towi 
 And ancient hattle fields I seem to see. 
 You bring a longing to my aching heart, 
 And I would he away across the seas, 
 Along the Rhine, or in the storied realms 
 Of golden Greece or Rome, in sunny climes 
 Bathed in the mellow tint of long ago. 
 
 O western wind, 
 The level prairies and the beetling heights 
 That crown the western land these are your home. 
 The silence of the awful peaks is yours; 
 You bear the eagle on his dizzy flight, 
 The wolf's far cry throughout the empty land. 
 Wind of the sunset, you have brought to me 
 The large, free spirit of the mighty West. 
 Grander than mountain peaks that talk with stars. 
 Welcome your chillirg breath, O western wind. 
 
 southern wind, 
 You bring to me the fragrance of the rose, 
 The warmth and ruddy sparkle of the vine. 
 The languor of the flowery meads, the balm 
 Of cypress groves, the laughter of the palms. 
 Across your green savannas roaming free, 
 You sing to me your low, sweet southern song. 
 I hear the twitter of the birds at eve, 
 And catch the music of a light guitar. 
 Played by a dreaming maiden in whose veins 
 Pulses the fiery blood of sunny Spain. 
 
 O northern wind, 
 Icy your breath, but warm your boisterous heart. 
 Out of the frozen fields of Labrador, 
 Over the gloomy forests of the north, 
 Come to me now: speak of my northern home. 
 Bring to my ears a tinkle of the brooks; 
 Whisper an echo of the murmuring pines. i 
 
 Upon your breast the veering waterfowl 
 Floats to his far-off home. O bring with him 
 A message from the ones I know the best, 
 Those whom I love within the silent North. 
 
 — H. E. Russell. 
 
 11 
 
UP FROM THE STREETS. 
 
 When the twilight steals o'er the busy town, 
 
 And the light of the west fades slow away, 
 From my window high I am looking down 
 
 On the roofs of the tenements, cold and gray. 
 And far beneath, on the pavement damp, 
 
 Is the passing throng with its weight of care; 
 And the rhythmic beat of its steady tramp 
 
 Comes up from the streets like an evening prayer. 
 
 The night wind sobs as it bears along 
 
 The drunkard's curse and the wanton's cry; 
 Yet I heed them not, for there comes the song 
 
 Of a mother who murmurs a lullaby. 
 For Love and Pity and Mercy mild 
 
 Will flourish where Hatred and Vice have been; 
 And the mother's croon o'er her little child 
 
 Will hallow the streets that are stained with sin. 
 
 Up from the streets with the other noise, 
 
 The sounds of children are on the air, 
 The merry games of the romping boys, 
 
 The laughter of girls on the tenement stair. 
 Wee desert people these children seem; 
 
 In the waste of the city they've lost their way; 
 But their songs are psalms of praise, I deem, 
 
 Floating up from the streets at the close of day. 
 
 In the light of a country that's far away, 
 
 On the jasper walls of a city bright, 
 Methinks I can hear the Master say, 
 
 As he gazes down on us all to-night, 
 And hears the sounds of the busy street 
 That far on the breezes rise and swell, 
 " The city's roar, like incense sweet, 
 
 Comes up from the streets that I love so well." 
 
 — H. E. Russell. 
 
 THE BULL CALF. 
 
 Yes, it surely was a bargain. Two dollars for a calf that, in a 
 year, would be worth ten. Uncle Amasa looked the animal over, then 
 scratched his head in silent thought. Aunt Sarah "had an idee" that 
 they could well spare the money, and it would make fine beef in 
 two years. Yet Amasa was not convinced. Why did the stranger 
 wish to sell the calf so cheaply? Perhaps it had some disease. 
 
 12 
 
No, the stranger assured them, the animal hadn't a blemish. He 
 simply wanted to sell the beast, and was tired of looking around 
 for a purchaser. Indeed, the man did look tired. His eyes had an 
 expression of resigned despair, as if he had been struggling vainly 
 against heavy odds. Those eyes brightened greatly, however, as Uncle 
 Amasa counted out two crisp bills, and took the calf in tow. The 
 new possession was made secure, by its long rope, to the end board 
 of the democrat, and slowly Uncle Amasa and Aunt Sarah rode out 
 of the village. 
 
 "Ye did well by that critter, Amasy," said Aunt Sarah, adjusting 
 her brown cotton sun-shade. 
 
 "Yes, I reckon I did," was the reply. 
 
 Aunt Sarah, in her pride, must needs take another look at the 
 object of this talk. 
 
 "Why, paw," she cried, "the calf's loose." 
 
 It was indeed true. The rope had become untied, and there the 
 animal stood, several rods down the road, gazing serenely at the 
 departing democrat. Uncle Amasa made haste to dismount, and 
 going back, he picked up the trailing rope, crying, "Come along thar." 
 
 This calf, however, was not like other calves. He shook his head, 
 and planted his feet more firmly in the mud of the road. Uncle 
 Amasa gave a long, steady pull, but it was like pulling out stumps. 
 It became a tug-of-war. Aunt Sarah had put down her sun-shade, and 
 was peering back intently. Finding his own strength unavailing, 
 Uncle Amasa called, "Sairy, back up the demycrat." 
 
 Now, backing a democrat was something that old Peter wasn't 
 used to, and it was a long way back to the scene of conflict. Aunt 
 Sarah, however, rose to the occasion, and after sundry jerkings and 
 scoldings, she succeeded in backing old Peter and the democrat into 
 a clump of blackberry bushes beside the road, where a wheel stuck 
 fast against a stump. The mutterings going on in Amasa's breast now 
 burst forth like a hurricane, when Sarah cried, "Oh, paw, do be still. 
 Here comes the new preacher." 
 
 The man of God now hove in sight around the bend of the road. 
 "Paw" tried to restrain himself, but just at that moment the calf 
 jerked his head, and the rope broke. Uncle Amasa sat down in 
 the mud, and then it was that Aunt Sarah heard the long-dreaded 
 profanity: 
 
 "Jee-rusalem the Golden!" 
 
 "Why, Brother Jimpkins, what words do I hear?" cried the parson, 
 dismounting from his buck-board. The calf, however, interrupted any 
 further speech from that gentleman, by butting him off his feet and 
 into a patch of thistles. Thereupon the new possession fled majesti- 
 cally over the neighboring hill-top. The parson could only mutter, as 
 he rode away, "Bless the brute! Bless the brute!" 
 
 13 
 
Uncle Amasa chuckled audibly, perhaps remembering that scrip- 
 tural verse, 'They bless with their mouths, but curse inwardly." — H. 
 E. Russell. 
 
 A NEWSPAPER DREAM. 
 
 Recently, in one of our neighboring colleges, a student retired for 
 the night. Two mischievous friends, seeing the door open, entered 
 and dashed a tumbler of water over the unsuspecting sleeper. The 
 student gave a yell of terror, dreaming that he was drowning in 
 mid ocean. The perpetrators of the joke told at breakfast of the 
 student's fright, and the correspondent of the Daily Intereverything 
 thought that he saw a story. He called it a case of hazing, made 
 the band of hazers six, and substituted a pail for the tumbler. His 
 paper was the only one next morning to publish the story, but the 
 Evening Distress had an article, and this time the student was 
 soused in a bath-tub till he begged for mercy. The president of the 
 college had now been interviewed, and he had said that, while the 
 hazing had not come to his official notice, yet he was prepared to 
 deal summarily with the hazers. Next morning all the papers had 
 articles on the hazing. The Bawl-Chatter said that twenty students 
 had broken into the room, bound their victim to the bed, and turned 
 the hose upon him until the miserable wretch, piteously begging them 
 to stop, had become unconscious, and the dripping water had roused 
 those living beneath to summon out the fire department. The Daily 
 Gibber said that the student was now in a precarious condition, and 
 fears were entertained concerning his recovery, that the college 
 trustees had held a special session to discuss the action, and that 
 forty students were hourly in danger of expulsion. Then came, the 
 Sunday papers with pictures of the victim and of the college presi- 
 dent. Editorials were written, and poems and jokes appeared on 
 the same subject, while an excellent cartoon was printed with the 
 caption, "Recrudescence of Hazing in American Colleges." Next day 
 the student was surprised by the hasty advent of his parents from the 
 country, and it took him some time to convince them that the horrible 
 tragedy was only a newspaper dream. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 THE NATIONAL GAME. 
 
 He was nothing but a second baseman on the college team, and she 
 was only a Freshman girl, who thought that attendance on the games 
 was a duty. From the tall bleachers she looked down at him, and 
 admired; he, on the other hand, could always pick her out from a 
 bunch of pink and white and purple. She admired the masterly way 
 in which he sneaked up behind the man on second just as the catcher 
 
 14 
 
signaled to the pitcher to turn around and "lam" it, and he had 
 begun to love her since that day when she had risen and yelled "rotten" 
 at the umpire. 
 
 One afternoon he went to see her, and she knew that he was 
 coming. They sat on the back porch, where they could watch the 
 boys playing "two old cat" across the alley. He realized that to-day 
 "it was up to him." It was three balls and two strikes, and he was 
 anxious to know whether he would be put out or not. 
 
 "Dolly," he said softly, "I have something to tell you." He 
 paused, and looked abstractedly away into the sunset. Once or twice 
 he spat upon his hands, and she imagined that she could see him 
 knocking the ball over the centerfielder's head. She wished to bring 
 him back to the subject, however, so she said timidly, "Play ball." 
 
 "Dolly," he began again, "I know that I don't stand much show 
 against your pitching. I never mind it at all with other girls, but 
 somehow, since you've stepped into the box, you've been throwing 
 the curves all around me. I've struck at 'em wildly enough, hoping 
 to make a safe hit and eventually steal home, but you dazzle me too 
 much. Dolly, won't you hit me with the ball, and let me take my 
 base?" 
 
 He looked earnestly at her, but she answered, "Nonsense, Harry. 
 I don't admire these players who are satisfied if they only reach 
 first. I want a man who never stops this side of third. If you step 
 up boldly to the plate, who knows — " 
 
 It was her turn to pause and gaze at the ball game across the 
 alley. But the second baseman gave a cry of joy, and folded the 
 freshman "rooter" against his purple sweater. He knew that he had 
 made a home run. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 SPEAKING PIECES. 
 
 "Put away your work and come to order." 
 
 There was a noise of clattering slates, of falling books, and of 
 dropping pencils. Shaggy heads popped up here and there, and 
 expectant grins were on many freckled faces; for was not this Friday 
 afternoon, and were not one-fourth of the pupils to speak pieces? The 
 girls put their apartments in order, and sat attention. Pete and 
 Jimmy Pyle appeared above the ramparts of their desk, and two 
 grimy sleeves moved lovingly across two pairs of lips wet with apple 
 juice. Ezra Corn, the boy with the St. Vitus dance, shot his head 
 suddenly forward, as if to detach it from the body and bowl it down 
 the row of small girls before him. Warty Bill threw his last paper 
 wad, and lapsed into innocuous desuetude. Delightful anticipation 
 shone on most faces, but some few had the look of a man going to 
 his doom. 
 
 15 
 
The teacher timied the pages of her book, and called out, "Johnny 
 Phem." Johnny jumped as if shot, then slowly arose, sidled up to 
 the platform, stretched himself to his full stature, put his hands 
 behind him, thoughtfully scratched the innerside of his right leg with 
 the great toe of his left boot, then shut his eyes, and informed the 
 astonished audience that he was monarch of all he surveyed. There 
 being none present who desired to dispute his title, he finished in 
 peace and went to his seat. Jenny Ransom was then bade to speak. 
 With pale face, dilated nostrils, and wildly staring eyes, she stood 
 forth, and, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, she accounted for her 
 strange trepidation by saying that her heart was in the Highlands, 
 chasing the deer. As Jenny told of her loss, the dumb agony on her 
 face was a sight to behold. 
 
 Other speakers followed rapidly. Teddy Winthrop knew that he 
 stood at the end of the list, and his heart beat high with the hope 
 that the hour would be up before his time should come. Four now 
 remained to speak, and there were six more minutes of school. Nathan 
 Tompkins began well on the "Psalm of Life," and Teddy thought that 
 that was long enough to take up all the available time, but Nathan 
 knew only two stanzas. Susie Trotter was soon through with her 
 selection, and Georgie Van Eilen was absent. The teacher closed her 
 book, and Teddy's heart gave a great throb of joy, but almost immedi- 
 ately the book was open again. 
 
 "Why," she said, "I forgot Theodore Winthrop. Come, Theodore, 
 it's your turn now." 
 
 She had meant to be pleasant, but Teddy knew that it was a siren 
 voice dragging him against the rocks. It was a horrible, sickening 
 moment in his life. With nothing in his mind but a confused murmur, 
 he arose and found himself before that sea of cruel faces. What 
 was he up there for? He gazed blankly through the window, where 
 the branches lay still in the summer afternoon. This gave him his 
 cue, and he began: 
 
 " Woodman, spare that tree. 
 Touch not a single bough. 
 In youth it sheltered me, 
 
 And I — I — I'll protect it now — " 
 A look of intense consternation came into Teddy's face. There 
 was silence. Rather than this awful stillness, he would go back 
 and get a fresh start. He believed that he bad begun the poem wrong. 
 He had begun the day wrong. Oh, why didn't he play hookey, and 
 go off to the woods, and get a whipping at night? He began the 
 poem all over again, but somehow the words persisted in hanging 
 lovingly on his offers of protection. 
 
 "And I'll protect it now — " Teddy's face became white. 
 "And I'll protect it now — " Teddy's knees shook. 
 "And I'll protect it now — boo — hoo — hoo — " Teddy was in inglor- 
 ious retreat. 
 
 16 
 
The brutal audience that had. up to this time, delighted in his 
 
 torment, now sympathized with him in his defeat. It was the repro- 
 duction of a circus scene of ancient Rome, where the people held up 
 their thumbs in token of life for one who had fought valiantly. — H. 
 E. Russell. 
 
 A PRIMORDIAL WOOING. 
 
 A long time ago, when the world was new, 
 
 And folks lived up in the cocoa-nut trees, 
 And swung on the branches the whole day through, 
 
 Or rummaged their hair for a meal of fleas, 
 Those poor people never once dreamed of the sights 
 
 1 hat their children's children would live to see, 
 Those Simians never stayed awake nights 
 
 To think of the land of the "Is-to-be." 
 
 No parlors there were in the long ago, 
 
 Where one could sit with the charming fair, 
 And whisper and sigh, with the light turned low, 
 
 And thank his stars that her pa wasn't there. 
 Their ways were awkward and slow, it would seem. 
 
 W T ere they living now, they would learn a few, 
 And yet they knew something of love's young dream, 
 
 In the ancient days when the world was new. 
 
 One summer morning a chimpanzee, 
 
 In the olden times when the world was new, 
 Sang loud to his love from a cocoa-nut tree, 
 
 In the ancient kingdom of Timbuctoo; 
 And he cried, "0 darling, so sweet and .prim, 
 
 What rapture to see you a-sitting there, 
 With your tail curled over the knot of a limb! 
 
 Oh, may I not call you my true love, fair?" 
 
 But while the lover thus sang and cried, 
 
 And languished and yearned for his true love, fair, 
 The lady in question scratched her side, 
 
 Then turned and gave him the haughty stare; 
 And said, "You are altogether too bold, 
 
 The top of your head hasn't any hair on. 
 I am young, but you are ugly and old — 
 
 I cannot love you. Begone. Begone." 
 
 Then the wily old "munk" winked his other ear, 
 And said, "That I'm ugly must be confessed, 
 17 
 
But yet I'm a wealthy old codger, my dear; 
 
 1 have cocoa-nut trees till you couldn't rest." 
 Then a change came over the lady fair; 
 
 Away to greet him she swiftly flew, 
 And she cooed, "I was giving you only hot air. 
 
 You're the rarest old darling in Timbuctoo." 
 
 As I said before, those were stupid days, 
 
 When folks lived up in the tree-tops high. 
 Their sons and daughters could show them ways 
 
 That would make them open each blinking eye. 
 Yet we must confess that those people seem 
 
 (In those far-off times when the world was new) 
 To have known a few things about love's young dream, 
 
 In the ancient kingdom of Timbuctoo. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 LOVE AND FOREIGN MISSIONS. 
 
 The Widow Brownlow was expecting the parson. Something told 
 her that he would come that afternoon, to ask her a question, the 
 anticipation of which already set her heart wildly beating. Yes, the 
 widow was comely, and no one, except the spiteful Burdick sisters, 
 blamed the parson for his frequent visits to the Brownlow home. 
 The widow was also wealthy. Her lamented first husband had made 
 a snug fortune in windmills, a fortune which she showed no tendency 
 to squander, except in her one form of dissipation, foreign missions. 
 Above her mantel hung, in a gold frame, a large photograph of the 
 pupils of the Dahomey School for Boys, with the Reverend Mr. Budd 
 sitting among them. Mrs. Brownlow glanced up at the picture now, 
 but the warm glow upon her dimpled cheeks was not wholly due to her 
 consuming love for the heathen. The Dahomey School for Boys 
 had been the darling of the parson's heart, and it was in the many 
 conferences between herself and that kindly gentleman, over this 
 very subject of the school, that those affections had been born 
 which the widow dared not call by their right name. 
 
 The widow was correct in her expectation. The parson was even 
 now coming up the gravel walk to the widow's door. But his mission 
 was different from what she was hoping. He was bent on persuading 
 her to give twenty-five dollars more toward putting a new roof upon 
 the building occupied by the Dahomey School for Boys. His heart was 
 glowing with the thought of the good work, and as the widow looked 
 into his eyes, she blushed. The parson appeared embarrassed, and 
 dropped his eyes. Surely it wasn't right for the widow to give 
 all the money. Then he thought of the joy of giving, and determina- 
 tion was seen in his face. The widow noticed his abstracted manner, 
 
 18 
 
recalled her former experience of the heart, and concluded to put 
 no stumbling blocks in the parson's way. She sighed, and looked 
 dreamily away toward the pupils of the Dahomey School for Boys. 
 The parson looked, too, and took courage. 
 
 "Ah, Sister Brownlow, love is a great master." 
 
 This was excellent: Exactly what her first husband had said. 
 The parson, however, was thinking of the new roof. 
 
 "And, sister, we all need shelter and protection." 
 
 The widow closed her eyes, and took a tight grip on the arms of 
 her chair. Yes, it was surely coming, after these weary months of 
 waiting. She expected, when she opened her eyes, to see the parson 
 on his knees before her. She heard his voice lower, as he said, slowly, 
 hesitatingly: 
 
 "I have called, Sister Brownlow, to ask you a question, an affirma- 
 tive answer to which will afford me much joy. Will you give us 
 twenty-five dollars for a new roof to the Dahomey School for Boys?" 
 
 The widow opened her eyes, and looked at the parson. He was 
 looking at the picture. Every black face seemed to mock her. With- 
 out a word she handed the parson the desired amount, then burst into 
 a flood of tears. The parson was agitated. 
 
 "My sister," said he, "great indeed is your yearning for these 
 poor, lost lambs. I rejoice to see how great is your love. It shall 
 be rewarded in heaven." 
 
 After the parson had gone a look of stern indignation came into 
 the widow's face, as she reached up and took the picture from the 
 wall, and hurled the members of the Dahomey School for Boys, 
 Reverend Budd and all, into a shapeless mass upon the hearth. — H. E. 
 Russell. 
 
 PRINCESS GOLDEN HAIR. 
 
 Little Princess Golden Hair, 
 With your arch and queenly air, 
 From the first it could be seen 
 You had come to be my queen. 
 In my memory I can see 
 How you used to gaze on me, 
 With your tresses tumbling down. 
 With your great eyes melting brown, 
 Softly raised to shoot a dart 
 'Gainst the armor of my heart, 
 Just as if you did not know 
 You had pierced it long ago, 
 And had caused me keen delight 
 Just to serve you day and night. 
 
 19 
 
And to raise a thankful prayer 
 For your presence, Golden Hair. 
 
 Little Princess Golden Hair, 
 
 Life with you was rich and fair; 
 
 But my days have empty grown, 
 
 Since you left me here alone. 
 
 As I look across the years, 
 
 Blinding comes the mist of tears; 
 
 Yet I think those loving eyes 
 
 Look on me from Paradise. 
 
 Often to the grave I cry, 
 
 And the roses nod reply, 
 
 Or the lilies, kissed by dew, 
 
 Whisper, Golden Hair, of you. 
 
 For my coming do you wait, 
 
 Sitting by the mighty gate? 
 
 Will you rise to greet me there, 
 
 Little Princess Golden Hair? — H. E. Russell. 
 
 SINCE MARY'S GONE. 
 
 Since Mary's gone the autumn days 
 
 Grow bleak in winter's stormy breath; 
 The hills, with glory once ablaze, 
 
 Are putting on the robes of death: 
 The paths which we together trod, 
 
 Mournful and slow I tread alone; 
 Her favorite flower, the golden-rod, 
 
 Is drooping now, since Mary's gone. 
 
 Since Mary's gone I mount the hill 
 
 Where oft we walked when day was o'er. 
 I sit and listen to the rill — 
 
 'Twill echo to her voice no more. 
 The pasture bars I view again, 
 
 Those rustic bars I sat upon, 
 And joyed to see her down the lane, 
 
 The lonely lane, since Mary's gone. 
 
 At last there came a moment chill 
 When I must bid my love adieu. 
 
 A butcher man came o'er the hill, 
 And led my Mary from my view. 
 
 A tear stood in her lustrous eye, 
 
 20 
 
As to the town she rambled on; 
 She's beefsteak now. I'll have to buy 
 
 My milk condensed, since Mary's gone. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 MY ESKIMO BABY. 
 
 The moon is hanging in the sky; 
 
 (Sleep, O baby mine.) 
 Aurora Bore is shooting high; 
 
 (Sleep, O baby mine.) 
 The polar bears have homeward fled, 
 The chubby seals have gone to bed, 
 So on this snowdrift rest your head. 
 
 (Sleep, O baby mine.) 
 
 Be quiet now and do not cry; 
 
 (Sleep, O baby mine.) 
 Your tears will freeze before they dry; 
 
 (Sleep, O baby mine.) 
 Your father's gone the whale to spear; 
 He'll bring some blubber, never fear; 
 So do not blubber, baby dear. 
 
 (Sleep, O baby mine.) 
 
 Sleep till the morning paints the skies; 
 
 (Sleep, O baby mine.) 
 In three months more the sun will rise; 
 
 (Sleep, O baby mine.) 
 And when you wake, the morn to greet, 
 I'll give my baby something sweet, 
 A cake of Ivory Soap to eat. 
 
 (Sleep, O baby mine.) — H. E. Russell. 
 
 AN UNJUST DECISION. 
 
 Spring and Winter, on a day, 
 Went a-lawing, so they say; 
 Months were jurors, while the year 
 Sat as judge the case to hear. 
 All the trouble was about 
 Who'd stay in and who'd stay out, 
 Whether Winter might remain 
 Master over hill and plain, 
 Wait until his time was gone, 
 
 21 
 
Ere he must be moving on, 
 Or if Spring, the wanton, might 
 Oust him from his vested right, 
 Make him pack and move away 
 Long before the moving day. 
 
 First old Winter rose, and he 
 
 Pleaded long and earnestly, 
 
 Showed, through force of ancient laws, 
 
 He had justice with his cause, 
 
 Brought forth precedents galore, 
 
 Of decisions many a score, 
 
 Spoke of special rights reserved, 
 
 Spoke of customs long observed; 
 
 Till the jury, Winter knew, 
 
 Thought the way he wished them to, 
 
 While the judge looked pitying 
 
 Down at poor, outwitted Spring. 
 
 Spring arose with modest grace, 
 
 Turned, and from her blushing face 
 
 Threw the veil. Ah, she was fair, 
 
 Beautiful beyond compare! 
 
 For the wealth of seasons old 
 
 Shimmered in her hair of gold; 
 
 Never blue of summer skies 
 
 Matched the color of her eyes; 
 
 On her lips the roses lay, 
 
 In her cheeks the pink of May, 
 
 And her voice was like the rills 
 
 Singing in the misty hills; 
 ' That I've sinned I don't deny, 
 
 Yet a woman weak am I." 
 
 O'er her sunny features swept 
 
 Troubled clouds, and sore she wept. 
 
 She had won: the jurors rose, 
 
 Loud the old judge blew his nose, 
 
 Slowly then the verdict read, 
 ' Innocent" was what it said. 
 
 Moral: Justice has no place 
 
 Where a woman's in the case. — H. E. Russell. 
 
 THE COPELANDS. 
 
 A visit from the Copelands of Freeport was always a rerl-letter 
 
 22 
 
day in the uneventful lives of us children. We climbed to the top 
 of the fence, and watched the train go by, and the nourish of a cap 
 from a car window betokened that Arthur was there, and that soon 
 we should see the whole Copeland family coming up the sidewalk. 
 
 First came Mrs. Copeland, with little Reggy at her side. She 
 always advanced in state, her pink sun-shade coquettishly turned 
 against the glances of amorous Sol, who already had left his ruddy 
 kisses upon her face. Behind her came Mr. Copeland, leading Bertha 
 by the hand. Arthur, or Art, as he was called, usually performed 
 the part of a courier, and was already rattling at our gate before 
 the rest of the procession had come around the corner. 
 
 Mother always welcomed them from the front veranda, she and 
 Mrs. Copeland never forgetting the customary form of salutation 
 among women. Father reached out a friendly hand to the apologetic 
 Mr. Copeland, while we turned to the children. Mrs. Copeland was 
 a large woman, upholstered in brown with velvet trimmings, and 
 she looked very pretty seated upon our new plush sofa. She con- 
 sidered herself an invalid, and her talk was one continuous testimony 
 to the saving power of pink pills for pale people. 
 
 Mr. Copeland, or "Doc," was a veterinary surgeon, and he bore 
 about with him an odor that advertised his business. He and father 
 usually sought the seclusion of the back porch, where they could 
 smoke and talk about horse races and the county fair. They had 
 been boyhood friends, therefore they often discussed ancient history, 
 which to me meant anything back of my third birthday. 
 
 Little Reggy was a futile attempt at a Lord Fauntleroy on the part 
 of Mrs. Copeland. He wore his hair long, and had a look of sweet 
 resignation, as if he wished his mamma used wool soap. Bertha had 
 tangled yellow hair and large gray eyes, and she inspired me to make 
 friendly advances to her, which she thereupon repelled by calling me 
 "Smarty," intimating that I once gave a party to which only colored 
 people came. 
 
 Art, however, was a perennial spring of joy. He could move his 
 ears, and he taught us how to whistle through our fingers. He already 
 had three warts on his hands, and he could imitate a Kickapoo Indian 
 selling patent medicine. He told us the whole story of "Brave Ben, 
 the Boy Hero of the Mills," and then did a flip-flop off the front 
 veranda. In mumblety-peg he could do his ears ten times without 
 missing, and he knew a man that had six fingers on each hand. 
 
 The Copelands always marched away in the same royal fashion in 
 which they came, except that Art brought up the rear and waved 
 us a kindly farewell ere he disappeared around the corner. — H. E. 
 Russell. 
 
 23 
 
THE TOWN OF WHITE PEAK. 
 
 It seemed to have struggled up through the Pecos Valley, leaving 
 here and there at uncertain intervals along its way a tired hut or two, 
 and at last finding a place of rest behind the foothills of the White 
 : ntains. Only one road dared the blistering Arizona sun; it crept 
 its way over sandhills and between Joshua trees, finally merging 
 ilself in evident satisfaction into the lover of the two streets inter- 
 secting the town. That one particular "boulevard," as the men called 
 it, r_ n boldly a distance of about three hundred yards when, being 
 met at right angles by the other and principal thoroughfare, it lost all 
 confidence in itself, and scampered into various by-paths off over the 
 desert. But even that main street was not very imposing. It 
 wriggled up over the side of the mountain in a desperate effort to 
 reach the dazzling summit of White Peak, and it wobbled so as 
 to make its general merchandise store, blacksmith shop, thirteen 
 dwellings, and five saloons almost topple back over the slope. 
 
 The town of White Peak boasted four hundred inhabitants and 
 about half as many nationalities, more or less. Black, yellow, red, 
 and white men mingled in true western cosmopolitan spirit, knowing 
 neither poor nor rich, ignorant nor learned, plebeian nor aristocrat, 
 whose social code was simply "good fellowship," and whose religion 
 was the Golden Rule "unspiled by any extries," as Jake Connelly 
 stated it.— P. E. Thomas. 
 
 MIKE HANLON'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Ever since the explosion in the Golden Gleam shaft, gloom had 
 hung over the town of White Peak. The loungers in the saloons 
 were as solemn as a body of deliberating senators. Men lost and 
 won at the gaming tables with little show of excitement. Women 
 crouching in the shade to escape the blistering heat whispered low 
 about the "mis-workings of Providence." While he had never been 
 eminently good, Mike Hanlon had not been notoriously bad. With 
 that charity born of disaster, everyone had concluded since the 
 recent explosion that, taking all in all, he was a good sort of a fellow, 
 and all patiently awaited the time of the funeral (the first funeral 
 in the history of the town) to manifest appropriately their regard 
 for the dead man. 
 
 The day set for that event dawned as had every other for the 
 past month; the sun stared out upon a naked sky and a blistering 
 earth. It was the wish of the town, as Joe Connelly expressed it, that 
 "every thing in this 'ere town should be shut tight as a drum" from 
 noon until after the return from the burial ground, and it was 
 rigidly complied with. Promptly after the noon whistle, which di- 
 vided their days in two, men, women, and children prepared for 
 participation in the ceremony. The town did not boast a preacher; 
 
 24 
 
it indulged in "divine service," as the signs road, on "t In- Inst Sun 
 day of each month." and as the accident had happened on the fourth 
 day of July, ministerial help was not available. But at a called 
 meeting of the leading men it was decided to draw lots to select 
 one who should officiate as "head man" at the funeral. The choice 
 fell upon Tom Leverick, a Cornishman of no small dimensions. Pre- 
 cisely at three o'clock he was awaiting the arrival of the funeral 
 cortege at the open grave, "two hundred feet west of the south 
 west corner of the Corral," according to the public notice previously 
 given. Presently the procession appeared around the corner of 
 the aforesaid corral, and slowly wended its way to the graveside. 
 Six stalwart miners, also chosen by lot, bore on their shoulders the 
 pine box coffin, and immediately behind them walked the widow and 
 her nineteen year-old son protecting his mother's bare head with an 
 umbrella; following them were about twenty five friends, male and 
 female. The crowd around the grave stepped reverently aside to 
 allow room for the mourners. In a silence broken only by the occa- 
 sional sobbing of a woman and by the whispered orders of the men 
 who were lowering the coffin, Leverick read with deep intonations 
 from a scrap of paper he was nervously crumpling: 
 
 "Mike Hanlon: born December 13th, 1859; died July 4th. 1899." 
 Then turning from this brief obituary to his audience, he said: 
 " 'Ave henny of you hennything to say about this man? If so, 
 speak lively." 
 
 Silence was the only response to this invitation. 
 "Cover 'im up, boys," said the improvised preacher. 
 One woman, with a supersensitive nature, shrieked as the clods 
 fell heavily on the box, a ghastly "Amen" to the service; a buzzard 
 swooped near the coffin, and the great red sun plunged headlong 
 behind the western mountains. — P. E. Thomas. 
 
 A ROOF GARDEN. 
 
 The fast two o'clock Northwestern train from Chicago to i^vanston 
 had stopped for a few minutes between Clybourn Junction and Deer- 
 ing. Puffing vigorously after its short, quick run, it did not seem at 
 all interested in the group of girls playing in their "roof garden." 
 The name "roof garden" seemed to fit it well. Was it not on the roof 
 of one of those many crippled shanties that, standing on tiptoe, in 
 winter try to raise their heads above the sooty snow, and in summer 
 w r rithe in the dancing heat to catch the draft from a passing train? 
 And was it not a "garden"? The dry spring had blown enough dust 
 and soot to make the "ground" look like a garden where the flowers 
 had forgotten to grow. But even then it was not entirely flowerless, 
 for a broken tumbler on each of the three walls not contiguous with 
 the main building held a scrawny, blossomless geranium. 
 
 And here they played in the sultry April heat, the four ragged 
 
girls of the slums. The shade from the stovepipe chimney was as 
 refreshing as any given by a leafy palm. The rhythmic- rattle of 
 trains over the last crossing was far more musical than the mere 
 shouts of men at work and the screams of children at play in the 
 streets. The plank stretched across the two beer barrels served its 
 purpose as a seat as well as any graceful chair that ever rocked 
 upon the green grass. Here where the sun broiled across the minia- 
 ture sand dunes, here where the afternoon air was thick with soot 
 and cinders, here, ignorant of primrose fields and daisy meadows that 
 stretch off toward the wavy horizon, these children wallowed in the 
 blistering dust, and pictured as their Paradise a larger but a similar 
 "roof garden." — P. E. Thomas. 
 
 THE TRANSPLANTED NEGRO. 
 
 Having just eaten his noonday meal, he was sitting on a pile of 
 lumber on the sunny side of the street. For trousers he wore a 
 pair of faded overalls, whose tattered edges tried in vain to reach 
 below his bare ankles. A red cotton shirt hung loosely about his^ 
 body, his broad ebony chest appearing prominently through his 
 neglige attire. His face was a study — round, shiny, and open, the 
 chin fringed with a whitening beard, gleaming teeth that would have 
 done credit to any dentifrice, eyes that, underneath his curly gray 
 hair, were saucy and sad, careless and thoughtful, pensive and happy, 
 all at once. He was playing a banjo. Now, what Paradise is to an 
 angel, that a banjo is to a negro. His bare feet dangling against 
 the lumber began to show signs of emotion. The heat seemed to 
 dance along the pavement to the jerky tune of a characteristic strain. 
 And then musician and instrument soared away on the rhythmic 
 cadence of a plantation melody. Off they went on a floating flat- 
 boat with her head pointed toward the Southland. Gliding along a 
 waveless river, they slipped out into the Mississippi. The lithe body 
 swayed to and fro as again the whistles re-echoed across the cane- 
 brakes. The lips broke into a weird hum as the croonings of an 
 old black mammy were heard in the distance. Dice, food, cotton- 
 fields, sunshine, and sleep crowded their ecstacies upon him until he 
 almost lost the warning note of the one o'clock factory bell. And 
 as he shambled off to his work, we sympathized with his surly dis- 
 appointment, and almost wished for his sake that the negro had 
 not been transplanted. — P. E. Thomas. 
 
 A TENEMENT "HOME." 
 
 If you will grope your way up four rickety flights of stairs that 
 are lighted at uneven intervals with sputtering oil-lamps, you will 
 
 26 
 
come upon this "home." It is stowed away at the darkest end of 
 the passage, whither the reeking fumes from the other three floors 
 have found a final lurking-place. There are but two small rooms, one 
 opening into the other, and having one door out into the hallway. 
 The two windows which formerly served to light these rooms are 
 now darkened by the brick wall of a frowning factory that shoves 
 its shoulder against this tenement building. How the parents and 
 five children can live here is a mystery that can be answered only 
 by necessity. The meal table in the center of the room, the ragged 
 couch in front of the dimmed window, the oil-stove in the far corner 
 burdened with unwashed cooking utensils, and the bureau with the 
 scar across the face of its mirror — all seem to have combined to 
 appropriate the space to the exclusion of the dwellers. 
 
 And yet in this dingy prison, lighted by a candle that spits its 
 fickle flame, humanity exists. Caught in the mills of God that grind 
 so "exceeding fine," this little family, too proud to become para- 
 sites, too desperate to harbor despair, clutches eagerly at the scarce 
 crumbs that escape from the lap of affluence. The neighboring build- 
 ing that heaves at times with the throbbing of its engines is a sleepless 
 monitor over these slaves whose long days are filled with the whirr 
 of its wheels and the click of its needles. Here in these modern cata- 
 combs they exist, virtually buried in a living death, the parents silent 
 in the gnawing poverty, the pale-faced children fast growing old 
 in the dreary monotony. This is life in the tenement "home," where 
 the blood is spent to lessen the friction of the tireless wheels of 
 wealth.— P. E. Thomas. 
 
 A SUMMER MEMORY. 
 
 It was a drowsy August afternoon, one of those days when the 
 atmospheric pressure seems to be increased to thirty pounds to the 
 square inch. The hawk hanging in mid-air, the mournful moan of 
 the distant dove, and even the perpetual hum of the bee as it sipped 
 from the golden-rod, lent to the day a languid indolence. And so 
 the cool of the woods was a relief from the monotonous meadow, 
 where the speargrass savagely stabbed the naked feet. Now taking 
 timid steps across deceptive marshes, now plunging heedlessly into 
 the bramble brake, now standing motionless watching the antics of 
 a wily woodpecker, then off again and out toward the edge of the 
 woods, we soon came to where the warmth of the sun and the shade 
 of the trees vied in their attentions upon a blackberry bush. Only 
 to look upon it would have been a sufficient pleasure: its twigs were 
 tangling in a wild affection, while every leaf seemed to have wooed 
 a rainbow r and to be holding it secure in its eager hands. But as 
 for the taste of the berry, what shall dare comparison? Could ever 
 a vine in Burgundy give so sweet a cordial? We were taken into 
 
the laboratory of Summer, where, from this essence, she lent flavor 
 to every fruit on her thousand hills, for as we lifted our lips, 
 stained with the purple nectar from Nature's vintage from the brim- 
 ming goblet, we had feasted on liquid sunshine all pungent with the 
 fragrance of sweet brier and blossoms, tremulous with the trill of 
 birds and the music of brooks. Perhaps man's prudent pruning of 
 his cultivated fruits and his strange contrivances of steam-pipes and 
 glass-houses are triumphs of skill, but once in a while I would run 
 back over the highway of Memory, push aside the overgrowing tangle 
 of briers, and taste again the flavor of that wild blackberry. — P. E. 
 Thomas. 
 
 THE VIOLINIST. 
 
 The large auditorium was filled with a noisy, restless crowd. 
 We scarcely noticed him coming upon the stage, and his appearance 
 was greeted with only a flutter of -applause. Looking with dreamy 
 eyes at his instrument, he tucked itgglowly under his chin so that 
 it rested snugly in the folds of his silken muffler, and grasped its 
 graceful neck with a delicate tenderness. Then with one long stroke 
 of the bow he pushed us out toward unknown shores. Speeding over 
 leagues of memory, he carried us back to the land of childhood, 
 where again we heard across the moor the distant, drowsy bells. 
 Then the sails filled with a breath of melody; we glided out on 
 seas that at first were languid, whose waves hummed about us in 
 idle unconcern; in another moment we heard the storm grumbling 
 in the distance, ^intil it burst upon us with a sudden fury. It rocked, 
 it raved, it roared passionately, until, guiding with his magic bow, 
 our pilot brought us back to a sheltering land. The air throbbed 
 with music. When the lisping of the stream was silenced within the 
 tangled home, doves moaned across the uplands, and the atmosphere 
 was drenched with plaintive harmonies. If the low tones of the 
 autumn breezes did not murmur through the tree-tops, then cadences 
 broke into tremulous echoes till we almost heard beyond the mists 
 the tread of angel feet. As he gently drew his bow across the 
 swaying violin, and the last frail note quivered over us in ecstacy, 
 we were conscious that our hearts had been the willing captives of 
 the violinist. — P. E. Thomas. 
 
 BY AND BY. 
 
 There's a bonny, bonny land lying- in the By and By, 
 
 And it stretches far beyond the largest reach of human eye, 
 
 Far beyond the hills and valleys where the sun from gorgeous pyre 
 
 Lights the rim of the horizon with a ruby's flashing fire. 
 
 28 
 
We shall rest beside the Streamlets flowing through it. you and 1, 
 In that bonny, bonny land lying in the By and By; 
 And the clouds shall be the pillows that will rest the weary bead, 
 For the riot and the uproar haunting us will then have fled. 
 
 We shall grow a heart capacious, holding room for friend and foe; 
 We shall live the life abundant where the kindest breezes blow; 
 For the bonny, bonny land lying in the By and By 
 Is a land where nothing enters that can bring the slightest sigh. 
 
 So I'm standing on the hill-top, and I'm peering in my quest 
 
 'Cross the misting meads and valleys stretching far out toward the 
 
 west. 
 Till the disappearing distance seems to mock me as I try 
 To find that bonny land lying in the By and By. — P. E. Thomas. 
 
 A PARABLE. 
 
 Once in a far-away country long centuries ago there lived a 
 little pathway. Often in its playful moods it roamed about the 
 village, running now into the meadows and again losing itself by 
 the stream that flowed down the mountain side. One day the rocks 
 began to see that the pathway lingered long by the stream, and 
 kept up a close acquaintance. The willows bent to hear the con- 
 versation, and this was its burden: "Why could not the pathway 
 climb that rugged mountain? It had made so many friends in dell 
 and meadow; it would make far more if it could but lead up to 
 the summit." But the path maintained that there was a vast dif- 
 ference between a meadow and a mountain. Whereupon the stream 
 replied that, while the grade was steep, a way had always been 
 found over apparently insuperable barriers. So the path began the 
 ascent. With the cheery farewell and good wishes of the stream 
 ringing in its ears, it plunged boldly into the brushwood. Wide 
 and willing, it ran off through the grasses. As the grade became 
 steeper the path became more timid. The darkness of a forest 
 tempted it to isolate itself, and it wandered therein as if it would 
 live in primeval seclusion. Then, remembering the assurances of the 
 stream, it appeared again, and continued the ascent. It struggled 
 and twisted with many contortions in its heroic efforts to reach the 
 top. Growing weary to despondency, it spied a precipice and wel- 
 comed it as a good place to commit suicide, and down it plunged 
 among the rocks. But the echo of hopeful waters sounded as sweet 
 music, and, picking itself up, it rose from the ravine and climbed on. 
 A sudden turn behind a huge mass of boulders brought it to the 
 summit. And as it looked at itself, thin, winding, weak, such a 
 contrast to the path that started, it almost died from discouragement, 
 when the peak drew a cloud down over its head and whispered, 
 
"If it were not for you, I could never have been approached. A 
 little while and you shall know my meaning." And it was not many 
 days after this that a group of tourists was heard to say, as the dawn 
 was gilding the summit, "Were it not for that lone pathway, we 
 could never have climbed to enjoy the sunrise." 
 
 He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. — P. E. Thomas. 
 
 THE COMING OF THE CONQUEROR. 
 
 No one had really expected him. The day before had been 
 languid and lifeless, so that the world was quite unprepared for 
 his arrival. For a time the skies resented what they considered 
 an intrusion, and sullenly hid themselves behind mists and somber 
 clouds. The dewdrops dazzled as they had through many a summer 
 morning. Warm zephyrs ran playfully over the meadows, and the 
 lark winged into the drowsy skies unmindful of his approach. 
 
 Enraged at such indifference, he blew from his nostrils a blast 
 of wind, scattered the meddlesome clouds, and flung his flaming 
 banners in the east. Sweeping across the lake, he cowed the waves 
 into sullen obedience, and drove the wild-fowl screaming before him. 
 At the distant din of his drums the whole earth seemed to quiver, and 
 when his foot first touched the shore, every grass-blade shuddered 
 till a bead of perspiration stood on the brow of each. Harnessing 
 his steeds to the north wind, he led his brilliant cavalcade across 
 field and forest. No ostentatious parade was this; it* was a dash of 
 destruction. He hurled his pitiless frosts upon a thousand gardens, 
 and in the place of flaunting flowers left only a wrecked beauty. 
 In the blindness of his rage he met the summer sun smiling in the 
 grain, and, lashing the sheaves with his spiteful showers, he gave 
 to the field of wheat the semblance of a battle-ground. Only for a 
 time were the sturdy shocks in the corn-field able to withstand his 
 wrath, for soon they shook their golden sashes in a signal of sur- 
 render. And then, toward the close of the day, he waved his red 
 plumes wildly in the winds, and charged upon the obstinate forests. 
 Wherever he went he left the marks of the fray. The tiny leaves 
 clung for a time tenaciously to the elm and maple, but soon, pale 
 in death, they fluttered to the ground. And where he could not 
 wholly win, he splashed his crimson blood on oak and beech and 
 sumach, leaving the tired trees swaying in the lull. Then, with 
 his flaming torch on high, he rode out toward the west; behind him 
 he left a moaning world, and through the hazy distance, by the 
 flare of his angry torches, we still could see Earth writhing in the 
 fury of the first fall day, and we knew that the advent of autumn 
 was the coming of the conqueror. — P. E. Thomas. 
 
AX EASTER PARABLE. 
 
 Once in a far-away land there lived in a cupboard a Diimb< 
 
 lily bulbs. They bad been tbere for a long time; so long, in fact. 
 that they began to get dissatisfied. A little later, while oiip was 
 complaining of its lot. a man took it out of the cupboard, and bid 
 it in the ground. The bulb resented this all the more. for. while 
 it did not like the cupboard, such a place was better than all this 
 damp and dirt. And when it complained, all the clods of earth 
 seemed to press the heavier upon it. But the gardener listened to 
 all these complaints, and. bending low, he heard the bulb say: 
 
 "I feel I was not made for such a life as this; it is too cramped for 
 
 eature like me; I must get relief, or I shall die.'* 
 
 And the only answer that the gardener gave to that bulb was to 
 ro away and return with only more snow and rain. Then, bend- 
 ing low again, he whispered. 
 
 "If you will strive in this life below.- you shall later find that it is 
 the best thing for your development. I have heard all your cries, and 
 I have been away to bring you just what is the best for you. You shall 
 rot have one snow-flake too many, and you shall not be kept down 
 here one day too long." 
 
 And the lily bulb listened to all this, and wondered what it all 
 meant. Patiently and persistently it allowed itself to grow in that 
 dark earth. The more it opened to the soil, the more it discovered 
 its own life, and all the tiny rootlets began to thrust themselves farther 
 down and out into the darkness. 
 
 One day while the bulb was busily trying to develop itself, a 
 stranger came into the garden, and said. "My master hath sent me for 
 a flower that is pure and beautiful," and. before the lily bulb could 
 realize it. the gardener had taken it away to bloom in another world. 
 I say that this was clone before the bulb could realize it, for uncon- 
 sciously it had grown into a lily on whose petals all the snows had 
 left their purity and to whose bloom had flown all the fragrance from 
 that under world. "Consider the lilies of the field." — P. E. Thomas. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 Although the surrounding mountains had always had an angry 
 look, the little stream that played about their feet took little notice 
 of it. The sunlight, lingering on their faces, seemed only to deepen 
 the furrows and to make the cruel features appear more prominent. 
 Proudly they lifted their heads on high, and let the harmless breezes 
 play through their beards of pine, but there was with it all an air 
 of condensation. Yet this apparent haughtiness was not perceived by 
 he wandering mountain stream. It flung its spray audaciously up 
 toward their upturned faces, and bade a bold defiance to their frowning 
 
 31 
 
dignity, and, slipping behind a sheltering rock, it winked up at the 
 monsters. And yet it would not heed their rebuke of silence. The 
 sky was bright and sunny that day; why should not the stream be like- 
 wise? Circling for a moment, it halted to smile back to its mates, 
 and then it hurried onward in its frolic of fun. It bounded over shal- 
 low places with many a happy chuckle; it stopped to whisper to a bald 
 old stone merely to catch a breath, for in another moment it leaped 
 over a waterfall with a roar of hearty laughter, and then, hiding in 
 a tangled copse, it echoed back its playfulness to the grim and unmoved 
 mountain. — P. E. Thomas. 
 
 SIMPLY A TOUR DE FORCE. 
 
 Note: Last summer the Charles McVea stuck in a sandbar off the 
 Michigan coast. Various attempts to pull her out were made by the 
 "Pup," a small tug, and a steamer of the line, called the Saugatuck. 
 Our gentle crew — not one swearing, as the passengers remarked — toiled 
 all night. But in vain! We did not budge, until on the morrow a 
 "regular old salt," the mate of another vessel, uttered, while assisting 
 us, "a good strong phrase of a deep dark blue." 
 
 This is the song 
 
 Of the Charles McVea, 
 That stuck in the sand, 
 
 One day. 
 
 That stuck in the sand 
 On the Michigan strand, 
 Not eight hundred feet from land, 
 One day. 
 
 Here's to the crew, 
 
 Of the Charles McVea, 
 Who work so well, 
 
 One day. 
 
 Who worked so well 
 Without saying sh! s-"h-ell" 
 When hawsers broke and plummets fell, 
 That passengers longed the tale to tell, 
 One day. 
 
 A marvelous tale 
 
 Of the Charles McVea, 
 That shipped a crew 
 
 One day. 
 
 A saintly crew, 
 Not one of whom knew 
 32 
 
That a good strong phrase of a deep dark blue 
 Is a sailor's talisman, tried and true, 
 Gainst evils unseen and evils in view 
 
 And e'en for a tug may stand in lieu, 
 One day. 
 
 So the gentle crew 
 
 And the Charles McVea, 
 Stayed stuck in the sand, 
 One day. 
 
 Stayed stuck in the sand, 
 While the captain planned, 
 And the linesman blistered his horny hand 
 And the anxious passengers eagerly scanned 
 The dim horizon or looked to the land, 
 Where the white hills firmly, mockingly stand, 
 Tempting and cool, by the sea-breeze fanned, 
 All day. 
 
 At last, help came 
 
 To the Charles McVea, 
 Help and good luck, 
 
 One day. 
 
 Help and good luck, 
 But not by the pluck 
 Of the valiant "Pup," nor the Saugatuck, 
 But a sober old "salt," who had run amuck 
 As many times, or on sandbars stuck, 
 Or deadly hidden rocks had struck, 
 As any gay, roving, jovial "buck," 
 Who splices a hawser or sets a truck, 
 To-day. 
 
 So were he not there, 
 The Charles McVea, 
 Had sounded her knell, 
 That day. 
 
 Had sounded her knell, 
 But he simply said — well, 
 You know what he said, I need not tell, — 
 And the ship slid off on a rising swell; 
 As easy and free as a gypsum bell 
 Swings in the wind, the a-foresaid shell, 
 Leaped on the wave, with a spirit to quell 
 Every imp that in Michigan sandbars dwell, 
 To-day. 
 
 33 
 
Thus the innocent crew, 
 And the Charles McVea, 
 
 Got out of the sand, 
 One day. — Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 OUT OF DOORS. 
 
 A friend and I started on a bicycle trip one morning last summer 
 with the express purpose of living out of doors for a week. We had 
 what was to us a unique and delightful time. We would go until we 
 were tired, then drop off our wheels, pull out a book or a magazine, 
 and read. When rested, we would start on again, or, if we found 
 riding too warm, we would spread our oilcloth blanket under a tree 
 in some pretty wood, and, using our books for pillows, sleep until the 
 cool of the evening. Rising much refreshed, though, I confess, at first 
 somewhat stiff, we would push on to the nearest town, always manag- 
 ing to make sure of a bed and breakfast. For lunches we carried 
 oatmeal crackers, cheese, and fruit. When hungry, we would ride up 
 to a farmhouse and ask the good wife to sell us a pitcher of milk, 
 and allow us to camp on her front lawn for an hour or two — a permis- 
 sion which she always granted, never ceasing to wonder that we came 
 from nowhere and were going to the same place — going nowhere! We 
 lived with the birds. We were present for their matins and vespers. 
 Do you know the prodigal richness of a bird chorus? We could listen 
 to it in all its fullness, uninterrupted by an engine's shriek or a motor- 
 man's gong, the dread of which always haunts me, even in my most 
 
 secluded walks about B . So through the long day we could hear 
 
 the constant cheery cadenza of the song-sparrow, the distant caw of 
 the crow, the plaintive whistle of the meadowlark, or the elusive, 
 hypnotic gurgle of the catbird, nature's most accomplished ventrilo- 
 quist. I should like to spend a whole summer in this way. Oh, the 
 joy of being entirely free — free from every conventional restraint, 
 free to speak or to be silent, to sing or to weep, to shout aloud for 
 very joy of proving the after-silence, or to murmur softly with the hid- 
 den brook, or to kneel and chant a prayer to the giver of all beautiful 
 life, in his own best cathedral, the shade of a spreading tree! — Harriott 
 B. Ely. 
 
 IN A BASEMENT. 
 
 Midnight! All is dark, save on the dank walls a faint reflection 
 from the sickly yellow flare of a kerosene lamp on the street above. 
 A mother kneels beside a rude pallet where lies a child. Listen! was 
 that a sob? Another? and another! The child stirs uneasily at the 
 sound. The sobs cease, and he sleeps again; but the mother continues 
 to kneel; yes, even with her forehead on the cold floor. Does she 
 pray? No; she has long ceased to pray as others do. God knows her 
 
 34 
 
heart. It is a prayer, a prayer that she may die and that little Paul 
 may die. Five years ago she had not thought to pray thus, when happy 
 and proud she gave herself to one she loved — to him who has led her 
 down to all that makes life black, to misery, to poverty, to sin. Throe 
 days ago she stole the bread that kept little Paul from starving. She 
 might have begged it! Yes; she might have begged it, but she did 
 not; she stole it. Now it is gone. Steal more, she dare not; beg, she 
 will not; work, she can not. O God, let her die! — Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 If you want to find yourself and God and nature, spend a summer 
 on an island in the ocean. And if you can choose the island, let it 
 be Cushing's, the outermost one of the three hundred twenty-five in 
 Casco Bay. After you have landed at the cove in a heavy fog, and 
 have groped your way through the willow-dells and over the butter- 
 cup meadow, and have climbed the hill to what, at first, seems to 
 you a barren hotel, set upon a rock like the lighthouse yonder, to 
 warn off, rather than to invite approach; and after you have stood 
 for three shivering days upon its deserted verandas, and have listened 
 to the hollow lapping of the sea, and have cuddled for three shivering 
 nights in the spacious chimney-corner — too spacious for you — and 
 have watched the blazing pine-knot, and have blinked at the old- 
 fashioned fire-dogs until your eyes ache; then, go to bed and get up 
 the next morning with the first beams of the new sun, and hurry down 
 upon the beach, or rather out upon the rocks, for we have no beach 
 except on the western side beyond the cove, as our little island is 
 truly "rock-bound" — hurry, I say, for the great sun travels fast, once 
 he has lifted his head above the water; and besides, the tide will soon 
 follow, and I want you to see the beauties left by last night's ebb, 
 before they are swept away. Here is the devil's apron-string, the sea- 
 serpent of many an awful dream; here are the tiny limpets clinging to 
 the rocks, waiting for the incoming tide to release them; here are the 
 periwinkles exquisite in form and color, revealing, no less than the 
 rainbow, the touch of the Artist's hand. Come, we will clamber over 
 the rocks to-day, and think God's thoughts after Him. Is not this one 
 of God's thoughts, this tiny pool of water in the lap of this high rock? 
 Sea-urchin and anemone and starfish, soft green and softer pink, blue 
 of sky and white of rock, life and form and color — surely, God has 
 thought them!— Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 ONLY AN INCIDENT. 
 
 Seven o'clock. The whistle blows. The great building begins to 
 throb with the beat of machinery. Another working-day has begun 
 for the five hundred women and men, girls and boys, in the box-factory. 
 
 35 
 
Another working-day like the three hundred and ten that have gone 
 before, like the three hundred and ten that will follow, with the 
 whistle of gliding belts; the drone of revolving wheels; the click of 
 adjusting tables; the hiss of knives; the troll of reels; the buzz, the 
 whiz, the burr; the grinding, the whirring, the everlasting, never- 
 pausing turn, turn, turn. Clash! Thud! What is that? The pon- 
 derous machine stops, shivers, starts again. Turn, turn, turn. It is 
 nothing. Only a girl has lost a hand beneath a relentless knife. Boxes 
 must be made. Let the work go on. Turn, turn, turn. "A very little 
 girl. Her right hand," you tell me? Never mind, she will learn to use 
 her left. Such people always do. We have had scores of accidents on 
 the same machine. Turn, turn, turn. "Mary Brown," you say her 
 name is, "and she has three sisters in the factory?" Good! The "firm" 
 will pay the doctor's bill. Turn, turn, turn. Boxes must be made. — 
 Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 A PROBLEM. 
 
 Two boys are born in Bridgeport, the one on "Archery Road," the 
 other on Ashland Avenue. As children they play together in the filthy 
 street, on the still more filthy yard. Together they go to the grammar 
 school to be the dread of incompetent teachers, whom they hate, and 
 by whom they in turn are hated. Together they leave, to work in the 
 rolling mill, that fiery monster which every morning swallows hun- 
 dreds of their fellow creatures, and every evening disgorges them 
 again, black and misshapen. The boys have little chance for improve- 
 ment either of mind or body, and that little they disregard. They 
 read trashy novels, and sing trashy songs. They swear, they gamble, 
 they drink, they spend their evenings in the dance-hall or the beer- 
 saloon, either of which, to tell the truth, is pleasanter than their 
 homes. It is in the saloon that we find them now, seated at a small 
 oilcloth-covered table, fumbling a pack of greasy cards; beside them 
 stand two glasses of beer, that American beer which makes drunk, 
 two pipes, and a pile of dollars. They are playing for large stakes 
 to-night, since this has been pay-day. One may well know the fact; 
 for the green baise door never ceases to swing, while workingmen of 
 all ages shuffle in; some merely to get an evening draft; others to 
 wipe out an old score, and to begin a new one; still others to drink 
 and to lounge, to tell stories and to complain of the government, or 
 mayhap to watch our players. But the two boys are hardly playing 
 now. They are quarreling; for both are drunk, and one so far that he 
 knows little else than that his companion is winning. Faster and 
 faster fall the cards on the table, until the last comes down with a 
 thump and a mighty oath, while the words "cheat" and "thief" spring 
 to the player's lips; but no sooner than his companion's fingers to his 
 throat; and then, — together they roll upon the floor in a drunken 
 brawl. 
 
 36 
 
Such is the sixth ward, and the young men's name is legion! 
 Students of sociology, what will you do about it? — Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 THE GOLDEN CROWNED KINGLET. 
 
 The golden-crowned kinglet — do you know him? An exquisite 
 creature! The tiniest of our winter birds, excepting the wren; in 
 fact, with the exclusion of the hummingbird, the tiniest of all. He is 
 just four inches in length, from the tip of his little black bill to the 
 farthermost edge of his daintily notched tail. His wings are brown; 
 his back olive-green; his breast dull white; his head — ah! he is a 
 kinglet, indeed. The tiny head bears a royal crown, golden and orange 
 and black. His Wee Majesty, though fragile in appearance, is, never- 
 theless, a hardy little fellow, visiting us only when summer is well 
 gone, and leaving us early in the spring. 
 
 This winter visitor has two "sworn friends," the chickadee-dee 
 and the nuthatch. Almost any cold day, you may see the three feeding 
 among the pines and cedars. The chickadee in a dashing black cap 
 and immaculate collar, the sombre nuthatch in quaker-blue, and our 
 kinglet, truly regal, in his glorious crown. Listen to their songs. That 
 "artless little whistle," repeated two or three times, can belong to 
 none other than his Diminutive Majesty; the "day-day-day" to Master 
 Titmouse, of course; and the "quank, quank" to the quaker. The two 
 friends stay with us the year round, but our kinglet asserts his royal 
 prerogative to see the world. Wherever he goes he has willing sub- 
 jects. His gentle, well-bred manner and his altogether charming and 
 naive address win the heart. If you do not know His Highness, be 
 presented; and you will own yourself a captive to his four inches of 
 exquisite loveliness. — Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 "THE LOUD SUM OF THE SILENT UNITS." 
 
 They were waiting for the train. Mrs. L'Argent as tall and as 
 proud and as elegantly attired as Mrs. L'Argent always is in a heavy 
 black gown of richest texture, sealskin jacket with comfortable collar, 
 dainty boots, exquisite gloves, and hat — enough to say that the price 
 of the hat would have kept in clothes for a year the shabbily dressed 
 little woman at Mrs. L'Argent's side. Shabbily, but not slovenly, 
 dressed. The old skirt was well brushed, well bound around the bot- 
 tom, and well adjusted at the waist; the jacket, though it made no 
 pretense 10 style, it was confessedly five years old, fitted as nicely 
 according to its own fashion as did its sealskin rival. 
 
 I looked at the faces of the two women. The one was patrician 
 in every outline, indisputably handsome, with delicate skin that 
 showed the quick coming and going of the blood, but haughty, and, as 
 I judged, hard in expression; the other, unmistakably plebeian, with 
 
deep lines of care upon the brow and about the mouth, which drooped, 
 often no doubt from sheer weariness of body, but with a cheery look 
 in the eyes that bespoke a brave spirit. — We waited. As the station 
 clock ticked measuredly on, I thought of the inequalities of life. — 
 
 Mrs. L'Argent arose with a rustling of silk; the other woman arose. 
 Was that a nutter of envy over her countenance? Tell me, ye of the 
 limp skirt and last year's jacket. Whatever the feeling, it passed as 
 it came, like a shadow; when the door suddenly opened, and a beautiful 
 child, a girl of ten or twelve, ran to the little woman with the sweet 
 words, "Mother dear, I'm glad you're not gone; I want my good-by 
 kiss." As the mother stooped to her child, I glanced at Mrs. L'Argent. 
 Sometimes it is given us to see a soul. I saw hers. I shall never forget 
 the yearning, love-hungry look in her proud eyes. — 
 
 We waited. As the station clock ticked measuredly on, I thought 
 of the strange balance of life. — Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 AN ARISTOCRAT. 
 
 Among my winter acquaintances, I hardly dare say friends, I 
 count the snowbird. Not the saucy, blackcapped Titmouse with his 
 plebeian manners and confiding ways, though I love him, too; but his 
 older, more refined and stately brother, the patrician, Herr von Junco 
 Hyemalis, whose name bespeaks him. Sedate, modest, proper, he 
 moves among his fellows. Always when I have seen him, he has been 
 clad in a dark, faultlessly fitted suit, with coat slightly cut away, 
 revealing a vest of finest texture, immaculate and convincing. Nothing 
 derogatory is meant. Not much given to patrician garb or manners 
 myself, when I see them in — or shall I say on? — others with whom 
 they comport, I bow down and admire. But facetiousness aside! for it 
 is with genuine delight that I watch our aristocratic snowbird pick his 
 dainty way among the drifts. If you are a lover of color in the dead 
 white of winter, you, too, will rejoice in his pink bill and ruddy legs, 
 thankful that in his severe, yet it must in justice be added, ever-pleas- 
 ing and graceful sedateness, he did not forget the one dash of objective 
 gladness that makes all nature kin. — Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 ONLY A SPARROW. 
 
 Yes; only a chipping sparrow, one of the meanest of its kind. 
 Give the little dead thing to me. See! I can cover it with my hand. 
 Small matter that it should die. And yet — "not a sparrow falleth to 
 the ground" — you know the rest. I wonder if He really cares; for this 
 is a tiny creature, in length only a bit over five inches, and slender, 
 too! the little body could not hold mueh life. No; not much, but a 
 part of the Infinite; for the Great Father lives in his earth-children! 
 It is His life that the careless stone has sent thither, a manifestation 
 
 38 
 
of Him, that is gone. And was it not a beautiful manifestation, though 
 as modest as the still small voice, but likewise as sure? 
 
 In the middle of August, under the heat of noon, when no other 
 voice was heard, the chipping sparrow has spoken to me of God. I 
 have seen the little bird, on a city telephone wire in the blazing sun- 
 light, sit and sing until he must pant for breath, until I thought he 
 must give over his resolution to tell the joy of the world, and must 
 seek the shade and comfort. But his comfort came in singing. Not 
 a beautiful song, but a cheery. The infinite within him knew the Infi- 
 nite, and all was well. And as he sang, a ditch-digger lifted a weary 
 face, and smiled! And I too smiled and said, "Not a sparrow liveth 
 without the Father." — Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 THE POWER OF THE WRITTEN WORD. 
 
 In the year one thousand and eight, on a summer's afternoon, in 
 the beautiful land of Iran, within a far-echoing, many-pil- 
 lared hall, leaning against one of the columns, his arms 
 crossed over his breast, his turbaned head bowed low, stands 
 a venerable man, a poet. To-day sees the end of thirty years 
 of toil. The great "Shah Nama" is finished. It has been presented to 
 Sultan Mahmud, and the aged poet awaits the fulfilment of the royal 
 pledge, the means whereby he may benefit in a practical way his 
 fellow men. He has written all these years in the love of the work, 
 he has written to himself and for himself, his higher self, surely, but 
 still himself; and yet before it all and through it all, he has longed 
 to do for others. He has loved God and his fellow-creatures, both dumb 
 animal and human. And as the years have passed, he has resolutely 
 refused all money offered him by Mahmud, saying only, "Let the gold 
 be put aside until my work is done; then will I take it, that I may 
 bless my people." And Mahmud promised. So to-day the poet wait3 
 the redemption of the pledge, the accumulated wealth that shall enable 
 him to build a canal through his thirsty land. But his anxious soul 
 already anticipates his disappointment. He knows that the crafty vizir 
 is inimical to him. He knows that Mahmud is weak and is led by 
 his wily councilor; and so, with folded arms, and head bowed in 
 prophetic vision, the poet sees his future; his ignominy, his flight, 
 his death; but hardest to bear, he sees the failure of his dream. His 
 life has been in vain.. True, he has loved his work, and has worked 
 well, but he has toiled for the few who could read, when he longed to 
 toil for the many, the oppressed ones, the tiller of the soil, the tender 
 of the vine, the driver of the camel. And now? Well now, the "Book 
 of Kings" is written, but the poet's hope is dead! 
 
 Yet wait! God can wait. He can wait eight hundred and twenty- 
 four years to complete a life. He can wait until, in a land far distant 
 from Iran, a young man full of life and power, but apparently started 
 on a mad career of gambling and of bear-hunting, picks up the book 
 
 39 
 
of the Persian poet, and reads. And then? And then Hungary has a 
 Kossuth, and the world a synonym for patriot! — Harriott B. Ely. 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF HOARFROST. 
 
 There was once a little flower that grew by a mossy stone in the 
 forest. She was so lovely a flower that every noon the bold sun 
 climbed high up in the sky, so that he might look down upon her 
 winsome face; and every night the more distant stars gazed down 
 upon her pure features in silent admiration. The rude glances of the 
 sun made her blush and hang her head, but she welcomed the stars 
 with her steadfast, beautiful eyes. 
 
 One evening, as the shadows gathered their thick wings and settled 
 to sleep in the trees, a dewdrop, straying with the night wind through 
 the forest, found a welcome in the fragrant breath of the little flower, 
 and fell asleep in her bosom. And the dewdrop was very happy; for 
 he fondly dreamed that he would never leave her, but would live for- 
 ever beside the mossy stone, beneath the sleeping shadows in the forest. 
 But when the bold sun began his daily climb to look upon the face of 
 the little flower, the dewdrop trembled, and his heart grew faint with 
 dread of his great rival. And as the bold sun gazed down upon the 
 little flower, his anger blazed against the favored dewdrop, and swept 
 him away, far, far away from the little forest flower. Then the dew- 
 drop was very sad; and he wandered up and down, up and down, 
 brooding over the loss of his little flower; and his whole thought was 
 how he might find her again. But he sought and sought; yet never 
 could he find the trees where the thick-winged shadows slept, nor the 
 little flower beneath, welcoming him with fragrant breath. One night, 
 when the air was very still and cold, as still and as cold as the hope 
 in the heart of the dewdrop, he saw again the tree with the sleeping 
 shadows; but no little flower beneath welcomed him with fragrant 
 breath, for her place was vacant. Then the dewdrop bowed his head, 
 as he looked upon the place where she had been, and his heart grew 
 still and cold, as still and as cold as despair. 
 
 When next the dawn entered the forest, she looked with admira- 
 tion upon a tiny fleck of ice on a mossy stone, for it bore the shape of 
 a lovely little flower. — Abbie Florence Williams. 
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW. 
 
 All night long the fairies of the frost toiled over the surface of 
 the plate glass window in the hall, designing wonderful scenes, and 
 crystallizing their fairy fancies into marvelous frost work, that owed 
 the mysterious touch in its beauty to the wandering moonbeams caught 
 and imprisoned in its intricate arabesques. By dawn their task was 
 completed, and none too soon, for, as the watching clouds signaled the 
 
 40 
 
approach of the sun. old winter pulled on his furs, and started out to 
 inspect the work of his elfin artists. Pausing before the pane, while 
 the sunbeams danced and flashed over a thousand perfected stars in the 
 dazzling ice creation, the stern old critic adjusted his spectacles, and 
 tugged approvingly at his beard. 
 
 But he was not the only one to notice the skill of the frost fairies; 
 for the baby, on her way to breakfast, stops at the window, spreads 
 out her warm, pink fingers on the pane, flattens her nose against it, 
 and cautiously puts out her tongue. " Tisn't sweet at all!" she says in 
 disgust, and runs out to her porridge. Next, Fred dashes down on his 
 way to school, and stands at the window, watching for the car. "Hullo, 
 there's the battle Clark fought, as I'm alive!" he exclaims, and is 
 deep in tracing the line of the Wabash, the straggling village, the 
 rough stockade, the Indian skirmishes, the puffs of smoke from their 
 guns — when he hears his car, and rushes off. Later in the morning, 
 Jane passes through the hall on her way to the music room, and 
 stops to exclaim at the beauty of the miniature scenes etched upon 
 the glass; here a lofty castle on a crag, below, a drowsy hamlet with 
 its modest spire and humble cottages; here farms with their com- 
 fortable houses and barns, beyond, populous cities, the smoke hang- 
 ing low over their factories; here a range of snowclad peaks, there a 
 summer lake; here stretches of impenetrable forests, there meadows 
 of forget-me-nots, smiling up at a heaven of stars. When school is 
 over, Kate brings her fairy tales, and ensconces herself in the window 
 seat; but soon, in some mysterious way, kings and shepherdesses, 
 princes and mermaids, fairies and giants and elves all leave the book 
 and scatter over the pane in groups of new and absorbing interest. 
 In the twilight, stately Aunt Elizabeth lets her work fall into her 
 lap, and is gazing idly at the window, when something in its tracings 
 catches her attention. Raising her lorgnette, she looks intently at a 
 scene sketched upon the glass; a familiar place, it seems; and a 
 strange expression steals over the usually impassive face. The twi- 
 light fades, and the moonbeams creep clown to comfort their imprisoned 
 comrades. A quaint old church, the snow-covered road, the gravestones 
 on the hill, to the left, a single marble shaft gleaming in the cold 
 moonlight — the scene is blurred — the proud old head bends over the 
 trembling hands. — Abbie Florence Williams. 
 
 A TOAST TO THE '01 PONY. 
 
 How dear to each heart are the scenes of Northwestern 
 When banqueting seniors recall them to view! 
 
 The lake shore, the campus, the broad-arching oak trees, 
 And every loved spot that our college days knew. 
 
 The handsome old halls — and the wheel racks before them — 
 The walks, and the slide where the "profs" even fell, 
 
 41 
 
The fences, the flag-staff, the classrooms, the courses, 
 And e'en the old pony that bore us so well. 
 
 The ragged old pony, the faithful old pony, 
 The oft-ridden pony that bore us so well! 
 
 That dusty old pony I hail as a hero; 
 
 For oft, in the dullness that "eight o'clocks" know, 
 I found him the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
 
 The purest and sweetest that learning can show. 
 How gladly I caught him, with eyes that were glowing, 
 
 And turned to the waiting "prof," eager to tell 
 The answer; then reined in my quick-breathing fancy, 
 
 And patted the pony that bore me so well. 
 The ready old pony, the rugged old pony, 
 
 The trusty old pony that bore me so well! 
 
 How sweet was the smell of his breath to the athlete, 
 
 When, back from the "gym" all in clover he rode; 
 And, after the dance, how rejoiced was the "coed," 
 
 Her pony so willingly carried his load. 
 In some of the courses his work was dead easy, 
 
 And he cantered through "Hygiene," and cut a great swell; 
 But there 're others: and "English" had thirty-nine hurdles, 
 
 And he stumbled, the pony who'd borne us so well! 
 The horrified pony, the crestfallen pony, 
 
 The poor, stupid pony who'd borne us so well! 
 
 Sometimes he went softly, and none guessed his presence; 
 
 Sometimes he would pace like the text to a T; 
 And again would the sound if his hoofs in their thund'ring 
 
 Beat the "profs" like the carpenter's shop in Old C. 
 As "freshies" we rode him, then sometimes unruly; 
 
 As "Sophs," who the skill we acquired can tell; 
 As "Juniors" we worked him; and, now we are Seniors, 
 
 He is only a shadow that bore us so well. 
 The ragged old pony, the jaded old pony, 
 
 The battered old pony that bore us so well! 
 
 Soon, soon he will slip from his worn sides the burden; 
 
 Soon for us all he will run his last race; 
 Pew are the days he will yet heed our calling; 
 
 Short is the time we shall yet see his face. 
 Then here's to his memory, here's to his pasturing; 
 
 — Let us not shame on his service to dwell — 
 As hard was his labor, so soft may his rest be; 
 
 The gallant old pony that bore us so well! 
 The ragged old pony, the tattered old pony, 
 
 The dog-eared old pony that bore us so well! 
 
 42 
 
ONE SONG. 
 
 Upon the hearth the blazing faggots lie, 
 Whose spicy breath tells the poetic pine, 
 Now reft from his estate in forest fine 
 
 To shed his treasured sunlight in the eye 
 
 Of winter. Troops of sparks go eddying by 
 Or form in mazy circles or in line 
 To dance with shadows, tripping with the sign 
 
 The music sounds; then, even in dancing, die. 
 
 And what the melody that leads and sways? 
 The song sung by the flames, now rising high 
 With laughter, and now hushed with wailing low: 
 The song they heard in happy summer days 
 Sung by the wind in wanton minstrelsy 
 
 To please the pines, they sing 'mid winter's snow. 
 
 — Abbie Florence Williams. 
 
 THREE VIEWPOINTS. 
 
 The Rose's View — 
 
 Ah, it is a blessed thing to live; for the earth is warm, the sun 
 smiles brightly, the water is sweet and refreshing, and all a rose need 
 do is just to lift her head and breathe out the fragrance that God has 
 instilled into her heart. Then the air grows rich with blessing as its 
 soft wings hover round her; for it seems that the more she gives, the 
 more amply she is repaid; and now, even now, the fondest dream that 
 ever stirred my baby petals is my waking joy as I am gathered by this 
 fair young girl to lie upon her bosom, where I may feel her sweet 
 breath, and may listen to the joyous beating of her glad young heart. 
 Others can only see her face; but my life is so attune with hers, all 
 sunlight and song, that I can count the rhythmic pulses, enter into 
 their music, and find the meaning of their artless melody. 
 
 And yet, someway — I know not how — at this moment a subtle 
 change creeps into the smiling harmony. Her heart no longer bounds. 
 My leaves stir slowly, and my rich petals begin to furl with dull, faint 
 movements all unlike their first glad wakening; a slow parching fever 
 burns their tips; while in my heart is a clammy chill, not the fresh 
 buoyancy of life, but a burning cold that seems to score my soul. Oh, 
 what is this? Can it be the eyes of that pitiful child which are thus 
 blighting our joy? There, he is gone! Oh, why did he look on us so 
 strangely? What was the secret of that dumb, straining gaze? It 
 was unlike anything I have ever known, and how cruelly it wrings my 
 heart! Ah, if I were only with him I should breathe upon him, and 
 smile up into those eyes, smile away that hn»±~ a '- ^- ^ ulltJ n S 
 
 4! 
 
and joy into his heart. Joy! Why, he does not know joy! Then it 
 must be sorrow— that look— and this— why, this is sympathy! 
 The Girl's View — 
 
 What a beautiful day this is, all bright and glad— why, even the 
 air seems full of laughter as the wind pulls at my hair and then runs 
 away. Oh, what a lovely rose! You beauty, you were growing for me, 
 just waiting for me to pull you, I know. There! I shall wear you 
 right there in my gown, so I can see you and can smell your sweet 
 breath, you dear, beautiful rose! Do you know, you seem so real, so 
 near me, someway, that I feel as if you must understand. You know 
 how I love you, don't you? 
 
 Oh, a cripple! How sad! How dreadful! If I could only do 
 something, but how can I? and now it's too late. Oh, my rose, my 
 rose! Why, of course; he could have had it, and it would have helped 
 him. Oh, why didn't I think? There was an opportunity, and I didn't 
 see it, and now it's gone! And I may give other things to other people 
 as long as I live; but I'll never find him again, never be able to show 
 him that I realize, never be able to coax a smile into those poor, wist- 
 ful eyes. Ah me, this is regret! 
 
 The Cripple's View — 
 
 Sun's a shinin' is it? What's that to me? 
 
 Can't play 'ith other fellers; 's far's I see, 
 
 Can't do nothin' 'ceptin' sit in this here chair 
 
 An' watch th' other kids havin' fun over there. 
 
 Look at that feller! My, what a fly! 
 
 Oh, but wouldn't I just like ter try 
 
 One er them balls! But then, 't ain't no go; 
 
 Can't never do it, doc says; he'd ought ter know. 
 
 My, what a pretty lady! Look at that hair! 
 
 Seems like the sun was in it; an' see, there, there 
 
 On her gown! 'Twas a one er them — what d'yer call 'em — flowers! 
 
 That's what 't was; a great big red un. Wouldn't I give hours 
 
 Er this here watchin' kids ter have one right here in my hand, 
 
 An' hold it, an' smell it! There ain't nothin' in this land 
 
 As smells as sweet as that did, what she wore on her dress. 
 
 Oh, but this is what yer calls a hankerin', I guess! — Abbie Florence 
 
 Williams. 
 
 "CUTTING" RHYMES. 
 
 Do you know the road, the gladdest e'er seen, 
 That leads to the summery, sunshiny green 
 Where the breezes blow, 
 And the flowers grow, 
 And studies and cares lie low? 
 
Take a few "skips" and a "pony" or two, 
 Turn to the left — or the right will do — 
 And follow along the winding way 
 Till you come to the post marked "Holiday." 
 Now the gate is locked, and the golden key 
 Is safe in the hands of the Faculty. 
 But stolen delights are sweetest, I ween, 
 And by skipping the bars that lie between 
 You come to the summery, sunshiny green 
 Where the breezes blow, 
 And the flowers grow, 
 
 And studies and cares lie low. 
 
 Here the robin is building his nest; 
 Fere the blue-jay, so smartly dressed, 
 Is gravely consulting his trim tailor-bird, 
 — Whom he recently summoned from China, I heard — 
 Regarding the cut of his handsome coat-tails. 
 And here, 'mid briars, and moss-covered rails, 
 The hepatica smiles with winsome face, 
 The anemone bows with airy grace, 
 And sweet young violets lift their eyes, 
 To greet your coming with wide surprise; 
 While buttercups, flattered by butterflies gay, 
 Amid the tall grasses bend and sway 
 And glow with a welcome brightly serene, 
 In that far-away, summery, sunshiny green 
 Where the breezes blow, 
 And the flowers grow, 
 
 And studies and cares lie low. — Abbie Florence Wil- 
 liams. 
 
 VARIATIONS ON AN OLD THEME. 
 
 Fancy lay dead in the coffin, 
 
 Fact sat aloft on the throne. 
 The palace of art was deserted, 
 
 Though the critics now called it their own. 
 
 'Round the walls were ranged numberless trophies 
 
 Won in many a glorious fight; 
 And their fame was among the immortals; 
 
 For their masters, though vanished from sight, 
 
 Had bequeathed to these triumphs of genius 
 
 Their souls, ardent, lofty, sincere: 
 But these spoke to a wide desolation 
 
 For Fancy lay dead on the bier, 
 
 45 
 
While Fact sat without in the throne-room. 
 
 Within, through those gray halls of gloom, 
 Passed a silent and mournful procession 
 
 Of wraiths wrapped in mists from the tomb. 
 
 For poets and artists and sculptors, 
 
 Men whose lives had been spent to redeem 
 
 The world from her bondage material 
 Into being more vast than her dream; 
 
 To furnish her lofty ideals; 
 
 To rouse her to beauty and light; — 
 Alas! Their misunderstood visions! 
 
 For Fact reigned supreme in dull might, 
 
 While Fancy lay dead in her splendor. 
 
 Dead their dearest interpreter, friend, 
 Who had served to reveal their soul's visions, 
 
 Rousing other lives to their real end. 
 
 Fancy lay dead in her coffin, 
 
 Fact sat aloft on her throne. 
 Alas, for the farewell of genius! 
 
 Alas, for the world left alone! 
 
 — Abbie Florence Williams. 
 
 GIVE US QUININE OR GIVE US DEATH. 
 
 When the balmy breezes 
 
 Of May begin to blow, 
 And the tuneful sneezes 
 
 Each day in volume grow, — 
 'Tis then we meet together, 
 
 On the side of the bleachers high, 
 To watch the strapping athletes 
 
 In strength and in fitness vie. 
 
 The wind is keen upon you, 
 
 It's sweeping down your back; 
 You think it's surely "done" you 
 
 Till it takes another tack; 
 And now it nips your fingers, 
 
 Now it runs through your hair, 
 And wickedly it lingers 
 
 To chill each rootlet there. 
 
 From 'neath his furry covers 
 The sun slips out an eye. 
 46 
 
The chattering teeth of lovers 
 
 Hail his glance with a cry. 
 But oh, their fleeting rapture! 
 
 The sun looks o'er the plain, 
 Marks the wind wait his capture, 
 
 And turns to sleep again. 
 
 Now the triumphant cohorts 
 
 Of cold with rushing come; 
 Now the despairing "coeds" 
 
 With grief are stricken dumb. 
 But silent tears have guerdon 
 
 Of words for who can hear, 
 And this is still the burden 
 
 They carried tier by tier. 
 
 "Oh, what care we for hammers, 
 
 For dashes, and for 'scratch,' 
 While human nature clamors 
 
 For blankets by the batch? 
 Oh, what care we for hurdles, 
 
 For broad jumps, and for gains, 
 The while our poor blood curdles 
 
 Till frappee fills our veins? 
 
 "What pleasure lies in peanuts 
 
 When 'hot drinks' are our cry? 
 What virtue rests in popcorn 
 
 When boas are not by? 
 Then peddle round the sweaters, 
 
 And pass the quinine on; 
 For we can't go home till morning, 
 
 Till the great 'frat' race is won!" 
 
 — Abbie Florence Williams. 
 
 A BATTLE IN A BASKET. 
 
 The pins began it. They were dreadful busybodies, always poking 
 their fingers into other people's business, careless whose feelings they 
 hurt; and now they had been making some very pointed remarks to 
 the cushion. She was a comfortable body, too fat to get angry; so, 
 though smarting under their attacks, she suffered and wept in silence. 
 Not so with the thimble. Her bright eyes had watched the encounter, 
 and when she saw the tears, actual sawdust tears, she flew at the pins 
 and rapped their heads roundly. This stirred the needles, who were 
 always at hand when the thimble was concerned. Though obedient to 
 her, they were mere eye-servants, and thought her a hard mistress to 
 
 47 
 
drive them against their will; so they were glad of a chance to break 
 out in open rebellion, and, as usual, stood up for the pins; while the 
 .cotton, who was always tagging round after the needles, "rubbering" 
 to see what other folks were doing, and getting tangled in no end of 
 snarls, — the cotton sided with his leaders, and reeled off a long string 
 of strong epithets. But the thimble had a wise little head; so, instead 
 of answering, she appealed to the scissors, those famous old peace- 
 makers. Being bright, polished fellows, this appeal from a lady put 
 them on their mettle; so they turned the keen edge of their sarcasm 
 against the opposing party of the pins. Now the bodkin entered into 
 the dispute; but he was a stiff, awkward old creature, who, even his 
 friends said, "never opened his mouth but he put his foot in it;" so 
 that every one voted him a bore, and hustled him over the edge of the 
 basket. At this the tape, his fast friend and comrade, was much 
 ruffled, and threw out a life-line to the fallen bodkin, all the time 
 threatening to whip the whole crowd, till cut short by the scissors. 
 Then the pins laid their heads together, and the needles decided to 
 call in the aid of the emery bag, who, in spite of her "stuck up" appear- 
 ance, was kind-hearted, and often brightened their wits for tiiem. 
 But now the buttons, small' bony creatures, some cross-eyed and some 
 weak in the shanks, entered the lists by dozens; and the little spools 
 of silk twisted themselves into knots in their efforts to become import- 
 ant; so that things were rapidly going from bad to worse, when a 
 kitten sprang into the basket, turning the disputants out of house and 
 home, and quietly settled down to a nap. — Abbie Florence Williams. 
 
 HOW THE WEST WIND BEGAN HIS DAY. 
 
 "Five o'clock in the morning, and the world not awake yet!" 
 The west wind stirred lazily on his bed of leaves, yawned and 
 stretched uneasily for a moment, and rose with a sigh. The odor of 
 leaf-mold clung to him persistently, and the dampness filled him with 
 all sorts of rheumatic and catarrhal suggestions, while the necessity 
 of sleeping in the cast-off garments of the departed year combined with 
 these grievances to ruffle his usual sunny nature. A plunge in the 
 lake, however, quickly restored his customary tone, and he was soon 
 busily engaged in the duties of the day. 
 
 First he passed over the water, waking the sleepy little waves 
 from their dreams, and teasing and coaxing them by turns, till they 
 sprang from their beds and joined him in a merry game of tag. Then 
 he stole into the tree-tops, and whispered mysterious tales of light 
 and warmth and accompanying power to the baby buds, till strange 
 longings and imaginings filled their vain little heads, and they fairly 
 swelled with pride, while their foolish little hearts beat so hard as 
 threatened to burst their narrow brown and green jackets. Next he 
 laid his ear down to the earth and listened. Yes, the flowers had 
 
 48 
 
wakened from their winter's sleep and were anxious to climb up Into 
 the outer world again; but they did not know whether the snow had 
 surely gone or not. He heard them all begging that somebody sbould 
 "go up, please, and find out; ' but no one seemed willing to risk bis 
 life in the pursuit of knowledge. Then the wind breathed a warm 
 message down to them, which quieted their anxious little fears and 
 encouraged their timid little hopes; so that he laughed softly, as he 
 turned away, to hear them eagerly planning which might take the lead. 
 Then he sought out a few, wide-awake birds, and advised them to 
 look up the matter of building-sites at once, before the spring "boom" 
 should sweep the forest, and the first of May should appear with its 
 exodus of southern housekeepers. He offered them, too, a snug little 
 "corner" on the nest market, but gave them up as lacking in all enter- 
 prise because they refused to stop wool-gathering and catching at 
 straws. Now the sun arose and extended a warm hand of greeting to 
 the wind, who sent back a breezy shout in reply; for the two were old 
 chums and had worked together many a long summer through. And 
 so the west wind began his day. — Abbie Florence Williams. 
 
 A DAILY OCCURRENCE. 
 
 Running up the hillside, 
 
 Rushing down the street, 
 Whirling round the corners, 
 
 Shaming coursers fleet, 
 Startling with your gestures 
 
 All the folks there are, — 
 Bless me! this is pleasant, 
 
 Making for the car! 
 
 Shedding all your hairpins, 
 
 Losing wits and hat, 
 Groping for the wanderers, 
 
 Wondering where they're "at," 
 Casting curls and side-combs 
 
 To the careless gale, — 
 Bless me! this is pleasant, 
 
 Scrambling by the rail! 
 
 Sweeping comes the north wind, 
 
 Oh, so strong is he, 
 Lean your back against him, 
 
 He'll hold you easily. 
 Pull your furs close round you, 
 
 Chilling as they are, — 
 Bless me! this is pleasant, 
 
 Waiting for the car! 
 49 
 
Surging come the snowflakes, 
 
 Singing their mad song, 
 Perching on your eyebrows, 
 
 Saucy, whirling throng! 
 Skipping down your collar, 
 
 Clouding o'er your veil, 
 Bless me! this is pleasant, 
 
 Watching on the rail! 
 
 Thinking o'er the questions 
 
 Waiting you at eight, 
 When the Bastile crumbled, 
 
 — Oh, what was the date? — 
 Crossing the Bernard Pass; 
 
 Easier, by far,' 
 Than this everlasting 
 
 Waiting for the car! 
 
 Running to the platform, 
 
 Rushing up the steps, 
 Whirling in the doorway, 
 
 Crowding down the "preps," 
 Startling with your aspect 
 
 All the folks inside, — 
 Bless me! What a pleasant 
 
 Way to take a ride! — Abbie Florence Williams. 
 
 THE PANTRY SPICE BOX. 
 
 The kitchen pantry is always an interesting place to cooks and 
 children; though the interest is, in the one case, scientific, and, in the 
 other, purely spontaneous, arising from a native instinct. Next to the 
 shelves laden with preserves and jams and the tin box exhaling such 
 delectable suggestions of plummy sweetness, the spice box offers a 
 tempting field of exploration for little fingers and tongues. 
 
 The first section of the country turns out to be very hot, and over- 
 grown with roots, so that the small travelers pick their way out very 
 gingerly. The next is no better; for its inhabitants are regular pepper- 
 pots, and make things so warm for the intruders that they leave more 
 hastily than they came; but their flight is so precipitate that they kick 
 up a great dust, and fall to sneezing convulsively. Blinded by their 
 tears, they fall headlong into a mustard bath; but fortune guides them 
 to a soda bank close by, where they cool their burns, and compose their 
 spirits. By this time, people with older heads would have been warned 
 to go no further in the search for the good things of this life; but the 
 little light-fingered company are only the more eager to reach delectable 
 ground. And their zeal is rewarded; for now, passing through the very 
 
 50 
 
:' the earth, they enter a land of spices, rich in cinnamon and 
 clove and other goodly stores wh< rein they revel; and the trials of the 
 v. . > thither are forgotten. Yet even this Canaan is beset with dangers, 
 i:i. heeded by the small spies, till the erring callers are firmly seized by 
 the servants of wrath and borne away to justice, when the guilty ones 
 ruefully consider how hard is the way of the transgressor. — Abbie 
 Florence Williams. 
 
 A TRIP TO FAR-AWAY LAND. 
 
 "Tell me a story of Far-away land," 
 
 Lisps a tired voice there at my knee; 
 And a- soft little face gently brushes my hand, 
 
 So I cannot but list to the plea. 
 Then I cuddle him tight, 
 This little boy bright, 
 
 And far away over the sea, 
 To the land of the sprites 
 And wee elfin knights, 
 
 In a rock-a-bye boat go we. 
 
 And his eyes open wide as I tell of that place, 
 
 Where the children do nothing but play; 
 With fairies for playmates, they frolic and chase, 
 
 And dance in the meadows all day. 
 Where tiny flowers grow, 
 And soft breezes blow, 
 
 In this land of the fairy and fay. 
 And he laughs in delight, 
 This little boy bright, 
 
 As he thinks of the Far-far-away. 
 
 And I tell him of music, so tenderly sweet, 
 
 That rustles about in the trees; 
 While the deer lightly flashes beneath tiny feet, 
 
 As they dance to the tune of the breeze. 
 The happy birds sing, 
 As on hedges they swing, 
 
 Keeping chord with the droning of bees. 
 And the little boy blinks, 
 As his curly head sinks; 
 
 He is heavier now on my knees. 
 
 Then I tell him of moonbeams so silvery and smooth, 
 
 Where fairies climb up and slide down, 
 And of soft plashing fountains, whose music can soothe 
 
 The weary; and then of a town, 
 Whose streets, paved with flowers, 
 
 51 
 
Are lined with gay bowers, 
 
 And fragrance floats ever around. 
 And wee curly head nods; 
 He's off with the gods, 
 
 On a visit to Far-away town. — Geo. Craig Stewart. 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE OF THE WOOD. 
 
 Young Jack-in-the-Pulpit stood in his desk. 
 
 The robin and the oriole 
 Had joined with the wren in leading the hymn, 
 
 And a peaceful quiet stole 
 Through all the wood; and everywhere 
 
 The flowers began to nod. 
 All nature bowed in silent praise 
 
 To worship Nature's God. 
 
 And Jack was filled with joy and praise, 
 
 As he stood erect to pray, 
 Unheeding the many rival Jacks 
 
 Who preached in the wood that day. 
 He knew no clash of narrow creeds 
 
 Could ever come between 
 These tiny pastors of the wood, 
 
 In their desks of red and green. 
 
 So splendid he looked in his surplice fine, 
 
 That glorious Sabbath day, 
 The buttercups gave him their brightest looks, 
 
 As he stood erect to pray. 
 And the tiny violets, "modest and sweet," 
 
 As all the poets say, 
 Lifted their dreamy eyes of blue 
 
 In their coy and pensive way. 
 
 The wild geraniums turned about 
 
 To look from every place; 
 The touch-me-nots grew less severe 
 
 From gazing on his face. 
 And dainty groups of trilium, 
 
 With nodding heads and gay, 
 From fairest white were blushing red, 
 
 As their minister rose to pray. 
 
 But Jack was blind to all the world, 
 
 For in a space apart, 
 He saw the fair Anemone, 
 
 The idol of his heart. 
 
And all his soul was filled anew, 
 
 As he uttered words of praise 
 For the sacredness of life and love 
 
 Through all the golden days. 
 
 \\ hat think you now, my gentle friends, — 
 
 That he was led astray, 
 Because he worshiped God through love 
 
 For her that Sabbath day? 
 Nay. rather could I fancy then 
 
 The breezes whispered soft, 
 "He needeth not our gentle aid 
 
 To bear his prayer aloft, 
 For never in this quiet wood," 
 
 I seem to hear them say, 
 "Have earth and heaven been nearer one 
 
 When Jack has stood to pray." — Inez Payton. 
 
 A PURITAN SERMON. 
 
 : 
 When Jack arose to preach — oh, my! 
 The meadow rue gave one long sigh, 
 The violet closed her weary eye, 
 When Jack arose to preach. 
 
 When Jack arose to preach — oh, oh! 
 The bishop's cap annoyed him so 
 He really feared he'd have to go, 
 When Jack arose to preach. 
 
 When Jack arose to preach, 'tis said 
 The dandelion drooped her golden head 
 And nestled in her leafy bed, 
 When Jack arose to preach. 
 
 When Jack arose to preach — oh, dear! 
 The buttercup squeezed out a tear, 
 And said he wasn't wanted here, 
 When Jack arose to preach. 
 
 When Jack arose to preach — dear me! 
 The star flower didn't care to see — 
 To hear him is too much." said she. 
 When Jack arose to preach. 
 
 When Jack arose to preach — oh, grief! 
 The grasses laid their blades in sheath, 
 And turned to slumber for relief, 
 When Jack arose to preach. 
 
 53 
 
When Jack shut up his book — why then 
 
 The flowers all woke up again, 
 
 And shouted loud and clear, "Amen!" 
 
 When Jack arose to preach. — Abbie Florence Williams. 
 
 THE SOUNDING OF THE BELL. 
 
 Baby fingers, pink and rosy, 
 
 Catching playful light and shade; 
 Eyes that dance with purest pleasure 
 
 At the beauty God has made — 
 All are still and pause with wonder, 
 
 Held as if by magic spell, 
 At the sudden, playful jingle 
 
 Of a tiny silver bell. 
 
 Noisy school-boys on the hill-side. 
 
 Shouting at their game of ball, 
 Thinking naught of books or lessons 
 
 Or of ills that may befall, 
 All too soon are interrupted 
 
 By the sound they know tco well, 
 Creep to school with slow reluctance 
 
 At the clanging of the bell. 
 
 Maiden decked in orange blossoms, 
 
 All aglow with love her face, 
 Kneeling for a father's blessing 
 
 And a mother's fond embrace, 
 Waits with trembling exultation 
 
 Till her joyous bossom swells 
 At the sweet, melodious music 
 
 Of the solemn marriage bells. 
 
 Pensive nun devout and lowly, 
 
 Wrapped in garments of the night, 
 Seeks alone the holy chapel 
 
 In the last faint gleam of light. 
 Filled, her soul, with adoration 
 
 At the feet of him who dwells 
 In the hearts of all who worship 
 
 At the chime of vesper bells. 
 
 Deep immersed in speculation 
 Vexed with anxious business cares, 
 
 Buy and sell with wild excitement 
 Eager; grasping bulls and bears, 
 
 Till their bids have reached the limit 
 54 
 
Every moment now will tell, 
 Ah! for one more day a winner. 
 Thunders forth the ponderous hell. 
 
 Hopeless convict bent and hardened 
 
 Living empty nights and days, 
 Toiling, grinding, never knowing 
 
 Words of comfort or of praise 
 Wakes from dull, exhausting slumber 
 
 In his cheerless, hollow cell 
 Driven to his hateful labor 
 
 By the clanging of the bell. 
 
 Quiet, solemn, sad and lonely 
 
 At the slow and rhythmic knell 
 Of the last of earthly tributes 
 
 Sounding from the steeple-bell, 
 
 Seeks his rest in peaceful church-yard 
 
 Hidden in a lonely dell 
 
 i 
 
 He that sleeps no more to waken 
 At the sounding of the bell. — Inez Payton. 
 
 SOUND AND SENSE. 
 
 (An attempt to adapt the one to the other, or the use of onomatopoetic 
 
 words.) 
 From a babbling, rippling gurgle 
 Of the brooklet, cool and soothing 
 Swift and swifter flows the river 
 Swishing through a mesh of grasses, 
 Brawling over brush and brambles 
 Till a hissing, seething torrent, 
 Roaring, rushes down the mountain. 
 From the vague, uncertain somewhere 
 Swoops a duck with splash descending 
 O'er the water, waking echoes 
 Through the awful mountain stillness. 
 
 Far below, where in the valley 
 Flutters, twitters, chirps the robin, 
 Trills the wren and coos the pigeon; 
 Where beneath the brushy thicket 
 Bumble-bees are buzzing, droning, 
 Where the slimy serpents wriggle, 
 Here a tiny, frugal clearing 
 Marks a peasant's habitation 
 Mid the quacking, clucking jargon 
 
Of the farm-yard; mid the bleating 
 
 And the tinkle of the sheep-bells; 
 
 Mid the crunching of the oxen 
 
 At their evening dole of fodder, 
 
 Clatters home the rickety wagon. 
 
 From his seat the awkward lubber 
 
 Strikes the earth with thud, and, sprawling, 
 
 Scrambles to his feet to listen 
 
 To the jingling call to supper. 
 
 In the low-roofed cot the mother, 
 Ripping old and time-worn stitches, 
 Clips and snips with busy scissors, 
 While with blunt and stubby pencil 
 Marking every seam and gather; 
 Heedless of the wrangling jangle 
 Of the voices in the kitchen. 
 
 Now at last the meal is ready; 
 Sizzling hot the steaming fritters. 
 Round the board with shuffling footsteps, 
 Scraping chairs in rasping discord, 
 Gather eager, hungry peasants. 
 All is silent, save the gnawing 
 Of the crisp, dry crusts, and guzzling 
 Of great gulps of blackened coffee. 
 
 Supper over, stilled the clatter 
 
 Of the clumsy crocks and platters, 
 
 Only heavy drawling voices 
 
 Break the close, oppressive silence, 
 
 As the smoke from lazy pipe-stems, 
 
 Puffing, curls away in shadows. 
 
 All at once a low, deep rumble, 
 
 Gust of wind, and rattling shutter 
 
 Tell of swift approaching danger. 
 
 The sheep-dog, whining, scratching wildly 
 
 For admittance, cowers, shivers 
 
 In a dark secluded corner. 
 
 Chubby fingers clutch in terror 
 
 At the nervous skirts of mother, 
 
 As a blinding flash of lightning 
 
 Comes with splitting crash of thunder 
 
 Down the jagged mountain passes. 
 
 Bangs the door of every shanty; 
 
 Howls the wind through cracking tree-tops: 
 
 Loud the dinner-bell is clanging; 
 
 56 
 
Rocks and sticks from all directions 
 Whizz and whirl in wild confusion. 
 
 Then a lull, when from the forest 
 Comes a piercing shriek of horror. 
 Quick as thought the men go stumbling 
 Spite of storm into the darkness. 
 Whoops and shouts remain unanswered; 
 Moans and groans direct their footsteps, 
 Till, at length, a loathsome object, 
 Drenched, is borne into the cabin; 
 Some besotted, blear-eyed traveler, 
 Strangled by a falling timber. 
 
 Weirdly now the wind is sighing, 
 
 While a slow and dismal drizzle, 
 
 Mournful, soaks the sodden landscape. 
 
 At the heavy cheerless dawning, 
 
 Till a sudden burst of sunlight 
 
 Scatters every trace of darkness, 
 
 While the patter from the tree-tops 
 
 Mingles with the woodman's whistle, 
 
 Chopping early in the forest. —Inez Payton. 
 
 THAT LITTLE PET OF MINE. 
 
 My pen is weary and wayward to-night, 
 
 And my thoughts are borne away, 
 Till gentle dreams have quite replaced 
 
 The things I meant to say. 
 A vision of a happy child 
 
 Has altered every line, — 
 The sweet pale face and the sunny smile 
 
 Of that little pet of mine. 
 
 Is it the Christmas-tide that brings 
 
 The thoughts of this darling boy, 
 Till I all but hear his merry laugh, 
 
 So full of life and joy? 
 I seem to feel his tiny arms 
 
 About my neck entwine; 
 And think of days whose brightest joy 
 
 Came through that pet of mine. 
 
 I did turl my hair 'fore my Auntie tome!" 
 
 He would shout in baby glee, 
 Then beg for a '"tory" and "Please would I sing?' 
 
 As he cuddled on my knee. 
 
At last I left him,— eight long months 
 
 Had lengthened into nine, 
 Before I came again to see 
 
 That roguish boy of mine. 
 
 Alas! he had lost his baby clothes, 
 
 As boys are wont to do. 
 The curls were gone, and naught was left, 
 
 Save the eyes of heavenly blue. 
 He might have lost his babyhood — 
 
 That touch of the divine — 
 But then an awful hand was raised 
 
 To blight this boy of mine! 
 
 With aching hearts and anxious eyes 
 
 We watched his active feet 
 Grow limp and lifeless, at the time 
 
 When life had grown so sweet. 
 For weeks, he crept on hands and knees, 
 
 Yet through those eyes would shine 
 A look of patient happiness, 
 
 So like that pet of mine. 
 
 His baby eyes could never see 
 
 The weary waiting years, 
 That he might live in helplessness, 
 
 He little knew the tears 
 And agony and long suspense; 
 
 For he could not divine 
 With childish thought the load that weighed 
 
 His mother's heart and mine. 
 
 But Christmas carols sound again 
 
 Of Holy Child and Eastern Star; 
 And with their blessedness there comes 
 
 A message from afar! 
 No longer must our stubborn hearts 
 
 Be struggling to resign 
 Our wills to His, for God is good, 
 
 And now that boy of mine, 
 
 Just as the Christ-child comes to free 
 
 The world thro' love and peace, 
 Has seemed to gain new life again, 
 
 A long-delayed release. 
 Thus, Father, give Thy halting child, 
 
 The healing touch of Thine 
 That gives new life to faltering feet 
 
 And may that life be mine. — Inez Payton. 
 
 58 
 
A MID-SUMMER AWAKENING. 
 
 It was three o'clock in the afternoon. The snn beat hotter and 
 hotter upon the dusty grass, and all out-of-doors seemed half asleep. 
 Outside the sitting room window the solemn assembly of hens had 
 lapsed into thoughtful meditation. The thrifty Brahmas and Leg- 
 horns had ceased to sharpen their claws, the stiff Buff Cochins were 
 stupidly blinking at i pace, while, under the lilac bush, the wise 
 old Plymouth Rock stared at her stubby beak with a far-away look 
 in her eye. An occasional cracking twig announced the slightest 
 mot : on. Liitle Bantam bestired herself, beat her lazy wings in the 
 warm dust, settled her head on her snowy bosom, and once more 
 all was still. Slowly the lifeless minutes passed; an oppressive silence 
 resigned, — when all of a sudden the central figure began to move. 
 Slowly at first it shifted its little white wings; the snowy feathered 
 back began to rise and spread like gentle waves of the sea. Then, 
 with an awkward jerk, the little body was raised from the grass upon 
 two very long and yellow legs. Slowly the head was raised, the eyes 
 distended, the beak began to part, and then there was heard "pro- 
 longed and loud" a genuine rooster's crow. With one accord the 
 astonished hens arose, arranged themselves in twos and fours about 
 their newly found hero, and fixed on him their wondering gaze. 
 With the dignity of a monarch the awakened lord turned himself about 
 and strutted from the scene, while one by one the speechless group 
 of hens respectfully fell into line and followed him out of sight. — Inez 
 Pay ton. 
 
 A MORNING VISION. 
 
 Sunday morning. W T e have slept late and dressed in haste, and 
 only the room remains to tell of our sudden departure. Here last 
 night's tardy return and the morning's belated rush have left their 
 marks in every direction. The table is covered with velvet hats, lace 
 handkerchiefs, programs, and white kid gloves. Rugs with turned-up 
 corners and ends rolled out are strewn with discarded week-day shoes, 
 whose lolling tongues and half-worn laces are stretched about in dusty 
 abandon. Precious ribbons, fallen from temporary resting-places, lie 
 in fantastic shapes in the sunlight square before the bed. Two very 
 much wilted pillows still bear the impress of sleepy heads; the 
 punched-in ends that mark that final stolen nap have scarcely been 
 lessened by the dive at the middle for the tell-tale watch beneath. 
 The rumpled sheets resemble the rough and restless sea, along whose 
 edge broad strips of white and blue are having a peep at the day. 
 From alternate bureau drawers, yawning languidly, bits of ribbon 
 and lace peep out to greet the endless confusion that covers the 
 open desk. Under the dotted curtains one shade, entirely drawn, is 
 flapping noisily, while the other, hastily raised, has assumed a rakish 
 
 511 
 
slant. The boasted glory of the gaping window-seat is lost in pillows 
 and bolsters scattered over the chairs, and nothng indeed preva Is 
 but utter defiance of law and order. — Inez Payton. 
 
 AN APRIL STORM. 
 
 Drip, drip, drip. For a moment the rain has ceased, as the heav- 
 ing masses of leaden clouds roll and blacken in harmless wrath. 
 The receding corners of the great haymow have become quite lost 
 in the deepening gloom, while ponderous shadows are ranging them- 
 selves among the billows of hay. Outside, in the far-off somewhere, a 
 half-heard rumble becomes a threatening roar, which suddenly breaks 
 into rattling sounds of nothingness, and overspreads the heavens. 
 Upon its death, comes a second rumble, and then another, and another, 
 ever growing in volume and speed, to gather at last in mimic rage and 
 to break with a thunderous crash. The very timbers of the old barn 
 shake, and through the wide-opened window a half-wild gust rushes 
 in for a frolic in the crisp, dry hay. Somewhere a reckless hinge 
 or pulley grates a shrieking defiance, while down below, a manger door 
 "swings to" with a heedless bang. A blinding glare of light, a second 
 piercing peal, and then, as if all the heavens had suddenly burst 
 into floods, the earth and air are filled with a very deluge of rain. 
 In a moment every post and gate and shed without has vanished 
 behind the storm, while, on the great barn roof, there beats a deafening- 
 roar. But hark! Already the storm is spent; gates and fences reap- 
 pear; the clouds are broken and flee, while overhead, on the flooded 
 roof, the gentle drops are playing a merry tattoo. Within, the bulky 
 shadows have slunk to remotest nooks, while through the still opened 
 window, a dancing sunbeam bursts to play where the wind has been; 
 and, far beyond its beat, away in the eastern sky, a band of purple 
 and crimson and yellow is stretched across the blue. — Inez Payton. 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF ITALY. 
 
 There were only four of them, but when they entered the almost 
 empty car I thought there must be an excited crowd of a dozen 
 or more. Headed by a black-eyed maiden of ten or eleven years, the 
 dusky little troop filed in, as if on exhibition. Behind the girl, two 
 small brothers crowded her forward, while looming in the rear was 
 the dusky face of the fondly officious mother. Her face was even 
 more than dusky, but round as round could be and lighted by a 
 beaming smile and two great merry eyes. She was what one would 
 call a comfortable sort of woman, youthful enough, though her hair 
 was touched with gray, and plainly but decently dressed. She had 
 eyes and ears for no one, save her tittering, squirming little flock, 
 which was soon wriggling on the seat beside her. The flock in question 
 
 60 
 
seemed to "pair away from her," If such an expression may be used, 
 for the oldest had a complexion of orthodox Italian olive, while the 
 urchin next in size was more of a northern type, ami the baby 
 was white as our fathers' children ever thought of being. But the 
 roguish brown-black eyes that (lanced and snapped from every face 
 gave certain proof that these down-town children were none of us. 
 Naturally enough, the baby boy was their chief source of pride and 
 merriment. A tiny piece he was, clad in a suit of black, whoso 
 miniature trousers gave him the appearance of a somewhat en- 
 larged but extremely active clothes-pin. He it was who served as 
 orator for the crowd, for. now and then, he would shout aloud some 
 startling text or truth, always the same in sound and length, while 
 the simultaneous burst of applause from the other two was equalled 
 only by his own baby glee. Of all this the fond mother seemed highly 
 to approve. During the intervals of the child's discourse, the gibber- 
 ing observations of the other three were not unlike the chattering 
 language of squirrels, quite intelligible among themselves, but not 
 yet understood by less favored man. To add interest to this amateur 
 performance, baby boy and elder brother often engaged in sly nudges 
 and kicks, as often receiving good-natured maternal reproofs, while the 
 little miss had only the part of Betsy Short to play. But at this 
 point the station was reached, and the interesting four were left 
 alone in the almost deserted car, to await another audience. — Inez 
 Payton. 
 
 "THE HOUR OF DEWS." 
 
 The beginnings of night have come. Over the softened tree-tops is 
 shed the tender light of slowly fading day, while on the silent 
 waters the harbingers of night, in still more deepened shadows, have 
 cast their subtle spell. The stillness is broken only by the gently 
 recurring dip of a pair of drowsy oars, or by the almost plaintive 
 response of the half-resistant water. Over the face of the stream 
 the tall and graceful willows have met in fond embrace the shades 
 of their own green boughs, which rise from out of the depths to receive 
 a silent caress, while stately oaks and maples, rearing their straight- 
 ened forms against the receding sky, extend their lengths again in the 
 depths of the silent river. 
 
 Away to the southward stretches the sheen of mirrored water, 
 till its narrowed expanse is lost in the union of bordering trees. 
 Silently over all is settled the stealthy night, which, creeping down 
 the banks beneath the sheltering boughs, steals across the waters to 
 meet the tiny boat. Bigger and blacker and nearer grow the huddling 
 trees till the river is nothing but shadows, and the sky is lost to 
 view, when suddenly over the trees a delicate silver light tinges the 
 highest branches, while bits of gleaming clouds disclose the far-off 
 blue. At first the leafy walls refuse to share their light with the 
 
 (il 
 
still more darkened waters, till through a kindly break the emboldened 
 moon-beams dart and spread a silver sheen across the silent river, 
 while, dancing about the oars, the tiny laughing waters are tipped 
 with yellow light, and, mounting the eastern sky, the great majestic 
 moon regards the sleeping landscape. — Inez Payton. 
 
 THE POWER OP LITERATURE. 
 
 It was one of those dismal mornings when Nature is at her 
 worst. All night she had been fretting in a half-hearted, peevish 
 fashion until, when day had come, in a futile attempt to smile, she 
 had given way at last to a very torrent of storm. The cold, wet 
 rain that was lashing the side of the gloomy car obstructed the 
 meager view that might have been gained of the station, while on the 
 opposite side, where the windows escaped the deluge, a few coal 
 shanties and cribs dotted "the landscape o'er." It was already nine 
 o'clock; the berths had been made up and the passengers were ready 
 for the day, but not for the kind of one that seemed to be before them. 
 For ten long weary hours the train had not moved a foot, since the 
 wreckage of a freight, not many miles ahead, had served to block 
 the track. So long as people had slept, their patience had endured, but 
 it scarcely stood the test when the effort became more conscious. Just 
 how many times the would-be traveling salesman had trudged up and 
 down the aisle, chewing a lifeless cigar, nobody could have told, not 
 even the bilious man, who hated monopolies and wondered how two 
 would look "doing" the aisle in procession. The well-dressed woman 
 in brown was heaving a languid sigh, and the care-worn figure in 
 black was fidgeting nervously, when the stout man in the rear set his 
 foot down with a bang, and, ramming the last night's paper to the 
 depths of his overcoat pocket, suddenly sprang to his feet. Slowly 
 transferring his glasses from his ample nose to his thumb and lower- 
 ing his head a trifle, he stared at the group before him. The walking 
 salesman stopped, the bilious man turned to see, and the women in 
 black and in brown exchanged expectant glances. Then, slowly clear- 
 ing his throat, in a deep magnetic voice, the stranger began to repeat 
 that immortal passage of Irving describing the most sodden day that 
 every occurred in literature. The effect was electrical. When the 
 recitation was ended, the eyes of the woman in brown were dancing 
 merrily; the salesman had forgotten himself and was perched on 
 the arm of her seat, indulging in vigorous applause, while the little 
 woman in black and even the bilious man wore faces wreathed in 
 smiles. — Inez Payton. 
 
 THE MILITARY FUNERAL. 
 
 Over thirty years before he had borne the rank of major among the 
 wearers of the blue. Since then, little known in his native town, he 
 
 62 
 
had lived in an Eastern city. Eccentric and peculiar, his had been 
 a mysterious life, till there shrouded his whole career a something 
 strangely uncertain, which no one tried to explain. At last he sick- 
 ened and died and was brought by his aged mother to be buried near 
 his early home. Thus there was in that town a stranger and a 
 grander funeral than it ever before had seen. Just at the close of 
 day strains of martial music, measured, slow, and sad, sounded the 
 mournful message that the dead was on his way. Already the great 
 red sun was lost in the crimson west and among the stately sentinels 
 of marble and towering pines were stealing the quiet shadows, when 
 through the broad arched gateway the solemn pageant appeared. The 
 strains of music ceased while only muffled drum-beats broke the 
 sound of tramping and of grating carriage wheels along the gravel 
 driveway. Led by a grave drum-major in plume and heavy sword, 
 a band of men in blue, with cornet, fife, and drum, were leading the 
 way through the pines. Behind them, as faithful guards, marched 
 aged volunteers who had fought for the stars and stripes, possibly 
 comrades of the dead. Then came the funeral car, draped in silken 
 flags, caught up with wreaths of smilax and beautiful floral decora- 
 tions. A team of four white horses, in harness as white as them- 
 selves, were drawing it slowly along. But most impressive of all was 
 the princely black steed that followed. Nervously champing his bit, 
 and tossing his handsome head, at every step his well-shod feet struck 
 the gravel beneath with a quick, impatient ring. Even the quivering 
 nostrils and the motion of his thick, black mane betrayed his restless 
 spirit. Bound to his empty saddle, whose newness appeared in creaks 
 at his every movement, flashed a long sheathed sword, whose hilt 
 shone above the pommel, while over the well-curved neck was thrown 
 the empty rein that marked a departed rider. Behind him a half- 
 closed carriage bore the beautiful daughter and sister and widowed 
 mother of the dead, and at last came the train of friends that follows 
 every bier. And low from a darkening hollow about a new-made grave, 
 came the plaintive minor strains of the final requiem, while away 
 in the western sky the crimson strips of cloud were fading into the 
 night. — Inez Payton. 
 
 TO GRANDMOTHER'S COOKY-JAR. 
 
 It was the crowning glory 
 
 Of the topmost pantry shelf. 
 In contempt it looked about it; 
 
 It loved naught but itself. 
 
 Its fat, brown sides were bulging 
 
 With wealth of sweetness rare, 
 And yet it would not let us 
 
 In that sweetness share. 
 
 63 
 
Like an ogre grim and frowning 
 
 It watched our efforts brave 
 To release the sugared dainties 
 
 That our nature seemed to crave. 
 
 But it held its treasure safely, 
 
 Where we could not intrude, 
 And looked its scorn upon us 
 
 From its high altitude. 
 
 But alas! for the foolish ogre 
 
 And its fears, so soon allayed, 
 It knew not the wiles of mortals — 
 
 Or those of a little maid. 
 
 For we went to the white-haired woman, 
 
 With her endless sock of blue; 
 And she cuddled us closely to her, 
 
 In the way that grandmothers do. 
 
 And we patted her arm very softly, 
 As we said, in a careless way, 
 ' Did you know that Patty Becket 
 Was coming here to play? 
 
 ' We want to have a party 
 
 On the shady garden-seat, 
 For Patty's just got some dishes, 
 
 But we don't know what to eat." 
 
 O you grim and scornful ogre. 
 
 Your triumph was very short; 
 'Twas now our turn to chuckle 
 
 To see how low you were brought. 
 
 And we laughed again at your downfall, 
 
 As we sat on the garden-seat, 
 And munched on your hidden treasure, 
 
 For our revenge was sweet. — Ethel M. Bates. 
 
 THE FISH THAT GOT AWAY. 
 
 'Twas but a fleeting look, a glimpse, 
 
 As, for a moment, high in air, 
 Impaled upon the cruel hook, 
 
 The fish, in anguish, struggled there. 
 
 'Twas but a glimpse, and then a downward flash 
 As when comets at midnight play; 
 64 
 
And we were left alone to dream 
 Of the fish that got away. 
 
 'Tis strange how. at a single glance. 
 
 You can find so great display 
 Of virtues and of excellence 
 
 In a fish that gets away. 
 
 It shone with irridescent light; 
 
 How much it weighed, we dare not say. 
 'Twas one we long had sought, and caught it not, 
 
 This fish that got away. 
 
 But of this creature passing fair, 
 
 The fame alone did with us stay. 
 We could but sing the praises to our friends, 
 
 Of the fish that got away. 
 
 So hopes and joys that fairest seem, 
 
 As we live through our little day, 
 Are hopes and joys unrealized, 
 
 The fish that got away. —Ethel M. Bates, 
 
 THE LEAVES ARE DEAD. 
 
 The leaves are dead; the trees bereft 
 Bemoan their loss, their childless love, 
 
 And lift their bony hands to heaven 
 In protest to the powers above. 
 
 The leaves are dead, save where a few 
 Yet hang on boughs of stubborn oak, 
 
 Or where a supple vine still throws 
 About a rugged stump its scarlet cloak. 
 
 The leaves are dead that once in mirth 
 Rejoiced with every wind that blew, 
 
 And shared the secrets of the birds 
 Or heard the vows of lovers true. 
 
 The leaves are dead; the crimson hue 
 That made the woodlands look so bright, 
 
 Was but a sign of coming death, 
 The sunset glow before the night. 
 
 The leaves are dead; in rustling heaps 
 They are but crushed by heedless feet, 
 
 The sport of ev'ry boisterous wind, 
 Are blown in aimless haste along the street. 
 65 
 
The leaves are dead; yet why complain? 
 
 They lived their life, they did their task; 
 And, when at last 'twas done, they feel, 
 
 A better fate could no one ask. — Ethel M. Bates. 
 
 AN ANCIENT BALLAD. 
 
 O gentle folk, if you'll draw near, 
 
 I'll tell you a tale so meet 
 About some knights of great renown 
 Who fought for their lady sweet. 
 
 This lady lived in a castle strong, 
 
 For she was of high degree, 
 That stood in a grove of ancient oaks, 
 
 On the strand of a deep, blue sea. 
 
 She dight herself in purple robes, 
 
 For she was of royalty. 
 The legend writ upon her shield 
 
 Was "those things true that be." 
 
 And in her halls so wide and fair, 
 Were many a dame and knight; 
 
 For here were found good cheer and joy 
 And welcome to every wight. 
 
 For months her face was sad and grieved, 
 
 For she had suffered shame, 
 And on a plain called Marshall Field 
 
 Had lost in the lists her fame. 
 
 At last, spake up a valiant knight, 
 " O merry men, come with me, 
 And we'll go down to Midwaytown, 
 And fight for our lady." 
 
 And so they went down to Midwaytown, 
 For to clear their lady's name. 
 
 For more than aught in the world besides 
 They loved their lady's fame. 
 
 In all the world, a fairer sight 
 You scarce could see, they say, 
 
 Than that of the lists at Marshall Field, 
 Upon that fateful day. 
 
 For of maids and squires all busked so fair, 
 There was a mighty throng; 
 
 66 
 
And the knights, the flower of all the land. 
 Were dighl in armor strong. 
 
 The noisy trumpet's hlare was heard: 
 
 The banners fluttered free; 
 The knights who tilted in the lists 
 
 Wore the color of their lady. 
 
 At last, the signal clear was given, 
 
 And then the joust began. 
 The knights, for the fame of their lady, 
 
 Did tilt with might and main. 
 
 And when, at length, the sun did sink 
 
 In the clouds of the distant west, 
 The judges of the tourney said 
 
 The purple had fought the best. 
 
 And thus these noble knights did clear 
 
 The blot from their lady's name; 
 And thus did they prove to that country 
 
 The glory of her fame. 
 
 When they came back to their lady fair, 
 
 In the castle by the sea, 
 She opened the portal wide and said, 
 " My merry men, come to me! 
 
 1 And I with honors you shall crown, 
 
 Because of your loyalty; 
 For you have shown my right to wear 
 The purple of royalty!" 
 
 And still, at the feasts in that faraway land, 
 
 The gleemen sing the fame 
 Of the valiant knights who cleared the blot 
 
 From their dear lady's name. 
 
 And would ye know, dear gentle folk, 
 
 Who told this tale to me? 
 'Twas one who spake it with many a groan 
 
 And very reluctantly. 
 
 His hair was white before its time; 
 
 His shoulders with cares bent down. 
 Professor Stagg yclept was he. 
 
 A man of Midwaytown. —Ethel M. Bates. 
 
 r>7 
 
A BAD BOY. 
 
 He is a bad little boy. He never goes to Sunday school; he i& 
 never clean except on Sunday morning, when his mother scours him 
 up as she does her kitchen floor on Saturday, as a part of her regular 
 week's program; and he stays clean only for the short space of time 
 that it takes him to scamper to the nearest mud puddle. He never 
 says "Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," as good little boys do, but always 
 "Yep" and "Naw." We first made his acquaintance one evening, 
 when we found him staring in at a shop window and about to 
 swallow a bit of frosted cake, mutilated almost beyond recognition, that 
 he had taken from the bag he was carrying home to his mother. 
 When we called his attention to this little irregularity in conduct, 
 he gave us an undaunted look, and merely remarked that his "maw" 
 didn't care, and that it was none of our business anyway, a fact 
 that we could not gainsay. 
 
 The next day when we passed his dilapidated home, he called 
 attention to the fact that he was sitting upon the front step by throw- 
 ing at us with unerring aim a slushy snowball, and from that moment 
 we were fast friends. In an attempt to draw him out, we asked him 
 the somewhat trite question if he liked to go to school, and, to our 
 surprise, received an enthusiastic "You bet." Curious to know just 
 what phase of our public school system most appealed to him, we con- 
 tinued, "What do you do there?" "Aw, we have recess, and fight, and 
 have lots of fun." Thus were dashed the hopes for his future that, 
 for one brief moment, we had entertained. Even he has already been 
 impressed with some of the solemnities of life, for when one day 
 we asked him, if the baby he was wheeling along at an angle of sixty 
 degrees was his sister he said, "Naw, I ain't got no brothers and sisters. 
 I had seven onct," and his eyes widened as if with a premonition of the 
 possible calamities in store for him as he added, "They're all buried 
 — 'cept one, and she's married." Once we had the privilege of seeing 
 him thoroughly frightened, and that was when, in trying to jump across 
 a deep ditch of muddy water, he fell in and stuck in the mud at the 
 bottom (like Achilles), with but one foot left dry. We pulled him 
 out like a fly from molasses and, a sorry figure in water color, he 
 trudged away in the opposite direction from home, doubtless to give 
 his clothes time to dry and himself an opportunity to make up 
 a story to tell his mother. Only once have we ever seen 
 him abashed, and that was, not when put under mock arrest by a 
 policeman for building brick forts across the sidewalk, nor even 
 when chased off the tracks for stealing coupling pins, but when, one 
 day, guilty of a bit of gallantry of which he was manifestly ashamed,, 
 shuffling up to the porch, and throwing into my lap a bunch of carna- 
 tions culled from the refuse of the greenhouse, with a confused 
 "They're for you," he rushed down the street to escape the thanks 
 with which I was inconsiderate enough to shower him. Yes, he is a 
 
 68 
 
bad little boy. We would not have anyone think for a moment that 
 his conduct receives our moral approbation, and yet tnen 
 on his saucy face, a glint in bis roguish eye, that makes him far more 
 interesting than any of the Rood little hoys we have ever kn 
 Ethel M. Bates. 
 
 THE QUEEN OF THE HOrSEHOLD. 
 
 She has been waited on all her life. Her slightest wish is law 
 to the entire household from the cross-grained Irishman who works 
 in the stable to her careless, fourteen-year-old brother. She has 
 but to droop her eyelids, and someone lowers the shade, shutting 
 out the offending light. She can always have a partner for cribbage 
 or someone to read to her when she is tired. By common consent, 
 all dainties are first offered to her, and the earliest bunch of spring 
 flowers is her unchallenged right. Yet this queen is not a stately, 
 imperious tyrant, but only a pale-faced girl, whose throne is a wheel- 
 chair. Never by word or deed does she express the slightest dis- 
 content with her narrow life, yet, when you come in glowing with 
 fresh air and exercise, there is a wistful look in the brown eyes, a 
 droop of the tremulous lips that make you feel as if you had 
 somehow robbed her, and you are eager to make any possible repara- 
 tion. It is her patient, almost cheerful resignation to the lack of 
 joyousness in her life that gives the situation pathos. Thus it is 
 that this palefaced queen, unconscious of her power, compels the 
 willing homage of those about her.— Ethel M. Bates. 
 
 BELLEVUE SKETCHES. 
 HOW THE COLOR-LIXE WAS OBSERVED AT BELLEVTE. 
 
 "Tawmas Jeff'son!" Aunt Mari' at the open door of her cabin, 
 pronounced this illustrious and revered name with a rising inflection 
 that was portentous. Not from the tomb, however, but from a 
 cherry-tree, near by, came the answer in a thin treble with a sliding 
 inflection, "Hyah — I — is." 
 
 "Am yo' up dat cher'y-tree agin?" 
 
 •No, mammy." And at that instant he wasn't. But having been 
 forcibly deprived of a necessary portion of his trousers on the way 
 do-vn, little Tawm had some difficulty in preserving the serenity of 
 countenance compatible with truth. However, his manifest depend- 
 ence upon the tree for hiding certain defects of clothing turned his 
 mother's attention from the loss of her treasured cherries to her 
 son's obvious predicament. Shutting her eyes and flattening her 
 thick lips in a manner suggestive of a sleepy mud-turtle, with 
 an ominous loss of voice, she continued, "Tawmas Jeff'son, w'at I done 
 tole yo' 'bout gibben me no lies?" The silence which followed this 
 significant question seemed to little Tawm to be buzzing with a 
 
 69 
 
swarm of threatening hornets; until, from somewhere up above, 
 an amateurish whistle smote gladness to his vibrating heart. 
 
 "Hi, thyah, Aunt Mari', don' you dyah tuh tetch Tawm!" And the 
 heir of Bellevue, like the young monkey that he was, swung into 
 view from a laden branch of the cherry-tree, and dropped at her feet. 
 
 "Ef you lick anybody, I'm the fellah." He squared his resolute 
 little shoulders for poor Tawm's share of the expected slipper, which 
 he knew from long observation was ever within easy reach; but 
 this time the slipper remained on its owner's foot. "I made him 
 climb up thyah." 
 
 The turtle aspect had by that time left Mari's broad features, 
 and a maelstrom of emotions was heaving her mighty bosom. "Dis 
 hyah hain't none o' yo'alls business, Marse Geo'gie. He done bust 
 he pants, fo' I hyahed 'em rip." A statement which was quite true, 
 for the tearing of stout blue-jean cannot be mistaken for any other 
 sound; and Mari', like Elijah of old, looked to the rending of the 
 heart and not of garments. 
 
 "Ef that's all," commented the would-be Damon, turning to his 
 trembling Pythias, "come up to the house, an' I'll give you a payh 
 o' mine." With a furtive, back-reaching motion, Tawm gathered 
 himself together, and before his mother could plan a method of 
 attack, the two lads were off, neck and neck, over the clover-dotted 
 field; around by the portico into the cool, dim hall; past horrified 
 Cousin Betty; up the polished oak staircase, their small bare feet 
 patting in happy unison; and, at last, safe and breathless, into 
 the bedroom of the young master, whose wardrobe was duly offered to 
 his bulging-eyed beneficiary. That Tawm did not select a natty little 
 pair of black velvet knickerbockers was entirely owing to the fact 
 that they were much too wide for his slender body; but in order to 
 choose with discretion, each pair of tweed, flannel or pique trousers 
 was tried on with infinite pride, and the effect noted in the mirror. At 
 last, arrayed to his visible satisfaction in a pair of cream-colored 
 cloth knee breeches with a red percale shirt and a blue silk tie 
 added by the generous owner, little Tawm went down to his humble 
 home uplifted in heart and with hands in real pockets. His mother 
 did not need her spectacles to be aware of his approach, because his 
 new shirt made a brilliant blotch of color upon the gray-green of 
 the orchard that Corot might have longed to put on an immortal 
 canvas. But she affected not to see him, until he illuminated the small 
 kitchen with his effulgent presence. 
 
 "Huh! yo' mighty fine, tuh be sho! Wha dem pants yo' done to'e?" 
 "Hannah done chucked 'em entuh de raig-baig." Again the mud- 
 turtle expression began to possess her fat features. She put down 
 her flatiron, leaving a shirt-waist of Miss Betty's sticking to the 
 ironing-sheet, and disappeared into her bedroom; where, presently, 
 sounds issued suggestive of a strenuous change of attire. When she 
 
 70 
 
finally emerged, she seemed to have been converted into a peripatetic 
 checker-board, while upon her head was a flower-garden run to seed 
 and shaken by the palsy. She spoke not a word, but her tread WM 
 
 thunderous; and the tones of her Sunday costume preceded her all 
 the way to the great house, where "Miss Sue" with languid surprise 
 received her on the porch. 
 
 "Why. Aunt Mari". you look like a wedding:*' 
 
 "Law, Miss Sue," the subtle sweet of suspected compliment honey- 
 ing her simmering wrath. "Law. Miss Sue, ma'aige ain' no ra'ty 
 tub me wid tree husban's en de grab-yahd. I'se jes' er po' widdah- 
 ooman, an' I jes wahnts tuh meet up wid dat triflin' Hannah wha's 
 tho'ed erway some o' meh chile's prop'ty." Her complaint "being 
 elucidated by little George and the contemptuous Hannah, restitution 
 was made to her of such remnants of Tawm's apparel as the cherry- 
 tree had spared: and Mari'. in all her glory, felt that she was not 
 outdone by any of "dem low-down house-niggahs." and always boasted 
 of her formal call upon "Miss Sue." — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 NED'S CHOICE. 
 
 When "Uncle Peter's" infirmities compelled him to be retired from 
 long and honorable service as butler at Bellevue, the choice of a suc- 
 cessor naturally fell upon his son Ned. And certainly it was a 
 relief not to hear the list-slipper-shuffle of the rheumatic old servitor, 
 who was apt to pour ice-water into a silken lap or scalding soup down 
 a broadcloth back. For Ned, in his immaculate linen coat or neat 
 Tuxedo, was the embodiment of alertness, silence, and pose. Then, 
 for the first time, the small boy of Bellevue learned that Ned's real 
 "baptized-name" was "Edwa'd Ev'rett Dan'l Webstah," a circumstance 
 which promptly cemented a bond between the two loyal Americans, 
 and established an understanding better expressed in warm hand- 
 clasps on the part of the one and in macaroons or olives on the 
 part of the other. At once becoming so conspicuous a figure in the 
 dining-room, Ned in his exalted station soon won the homage of the 
 housemaids. Even Aunt Tempe, in the kitchen, felt his importance; 
 and it was not in human nature to be indifferent to such wholesale 
 coquetry; nor was it possible, with so many claimants upon his 
 attention, to make a choice, for — to use his own words — "Twahn't no 
 fun gwine steddy wid one gal, 'cep yo' mean one at a time!" 
 
 So it happened that the guesses of the family as to the girl 
 of Ned's choice often changed with mercurial swiftness, since the 
 information upon which depended their enlightened conjectures was 
 by way of the omniscient small boy. It is highly probable that Ned 
 often confided in him about these yellow or brown inamoratae, because 
 he occasionally seemed to have some cogent facts, which were usually 
 coaxed out of him by Aunt Tempe's delectable cookies. But, at last, 
 
 71 
 
Ned's long hesitation came to an end; and the combined family- 
 breathed freer when it was known that "Marse Dick had been re- 
 quested to fetch 'a weddin' license de ve'y nex' time he done gwine 
 tuh de city." 
 
 Ned was absent on an errand to a neighboring plantation the 
 morning that a telegram called Mr. Dick to Richmond; and, wishing 
 to please his obliging servant by procuring the license, the young 
 man anxiously inquired of the family as to the name of the pros- 
 pective bride. Was it to be Jane, Hannah, Fannie, 'Liza, or Mollie? 
 None could say, until up stepped the important small boy with a 
 long whisper in his uncle's ear. 
 
 "All right, my boy, I'll get it; and we'll surprise Ned, to-night, 
 with his license all ready for him." 
 
 At dinner-time Ned could not account for his little confidant's 
 small appetite nor for the mysterious summons to his master's 
 study before clearing the table. But when, in the presence of the 
 gentleman and little George, the official paper was given him with 
 this appropriate remark, "There, Ned, I hope that Hannah and you 
 will be happy," consternation's awful dew slowly gathered on his 
 brow. 
 
 "Lawd, Marse Dick, twahn't Hannah, but 'Liza!" 
 
 "'Liza! Oh, very well, Ned! Sorry for my mistake, but I can 
 have it changed, of course." Ned did not withdraw. 
 
 "Marse Dick, how much dis hyah license cost?" 
 
 "Two dollars." 
 
 "An' hit cost two mo' tuh put 'Liza's name hyah, Marse?" 
 
 "Yes, of course." 
 
 "Well, den, Marse Dick, nevermine. Dyah ain' two dollars dif- 
 funce twix' dem gals, an' I'll jes mar'y Hannah." And he did. — Helen 
 Clark Balmer. 
 
 BELLEVUE BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 " Would you see dear Bellevue aright? 
 Come view it, then, by the pale moonlight" 
 that filters through the April green of cottonwood and oak and elm 
 to touch with splendid mystery house and grounds and river; when 
 the deep-vined portico is black with gloom and the lawn is a shim- 
 mering pool of silver water, while lace-like shadows tremble on the 
 brink, and the night-jar skims the mimic billows thrilling each timid 
 thing that creeps or flies with his hollow challenge to "whip-poor- 
 will." 
 
 The young screech-owls know it is time to be up, for "mother" 
 is off hunting wee birds for their supper. Alas, for the soft pretty 
 creatures! many a song will be lost to the summer. From their nest 
 in the lilacs, the thrushes are piping sweet gutturals, as if trying to 
 learn a new tune; and the mocking-bird on the hill is beginning his 
 
 72 
 
musical medley. A brown rabbit is thridding the Bhadows, bis drab 
 nose aquiver with tear, lest the lazy old house-dog may spy him and 
 
 seize him. But to-night, just two ancient friends stand there in the 
 moon-shower, — a broken-nosed Venus and the huntress, Diana. Lacking 
 her bow and a finger or two, while the pure flood of heaven is touch- 
 ing their scars with tenderest healing. The tumbled-down summer- 
 house gleams a fretwork of marble — a mosque for some worshipping 
 spirit to-night. The cabins, the barns, and the blossoming orchards 
 have a netting of silver; the vanes and the gables are pointed with 
 gold; and where the old, ruined steps lead down to the river, a path- 
 way of glory is flowing to meet the dark waters that slide past to 
 the sea. 
 
 And here you may view best the venerable mansion amid its weird 
 splendors of night and of story; though memories vie with each 
 other for the right to begin. The past and the present are mingled 
 so strangely; — the life that is gone forever flows on as it gave of its 
 spirit the greatest and best — not in words but in thoughts — that 
 soul might touch soul to make the race kinder and better. 
 
 What does it matter that five generations of heroes were born 
 here and won names immortal for state and for land! if, for them- 
 selves and their House, they had fought on towards victory, such 
 a fame would be worthless in the annals of country! But to help 
 wrest a great nation from intolerant England, to clutch from the 
 Spaniard possessions of value, and to set free a sad people — this 
 charged the hot blood through the veins, of Bellevue and sent her 
 sons to die in the red tumult of battle and to weld the States firmly 
 with the hammer of war. 
 
 So, old House, you've passed through many a season of change 
 and of sorrow, and the scars of conflict are to be seen on your brow! 
 For once, from the river, a wild shell unroofed you and falling 
 spent mid the rose-trees found a fit nest with the thorns. A banner 
 of flame once threatened your walls; but still from the flag-staff ever 
 waved proud "Old Glory," faded and tattered, shot at and scorned! 
 
 So dream on in your memories, Bellevue, the noble, for these 
 teeming visions baffle my pen; fain would I paint this wondrous scene 
 before me! But when I must look my last on you, dear House, may it 
 be in moonlight, when the spring is here. — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 A PROPER PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 One rainy morning little Tawm was a messenger of unwelcome 
 tidings from Uncle Peter, who sent his "p'ofoundes' 'spec's tuh Miss 
 Sue, hopin' dat she scuse him, caze he done bleeged stay en baid 
 wid de rheumatiz." Miss Sue, who was herself a victim of neuralgia 
 that wet morning, had one of her sudden qualms of sympathy. "Po 
 'ole creature! I know that he needs something; and if Fannie or 
 
 73 
 
Jane knew enough to keep a hot-waterbottle hot, or Tempe wasn't 
 as cross as a rattlesnake with the toothache, I'd send one of them to 
 look after him." 
 
 Betty put down the old curtain which she had been mending. 
 "I will go, Cousin Sue." 
 
 "You, Betty! I thought that you couldn't byah Uncle Peter!" 
 But Betty was looking through the tossing branches of the cotton- 
 woods and elms beyond the rain-drenched garden to the other hill- 
 top, crowned by that serene little city of Bellevue's past, where a 
 gray shaft of polished granite, much newer than most of the leaning 
 headstones surrounding it, seemed to lift a tapering finger as if 
 commanding silence. She recalled Miss Sue's recent pathetic disclosure 
 of the family's indebtedness to the old servants for the erection 
 of that monument; and only yesterday she had surprised Uncle 
 Peter, as he knelt beside the grave, weeding out with patient fingers 
 every rank growth that marred the smooth green pall. Again her 
 thoughts flowed to the soft, slow sound of Uncle Peter's voice. 
 
 "Yas, Miss, I comes hyah right much tuh 'tend de fambly grabes. 
 I cahnt read, no'm; but manys an' manys de times I done put mah 
 fingers en dem lettahs on de moniments jes tuh larn de feel ob readin'. 
 Dis hyah one say, 'Geo'ge, bohn at Bellevue, Virginia, kell at Fair 
 Oaks!' (Littl' Marse Geo'gie can read me dat now.) Den dyah's er 
 'June' en two places; an' de numbahs am a one, an' a eight, an' a 
 fo', an' a t'ree; — an' den one, an' a eight, wid a six, an' a two. 
 Dats how ole meh young marster am. I membah lak 'twas yistuhday, 
 him a-sittin' on dat dyah Ma'y Wiley, de ho'se dat he ride 'way on 
 tuh de wah. Eph was he sarvint, an' he ain' nevah know nuttin' 
 much sense young Marse's body come home by de Richmon' packet. 
 Eph's meh twin brudder, an' he jes keep livin' ovah dem dark wah- 
 times sence dat brain fevah done lef him all de time waitin' fo', an' 
 'spectin' po' Marse Geo'ge. But de res' ob us, — we — all fo'gits — 'cep'n 
 fo' dese hyah grabes. I reckon Gawd wahnts we — all tuh; but, some- 
 time, I feels mighty lonesome fo' dem ole days befo' de wah; an' 
 beggin' de Lawd's pard'n, I tries tuh keep dis hyah place lak a putty 
 room fo' meh ole mistresses an' marsters, w'en dey chahnce tuh look 
 down f'om dyah home en Glory." 
 
 "Betty, child, what are you starin' at?" 
 
 "I am only getting a proper perspective, Cousin Sue." With which 
 occult remark the young girl left the room; and ten minutes later 
 Uncle Peter had good reason to believe that "an angel came and min- 
 istered unto him." — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 EPHRAIM THE FAITHFUL. 
 
 The daily packet from Richmond passing by Bellevue made the 
 chief event of the day; and as the boat could usually be relied upon 
 
 7-1 
 
to appear about eleven o'clock, it became a kind of unique time- 
 piece by which the great house measured its morning activities. 
 Although river travel was not altogether abandoned for the more 
 rapid mode of transit by rail, yet many years had elapsed since a 
 passenger or a package of merchandise had been brought to Bellevue 
 by steamer. But regularly, each day, so soon as the faint throb of 
 the engine could be heard rumbling out its steady advance-notes, a 
 light skiff might be seen leaving the green shelter of the shore to 
 skim the yellow water like a stray duckling seeking its vagrant 
 mother. As the large white creature swam majestically into sight, 
 sitting the summer flood as became the queen of the aquatic realm, her 
 little one seemed to flutter excitedly, diving into the foamy waves, 
 rising and falling with the motions imparted to the passive river by 
 the rhythmic flash of the paddle-wheel. 
 
 From the old marble steps of the boat-landing Cousin Betty often 
 watched this daily meeting of skiff and steamer. She knew how 
 some one would lean over the railing to answer the old rower's change- 
 less question with that gentle deference that Virginians make a part 
 of their religion. 
 
 "No, Uncle Eph, he ain't come. Reckon he'll be 'long tuhmorrah. 
 Ain't got them lettah's, neither. Mighty sorry, Uncle, but come again." 
 
 "Yas, sun; yas, suh," answered the weak but in no way hopeless 
 voice of the negro, as he skilfully eluded imminent collision with the 
 big boat. "Yas, suh, I'se boun' be hyah tuhmorrah." Then a wave of 
 the bony black hand, a pleasant, cheery word of farewell from the 
 captain, and Uncle Eph turned shoreward again for the ten thou- 
 sandth time, perhaps. In rain or sunshine, through all the months 
 from March to December, he never failed to take that solitary trip. 
 It almost seemed to the dreamy eyes watching him that the constant 
 cutting of the sharp little keel must have worn a pathway through 
 the still water. Betty's yearning imagination saw it all; and the 
 long years of faithful waiting for the young master who, to Uncle 
 Eph's simple mind, was still a soldier fighting his country's battles, 
 wrote a wordless history in her young heart. — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 THE DEFEAT OF THE CONQUERORS. 
 
 "What was that queer sprawling object lying on top of the ash- 
 barrel?" That was what the four inquiring rogues would like to 
 know; for they had not been long enough in this world to pretend to 
 have found out everything; and here was a chance to add to their 
 store of facts. 
 
 "Alexander the Great" stood first in the line, as became his repu- 
 tation for looking around for more worlds to conquer; but he was being 
 visibly crowded and shoved by "Napoleon Bonaparte," who evidently 
 meant to have the principal nose in the affair; while "Ulysses Simp- 
 
son Grant" seemed to be divided between the purpose of pacifying his 
 belligerent brothers and the determination to fight "something," if it 
 took the long summer day; and "Scipio Africanis" brought up the rear 
 with an amiable deference to the usages of modern warfare. Thus 
 the phalanx of world-conquerors approached the castle (i. e., the ash- 
 barrel) with sniffing noses, bulging eyes, and supine tails. 
 
 At nearer view the odd creature commanding the gray tower 
 assumed a more human aspect. The bit of linsey-woolsey mysteriously 
 fluttering in the warm June breeze suggested the familiar ragged coat 
 of one of his little masters, and "Alexander" with joyful canine confi- 
 dence pounced upon the object, which suddenly descended in a shower 
 of ashes and a ruin of mildewed garments to flap its limp kid arms 
 and dirty cotton anatomy straight in the face of "Napoleon," who met 
 this ignominious "Waterloo" and fled yelping from the field to upset 
 "U. S. Grant," as that never-before-vanquished soldier was about to 
 reinforce the attacking party. "Scipio," surprised at this strange 
 manoeuvre, but doubtless attributing it to nineteenth century tactics, 
 forbore to argue, but joined most vigorously in the retreat, the latter 
 being an evolution common to all ages. By this time the house-yard 
 was far too small for the fleeing army, and the wide front lawn 
 seemed covered with rolling, terrified puppies. Little Tawm, hidden 
 behind the ash-barrel, peeped out just in time to see the last tail dis- 
 appearing down the avenue to the river; and fear lest his pets in 
 their fright would commit suicide, gave speed to his dusky legs. 
 Little George, sedately walking with Cousin Betty in all the rigor of 
 his Sunday attire, dropped that young lady's lace parasol in the dust 
 and joined the vanishing line, whooping and gesticulating in wild 
 pursuit. 
 
 Ten minutes later two moist, muddy boys appeared, each with two 
 subdued, shivering puppies that were doomed to be securely fastened in 
 the hot, dark kennel for the remainder of the long summer afternoon, 
 while Tawm in deep, but unexpressed contrition tried to make amends 
 by feeding them "carryway" cookies through the bars and by forbear- 
 ing to pinch their tails. 
 
 But no one thought again of the old rag doll that lay face down- 
 ward in the as.hes. The refuse barrel had been her funeral pyre; and, 
 like Dido of Carthage, she was sacrificed for naught. — Helen Clark 
 Balmer. 
 
 A REJUVENATION. 
 
 Cousin Betty certainly approved of Bellevue; but sometimes she 
 would shake her shrewd little Yankee head over the sad state of 
 dilapidation everywhere apparent; and in the privacy of her some- 
 what barren bedroom, she did not hesitate to utter the cold, hard com- 
 prehensive New England term of reproach — "Shiftless." Even as she 
 
 76 
 
noted the soft, delicate hues of the faded draperies, which blended so 
 harmoniously with the worn coverings of chairs and box-seats in that 
 touching familiarity of friends grown old together, the critic's eye 
 that Miss Betty had been born with rapidly took in the deficiencies of 
 the meagre furnishings. 
 
 The present mistress of Bellevue. whose early life had been dark- 
 ened by the great war, had far more fertility of pensive recollection 
 than facility with her needle; and Miss Betty, in a spasm of well- 
 meant helpfulness, abandoned her intricate Battenberg patterns to 
 form such airy, filmy threads in the chintz and dimity of a hundred 
 washings as made Aunt Mari. the laundress, declare that "dat Miss 
 Betty f'om Boston 'most cud dahn er crack en er chiny plate." 
 
 From mending curtains, Betty soon passed to gluing furniture and 
 regilding tarnished frames, her curative touch always deftly managing 
 to brush off the bloom of age. Clearly she belonged to that class of 
 people who would rebuild the Parthenon or scrub the Alh'ambra; and 
 her imagination, like a little muscle, seemed to clutch at the weird 
 and the unusual only to drag them into the cold light of common day 
 to prove their reality. It was this passion for seeing every object in 
 its practical or utilitarian aspect that made poor Betty's visit often 
 referred to, in after-days, as "the period of the restoration." 
 
 And yet Bellevue had good cause to thank the skilful fingers for 
 the timely stitches and the beautifying touches which brought back 
 something of the vanished charm to the old rooms, for Bellevue ever 
 remembered the summer flitting of that young, enthusiastic spirit 
 among its old loves and faded memories. — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 AUNT MARIS EASTER BONNET. 
 
 Owing to the fact that Hannah, after her marriage, was not bound 
 by the law which prevailed in the household, that vivid colors must 
 not be worn by the maids while engaged in domestic duties, it was 
 reluctantly conceded by the colored inhabitants of Bellevue that she 
 was thus at liberty to display a more conspicuous attire and, conse- 
 quently, might be looked upon as a leader of fashion. On Sundays and 
 holidays, however, the maids were exempt from this restriction in 
 dress, and the kitchen and servants' quarters duly blossomed out with 
 every brilliant and unknown species of millinery and seasonable mate- 
 rial, the exuberance of color being all the more pronounced because 
 of the six days' subjugation of vanity. But Aunt Mari'. by reason of 
 living in the most pretentious cabin on the plantation, felt it incum- 
 bent upon her not to permit any former "or'na'y house-niggah" to lead 
 in so vital a matter as bonnets. 
 
 Miss Betty, therefore, had not long been a guest of the family 
 before she was tentatively approached by the wily old servant in a 
 manner almost elephantine in its secretive ardor; for the emotions of 
 
"envy, malice, and all uncharitableness" toward Hannah always con- 
 verted Aunt Mari's respiratory apparatus into a mammoth cauldron 
 of verbal wheeziness; and a less serious-minded young lady than 
 Betty could hardly have complied with the directions for trimming 
 the desired bonnet. 
 
 The resources of Bellevue for fashionable millinery were meagre, 
 but so great was Aunt Mari's faith in the deft fingers of the Northern 
 visitor that a fervor of inspiration began to possess even that calm 
 young person, and the creation (?) of an Easter bonnet began at once 
 under the delighted supervision of the expectant wearer. 
 
 Little George and his constant shadow, little Tawm, were sent to 
 ransack the garret for sundry labeled bandboxes; and soon the breezy 
 old hall, where Betty sat almost walled in by a white pasteboard tower, 
 looked as if a prehistoric Maypole had collapsed upon the floor in all 
 its glory of fantastic ribbons; while plumes, buckles, velvets, laces, 
 many of them antedating the war, were strewn about in a marvel of 
 color and uselessness. Among them all stood Aunt Mari', like a 
 bronze statue afflicted with asthma, advising, commenting, admiring. 
 For an hour the two boys reveled in antique head-gear, and even 
 Miss Sue condescended to be interested and reminiscent, as certain 
 long-forgotten or unknown specimens of the milliner's art came to 
 view. Uncle Peter consented to become a self-adjustable hat-tree when 
 the boys discovered that his thin old shoulders, elbows, hands, and 
 head were convenient pegs upon which to display an assortment of 
 "poke-bonnets," "flats," and "sailors." 
 
 Then Mr. Dick, laden with books, passing clumsily through the 
 luminous tangle of "all sorts and conditions" of bonnets, facetiously 
 begged to release "the poor lady of Shalott" from her embarrassing 
 web. His pleadings were heartily echoed by Aunt Mari', who, about to 
 receive the completed bonnet, remarked: 
 
 "Run 'long, honey, an' I'll pick up all dese 'n. Yo' certney 'serves 
 tuh oleandah en de gyarden an' pursue dat hyah Shakespeah wid 
 Marse Dick." 
 
 A half hour later the young people met her walking cabinward, 
 bareheaded and radiant. 
 
 "Why, Auntie, aren't you going to wear your new bonnet?" 
 
 "Bless yo' soul, chile, not en dis hyah brilin' sun. Mebby dis hyah 
 ole haid b'longs tuh all-yo', but I 'clar' de bonnit's mine." — Helen 
 Clark Balmer. 
 
 A MISPLACED BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Little Tawm sat up in bed with a start, his eyelids all a-tremble, 
 because a teasing sunbeam had just pricked them sharply, and he 
 had never known such a thing to happen before. Here it was sun-up, 
 and "Mammy" had not called him! Then the tiny black fingers began 
 to fumble with a buttonless gingham shirt and a pair of diminutive 
 
homespun trousers, both of which were things of unsightly "shreds 
 and patches. " As nature had supplied him with a sufficiently dark 
 covering for legs and feet to make stockings and shoes somewhat 
 superfluous. Tawm's toilet was completed so soon as he could make 
 both garments meet with the aid of twine. Afterward he slunk down 
 the ladder and obtruded his shrinking little figure into the fear-inspir- 
 ing presence of his mother. Aunt Mart', who stood by the lidless stove 
 in the act of turning a huge batter cake upon the griddle. To his 
 amazement an oily tongue spoke these smooth words: 
 
 "Hi, yo' done cotch yo' mammy, 'fo' she's ready fo' yo'. Run 'long 
 an' wash yo alls face twell I done bake dis hyah brekfus fo' yo', meh 
 honey-chile." 
 
 With an indescribable caper of joy Tawm's bare legs and feet were 
 dail ress visibly active as they twinkled through the open door to 
 kick ecstatically at the morning skies while his body plunged deep 
 in the dew leaded grass. This was his usual mode of ablution, and 
 he presently returned with moist, shining face and feet, which left 
 an exact imprint of their flatness upon the clean cabin floor. Aunt 
 Mari' blandly motioned him to the table, where she had spread a news- 
 paper, in lieu of a cloth, and placed upon it a cracked plate heaped 
 with slices of fried bacon and smoking batter-cakes. Tawm needed no 
 urging to draw up a chair and begin his breakfast. 
 
 "Hyah, now, honey, Mammy's done cooked yose buffday brekfus; 
 an' yo' doan hab no wuk tuh do dis hyah blessed day, caze hits yo' 
 buffday." 
 
 The child looked up with puzzled, questioning eyes. <! Meh buffday? 
 Ain' I never done hab no buffday befo', Mammy?" 
 
 "Urn — yas — cou'se yo' hab; but I done been busy mos' times, an' 
 I done fo'git 'bout hit." 
 
 "Buffdays's mighty good t'ings, yo' bet!" was the muffled response 
 to this maternal evasiveness. At last a long sigh and a slow move- 
 ment of the chair signified that the repast was finished; and Tawm, 
 from long habit, gathered up the few crumbs and carried his plate to 
 the dishpan. But his mother, swooping upon him with gigantic ten- 
 derness, seized the plate and shoved him out-of-doors. 
 
 "Dyah, now, mine yo' maw w'en she tell yo' 'bout habin' no wuk 
 tuh do. G long an' play lak er w'ite chile." And Tawm, nothing loth, 
 
 pr eared down the path towards the little creek, where thick bushes 
 soon hid him from the most prying eyes of mortals. There, seated upon 
 a sagging foot-bridge, he dabbled in the clear water, and chewed the 
 cud of idleness, while the sun poured down its molten fire making the 
 cabin, for once, the most intolerable spot on the plantation of Belle- 
 vue. 
 
 Aunt Mari' began to fidget over her ironing-board, fanning her 
 perspiring face with a voluminous checked apron, and gasping for 
 breath whenever the torturing breeze blew from the burning fields. 
 
 71) 
 
The pail and the kettle were as dry as if they had never known the 
 luxurious touch of water. Aunt Mari' went to the open door, but no 
 one was in sight and the blinds of the great house were drawn, for the 
 family were spending a week in Richmond. She could see the banks 
 of the meandering little stream below, but to go through that blister- 
 ing heat was more than human fleshiness could endure. Thinking 
 desperately for a moment, she made a trumpet of her fat hands and 
 bawled in mighty, far-reaching tones, "Tawm, Tawmas Jeff'son, James 
 Madison Pitt!" Again those illustrious names rolled and echoed 
 through the hot, still atmosphere; and suddenly a* terrified, shaking 
 little form came at a breakneck speed up the slope towards home. 
 
 "Hyah! yo' Tawmas Jeff'son, tote dis hyah bucket tub de branch fo' 
 watah, an' doan yo' dyah tuh spill er drop." 
 
 "W'y, Mammy," whimpered the exhausted child, "I ain' workin' 
 w'en hits meh buffday!" 
 
 "Law, g'long, boy; I done mek some mistook. Yo' .buffday was las' 
 momf." — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 A RIVER SCENE. 
 
 Come erlong, yo' Bellevue darkies, 
 Ef yo' gwine pile on tuh dis raf, 
 
 Wha's hyah by de ole stone landin' 
 Wid sich er load'd mek yo' laf. 
 
 Dyah's Hannah wid huh pick'ninny 
 He woolly haid scrooched by huh knee, 
 
 Aunt Mari' nex' Uncle Petah; 
 Fan an' Lize 'long side ob me. 
 
 Wha's Aunt Tempe wid dem baskits? 
 
 Ain' gwine leab dem nohow, no! 
 Set up straight an' mine yo' mannahs, 
 
 W'ite folks am watchin' f'om de sho'. 
 
 Git dem poles up quick, yo' Rastus! 
 
 01 rivah runnin' swif jes now; 
 Silvah watah cahn't he'p singin' 
 
 Dat laffln' chune eroun' de prow. 
 
 "Lil' Tawm," jes drap dat fiddle! 
 
 'F I catch yo' foolin' wid dat bow 
 Dyah'll be 'bout one small niggah, 
 
 Mo'orless, on some-othuh sho'! 
 
 Heabe on boa'd dose watahmillions. 
 
 Mek room for shoat an' roastin'-cohn, 
 Seems lak I smells "ole barbecue," 
 
 Or somep'n good, suh, sho's yo' bohn. 
 
Now we'alls off, w'ite folks smilin', 
 
 Reckon dey wisht dis raf uz deirs. 
 Lil' Tawra yells back tub. Marse Geo'gie 
 
 Tuh run home quick an' say he prahs. 
 
 Talk erbout yo' "ole times," darkies, 
 
 Suramah nights wahn't haf so fine! 
 'Clar', dat moon am biggern evah! 
 
 Teks him tuh know jes' w'en tuh shine. 
 
 Heah de ripple ob de rivah 
 
 Es we poles erlong right slow, 
 Bre'kin' up de moony pictures 
 
 An' dem lil' stars dats drapped below. 
 
 Han' me, now, meh deah ole fiddle 
 
 Twell hit chimes up cl'ar an' low 
 Fit for' sweetheahts an' de angels 
 
 Es I 'gin draw hits singin' bow. 
 
 List'n tuh dat blackbird's whistle, 
 
 Den heah de ahnswer of dis bow. 
 T'ink he gits er sweetah trimble 
 
 Dan meh ole wahbblahs lak tuh show? 
 
 Dat ain' me yo' heahs erplayin', 
 
 I cahn't mek music — wish't I cud — 
 Hits dem kisses of de catgut 
 
 W'en hit touch de magic wood. 
 
 Lan' o' Goshen, dyah's meh honey 
 
 Trimblin' lak er leaf ob fern! 
 (Cou'se I has tuh squeeze huh fingahs, 
 But twix' two gals, w'ich am huhn?) 
 
 Am dose teahs I sees a-hangin' 
 
 On yo' lashes t'ick an' long? 
 Sho, sweetheaht, Ise jes' er-foolin'; 
 
 Yo' ain' jealous ob a song! 
 
 Lif yo' haid up lak meh Liza, 
 
 I flings dis fiddle en de Jeemes, 
 Wha hits moanin', lovin' croonin' 
 
 On'y mek music en meh dreams. 
 
 Yo' likes hit? Yo' sho' is jokin'? 
 
 Am jes waitin' tuh heah me play? 
 Golly, Lize, I bleeves yo'se smilin'; 
 An' Ise been fooled de ole, ole way. 
 
 — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 81 
 
THE DISCONTENTED FAY. 
 
 The moon one night, 
 
 A shallop slight, 
 Loosed her moorings in the west. 
 
 A winsome wight, 
 
 In sad despite, 
 Within would be at rest. 
 
 "Take me," he cried, 
 
 "Where spirits hide 
 Their pain from mortal eyes, 
 
 In waves of light 
 
 To lose this blight 
 And drown my weary sighs." 
 
 The horned prow 
 
 Is drifting now 
 On the sea of azure air. 
 
 No cloud afloat, 
 
 Beside the boat, 
 Above the world so fair. 
 
 On that blue tide 
 
 With pennons wide 
 She went her trackless way 
 
 Without a care, 
 
 Safe, sheltered there, 
 The elf in rapture lay. 
 
 By light afar 
 
 From falling star 
 She sighted a wondrous lea, 
 
 Where timeless lands 
 
 Had silent sands 
 That rimmed a tideless sea. 
 
 A filmy strand 
 
 Dropped on the sand, 
 Held down the keel at last. 
 
 The fay slept on; — 
 
 There was no sun 
 O'er that island of the Past. 
 
 A sound remote, 
 
 A pleading note, 
 Now filled the night with song. 
 
 "Oh, moon," he cried, 
 
 "Swift, onward glide; 
 I've lingered here too long." 
 82 
 
His grief grew mute. 
 
 That heavenly lute 
 Had stilled it in its birth. 
 
 From out the boat, 
 
 A starry mote, 
 The fay flew down to earth. 
 
 — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 QUESTIONS. 
 (As written for a very little boy.) 
 
 You funny old Man in the Moon, 
 
 What do you do all night, 
 As you sail and float in your golden boat 
 
 Down the misty streams of light? 
 
 You jolly old Man in the Moon, 
 
 What do you find to see, 
 As you rock and roll in that golden bowl, 
 
 And the winds sing a melody? 
 
 You cheery old Man in the Moon, 
 
 What do you have for a sail, 
 As you skim and glide on the glittering tide, 
 
 Where the stars shine dim and pale? 
 
 You lazy old Man in the Moon, 
 
 Do you know how to row a boat? 
 Do you sit and dream on that quiet stream, 
 
 And just let your vessel float? 
 
 You lonely old Man in the Moon, 
 Do you have any friends up there? 
 
 Are you all alone? Have you homesick grown, 
 As you sail on that sea so fair? 
 
 You friendly old Man in the Moon, 
 Do you signal the stars you meet, 
 
 As you glide on through in that sea so blue, 
 And the ripples dance at your feet? 
 
 You strange old Man in the Moon, 
 
 Do the storms ever trouble you? 
 Do the waves dash high in that stormy sky, 
 
 And splash your boat with the blue? 
 
 You wonderful Man in the Moon, 
 With your merry, laughing eyes, 
 
 83 
 
Do you sometimes stop, and your anchor drop 
 In a harbor up in the skies? 
 
 You funny old Man in the Moon, 
 
 Do you laugh at the things you see? 
 
 As you slyly wink, and the pale stars blink, 
 
 Could it be you're laughing at me? 
 
 — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 MISS SEPTEMBER. 
 
 Of all months most capricious and wayward, Miss September is 
 surely enough to try the patience of any methodical person. Some 
 morning, perhaps, she greets us with coquettish smiles, only to frown 
 in apparent anger a moment later. She is now warm and cordial, now 
 cold and repulsive. One instant she approaches us with an appear- 
 ance of love, and the next she strikes us roughly on one side and 
 another, like a spoiled child. Though she has passed the age when 
 foolish behavior is to be expected from her, she still clings to her 
 childish moods. She is always bursting into tears when we can see 
 no possible occasion for such an outbreak. Coax her as we may, bear 
 with her as we will, it is all to no purpose, until her old uncle, Sol 
 himself, puts her into a more cheerful frame of mind in his bright 
 way. Then, seemingly ashamed of her petulance, she comes out some 
 morning all in glistening gray, lifting her veil now and then to give 
 us a peep at the coy, blushing maiden behind. So she spends her 
 days; and when she leaves us, we hardly know whether to be glad or 
 sorry, but we must at least agree that, of all impulsive, winning, 
 changeable creatures, Miss September is the most entertaining. — Helen 
 M. Jewell. 
 
 AN OLD MAN. 
 
 Having once known him, it is impossible to forget him, and ever 
 afterwards he has a distinct place in the thought. Short, straight, 
 and thin, his scattered gray locks falling around his wrinkled face, his 
 appearance is not so unusual as to attract more than a passing glance; 
 yet acquaintance with him reveals the fact that in his eyes the Are 
 of youth still burns, and that in his heart it is summer all the year 
 round. His is a sympathetic nature, for no one in trouble ever appeals 
 to him in vain. He knows each one of his many workmen, and between 
 him and them a genuine fellow-feeling exists. The servants in his 
 home watch for his cheery "good morning" and his friendly smile, 
 sure that with such a fair beginning all the rest of the day will be 
 bright. The newsboys look for him night and morning, for his sincere 
 greeting is to them more precious than money. He is an active old 
 man, too. "Haven't missed a day at my business on account of sick- 
 
 84 
 
;.< s since 1 came west," is his Frequent boast. indeed, his alert, easy 
 
 end h?s erect bearing testify to his strength and vigor. He is 
 
 no!: especially modest, and yet his little vanities are so innocent that 
 
 they are not disagreeable. "The g eatest compliment that 1 ever have 
 
 paid to me," he sometimes says, "is in a crowde 1 car. Why! people 
 term to like to sit by me instead of sitting by some one else. They can 
 
 at I rm kind and gentle, and that I won't bite; and, I tell you, I 
 enjoy it." A cheery old man as you may have guessed, for he often 
 en1 rains a company of young people with his merry jokes; and 
 
 • a large circle of nieces and nephews he is the favorite uncle. 
 He has a very sociable disposition. At a large reception with its usual 
 r »f strangers, the old man was heard to remark, "I've spoken 
 to every soul in this house to-night, and I enjoy it, enjoy it. It's the 
 privilege of a man, and an old one, too. No one resents it, and I count 
 it one of my greatest blessings to be able to talk to any one." He is 
 tender-hearted, never ashamed of the tears that come to his eyes at a 
 sad story. His voice often breaks, as he tells of some needy home 
 that he has visited, in his efforts to relieve the poor. He is a cour- 
 ageous old man, withal. He is never ashamed at any place to speak 
 for the Captain under whose banner he has marched all his life 
 through. No one scoffs when he spe?ks of his spiritual life, for he is 
 so humble, so sweet, and yet so earnest, that none dare to scorn him. 
 This deep, rich side of his nature is his best. Kind and tender, active 
 and cheerful, sympathetic and courageous, surely this is the old man of 
 whom it was said, "The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found 
 in the way of righteousness." — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 THE EDITOR'S PREDICAMENT. 
 
 The editor of the Hobbes City Record was in trouble. Any one 
 might have known that he was worried by the nervous way in which 
 he chewed his stubby pencil. And the matter was serious, for as yet 
 he had no poetry for the "Contributors' Column," and it was an estab- 
 lished rule that some kind of verses should stand at the top of that part 
 of the paper. He had all winter long written sonnets about impossible 
 eyes and hair, until every marriageable woman in Hobbes City blushed 
 if she met him on the street. And as a safe subject he had turned 
 to snow, "the clear, pure snow." Rainy days had received due atten- 
 tion, and in last week's paper his "bruised heart" had been flaunted 
 with touches of ghastly realism. And now his weary mind failed to 
 suggest any other possibilities. All at once his eyes brightened, and 
 he exclaimed, "Spring is here." Why had he not thought of it sooner, 
 for it had surely come? Were not the streets of beautiful Hobbes City 
 full of mud, and had not a few blades of muddy grass appeared under 
 his window? And there was old Abe Green's chair sitting in front of 
 the postoffice, where it remained all summer to be transferred in winter 
 
 85 
 
to a position near the stove in the center of the store. And old Abe 
 himself had just appeared, his thin shoulders straightened a little as 
 if he had a feeling of the importance of his position as king of loafers. 
 The editor, turning from all these signs of spring, began to scribble 
 rapidly. After working hard for ten minutes, he smiled, counted his 
 lines, and smiled again. Just as he had thought, there were fourteen. 
 Then he tipped back his chair and read in a satisfied tone, 
 
 "Spring, spring, beautiful spring!" 
 
 Very good, although he remembered that he had heard some such senti- 
 ments expressed before. 
 
 \ 
 "Oh! what a thrill to the heart you bring!" 
 
 i 
 Had Tennyson ever written anything better than that? 
 
 "The sky is clear, the sky is blue. 
 Beautiful sky to me and you!" 
 
 Was there anything at all personal in the "you"? He decided that 
 there was not. 
 
 "The birds sing sweet from the mantling trees, 
 And rock and dance in the gentle breeze." 
 
 Two or three nice uses of words in that couplet. 
 
 "The aged and young who've imprisoned been 
 Creep out to the grateful warmth again." 
 
 All right to that point. 
 
 "The ice-bound streamlets now are free, 
 And rush away to the deep blue sea." 
 
 Exquisite! 
 
 "Old Winter lies in a prison dark, 
 And will never dare from it to start. 
 So hail, hail to beautiful spring! 
 Oh! what bliss to my heart you bring!" 
 
 And, as the editor realized that at last he was on safe ground with 
 such an impersonal subject before him, a smile of real bliss came into 
 his face. — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 IN THE BARN-YARD. 
 
 On this bright, cold morning the barn-yard is full of stir and 
 bustle. The calves, busily munching their breakfast of crackling corn- 
 stalks, push each other roughly aside in their efforts to share alike. 
 
 86 
 
Their moist, pink r.oses are thrust out inquiringly at every unusual 
 sound, but their feast soon calls them hack. The pigs in their sties 
 grunt over their corn, or huddle close together in the heaps of straw. 
 their fat si-les steaming with warmth. A flock of ducks, disturbed by 
 a sudden noise, waddle clumsily over the frozen ground. One plump 
 duckling can scarcely lift his cold feet, so he hops for a little distance, 
 and then tucks one leg up among his warm feathers. The leader struts 
 on with his important "quack, quack," unconscious of everything but 
 his- prominent position. In a sunny corner a number of turkeys, their 
 red rattles almost blue with cold, are trying to find a warm spot for 
 their feet. The chickens alone, headed by two fatherly roosters, walk 
 about in their dainty way, and look for food, without a thought of cold. 
 As they gather at the call of the senior rooster to inspect a choice 
 tidbit, a "cotton-tail," on his way home from a foraging expedition, 
 dashes through the group, causing a great uproar. In the distance 
 the guineas are repeating their sharp "pot rack, pot rack." A cloud 
 of sparrows settle around a pail of meal, and fight and chatter inces- 
 santly. The windmill gives a chserful squeak, as a mischievous Decem- 
 ber breeze rattles it. Even the snow sparkles; and in the barn-yard 
 the winter morning is a time of good cheer. — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 THE OLD ROAD. 
 
 The old road from our town to the village of Geneva has a char- 
 acter so entirely its own that those who travel it often have come to 
 regard it as almost human. As it leaves the town, it starts bravely 
 enough on its nine-mile journey, but it cannot resist the temptation to 
 loiter along Sweet-water Creek to enjoy the beauty and freshness by 
 its tinkling waters. And no wonder that it idles here, for, leaving the 
 wood, it slips out over glistening sands, where the fierce sun beats 
 upon it all day long. At this point there are no bends, for the old 
 road seems to dislike this part of its course. Then it enters a forest of 
 lofty pines, which sing and murmur above it. It lingers in this quiet 
 spot, wandering about aimlessly in its efforts to make its stay long. 
 Suddenly the country changes, and the road creeps into a broad savan- 
 nah. When the wind blows, it is almost impossible to see the track, 
 for the grass bends so low as almost to conceal it. Here it seems to 
 slink along like some huge serpent winding its way through the green 
 expanse. Then it plunges into a deep hollow, where the roadway is 
 lined with sedges and modest flowers. Another sandy strip follows, 
 and here the road struggles up a long hill to a settlement. Tiny coi 
 tages line the way, and a comfortable little tavern stands at the turn. 
 Here the road shows its social tendencies, for it makes a wide circuit 
 to take in two little houses standing far from the rest. Beyond this 
 point the way is rocky, and the road does not tarry here, but climbs an 
 abrupt slope to a thick wood. At last it nears the village of Geneva. 
 
It comes down the little hill by jerks, as if afraid of losing its footing 
 and tumbling headlong. Finally it reaches the bottom, and turns at 
 once to the store. There it widens as if it had stopped to plan its 
 future route. Then it starts briskly through the village. Past rose- 
 covered cottages, past the quiet meeting-house, by the lonely graveyard, 
 through a grove of beeches, to the schoolhouse, on it goes. Finally it 
 stops short before the only painted house in the village, evidently too 
 astonished to go further. This big, white mansion is planted squarely 
 in its path, and it meekly divides, and starts off in two directions. 
 As we cannot follow both branches at once, we lose interest in the old 
 road, and leave it to wander where it will. — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 March, that boisterous fellow, has come again. Like most young- 
 sters of his age he is always troublesome to those upon whom he inflicts 
 himself. He comes in at an open door with a bang; and, if any protest 
 is made, he whirls around petulantly, and ends by flying outdoors 
 again, carrying with him any number of papers. He delights to hide 
 in dark corners and then to spring out with a scream upon the 
 passers. He whistles and howls around buildings and up chimneys 
 with a doleful moan. When you meet him on the street, he at once 
 engages in a friendly tussle; but, like most children, he does not know 
 when you have had enough, and completely exhausts you with his 
 rough play. There is nothing that his busy fingers cannot use in 
 making noises, — in fact, his strongest characteristic is noisiness. Even 
 in the dead of night he contrives to rattle shutters, squeak hinges, and 
 shake windows in a persistent fashion. He appears some morning, 
 perhaps, wearing the saintly air of the habitually mischievous Sunday 
 school boy. His rough manners are all subdued and his face is lighted 
 with a seraphic smile. Do not be deceived; this pleasing outward 
 appearance is only a veil for dark purposes. Not many hours will 
 pass before his old nature, all the more vigorous for this short time 
 of relaxation, will begin to show itself, and March will be at his old 
 tricks. No discipline, no complaint, has any effect; and we must con- 
 tent ourselves by remembering, while he is our visitor, that he is 
 only a boy, and so excuse his folly. — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 THE PICTURE OF A FAMILY. 
 
 They were opposite us in the crowded car, evidently the whole 
 family together, and we instinctively found ourselves studying their 
 faces. The father sat at one end of the group, and his dress showed 
 him to be a working man. The sleeves of his faded coat were worn 
 around his hands into a fringe of dirty threads, and his soiled collar 
 was turned up to hide the ragged velvet and his bare neck. His head 
 
was bent, yet we could see his mouth fixed in a stolid expression. 
 Beside him was his older son, a perfect likeness of his father. His 
 shoulders were drawn forward seemingly to allow his tightly-fitting 
 coat to button across his well-developed chest. Although he was evi- 
 dently uncomfortable, he did not unfasten the buttons, a fact sugges- 
 tive of the condition of his wardrobe. Next to him sat his mother, 
 a nervous, careworn woman, on whose young face there w r ere far too 
 many wrinkles. Her eyes were heavy and sad, and below them were 
 dark circles. Her plush wrap was made in a style worn years ago, 
 and might have been among her wedding gifts. Her hat was trimmed 
 with a confusion of plumes, chicken feathers, and scraps of velvet 
 and silk, and was stamped as the work of an amateur. Her arm was 
 around a wriggling, twisting youngster about three years old. He 
 wore clothes which were apparently his inheritance from former gener- 
 ations, but his face was rosy, and his eyes were bright. His little 
 sister was trying to hold him on the slippery seat, but her efforts were 
 useless, for he took delight in sliding off and in making her help him 
 back again. Her skill in caring for him showed that she had been 
 well trained, young though she was, in the art of baby-tending. Com- 
 pleting the group was a queer little old woman. If she had not w r orn 
 a short dress and braided her hair down her back, she might have 
 been mistaken for the grandmother. But no, she was the oldest child, 
 who had been compelled, with her father and mother, to feel the cares 
 and disappointments of life to a marked degree. There was no cheery 
 smile on her face, no happy expression in her eyes. She carried a 
 heavy bundle, but the burden on her heart weighed her down far more. 
 There they sat, and not one spoke a word. What had they to say? 
 Only the baby saw something entertaining in this weary world, and 
 we could not help wondering how soon his sweet little face would 
 become hard and sullen. Finally they left the car, walking like old, 
 old people, whose lives had been dull and dismal. A sad picture? Yes, 
 and yet how often it is reproduced! — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 THAT FISH. 
 
 To a casual observer he might have seemed innocent enough, as he 
 lay quietly on the smooth pine board at the beginning of the laboratory 
 period, but from the first he seemed to me peculiar. To begin with, 
 he had a wicked eye and a hard mouth. Say what you will about that 
 fish's being dead, I knew that his lifeless form was possessed by some 
 demon, or that his own spirit was hovering near. In the first place, 
 his nose had an ugly curve, a scornful ripple, if you will. Some one 
 might say that it had been jammed into that shape, but no mere 
 crowding could have produced the effect due to those supercilious 
 wrinkles. They seemed to say, "Pin me down, if you will; torture me, 
 if you must; I shall never, never yield to your control." On further 
 
 89 
 
investigation, his mouth was found to be not only hard but cold. It 
 was firmly shut, and he could not be induced to open it. His eyes 
 had a fixed stare, but no one could catch a glance from them. They 
 must have seen everything, however, for, when he was moved, he knew 
 at what moment he would cause the most trouble by slipping. There 
 was no part of his body that did not indicate an obstinate and unyield- 
 ing disposition. His fins stuck out at an obstinate angle, each at cross- 
 purpones with its neighbor. His tail was stiffened into an awkward 
 position, showing that he had died fighting. 
 
 It would be supposed that, after the difficulties of stubborn fins, 
 twisted tail, and set mouth had been overcome, all else would be easy. 
 But, no, when his internal anatomy was exposed, every part was out of 
 proportion. As might be expected, he had very little heart. His 
 stomach was so large that it left little room for any other organ. He 
 had a great deal of spleen, however, and his nerve and backbone were 
 well developed. As I made these interesting but disappo'nting dis- 
 coveries one after another, that wicked fish smiled maliciously, and 
 seemed to wink one eye, as if to say, "I told you that I would win in 
 the end." Every time that he came before my mind, I felt as one 
 worsted by an inferior. When one morning I sought him and found 
 him not, I had a sense of freedom, and I hoped that my eyes might 
 never see his l!ke again.- — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 THE SHEEP OP THE SKY. 
 
 Did you ever, my lass with the sweet brown eyes, 
 Look away, 'way up in the deep blue skies, 
 Where the clouds were all floating, pure, downy, white, 
 Those tiny, soft clouds in the sky so bright? 
 
 Did you see them come sailing along all day, 
 Each pushing and crowding the rest on their way, 
 Till the sun couldn't find any place to see 
 Through those white, little clouds, as soft as could be? 
 
 Then listen, I'll tell you a story true 
 Of those white, little clouds in the sky so blue; 
 For the clouds that we see come a-sailing by 
 Are only the sheep and the lambs of the sky. 
 
 They are hurrying home to the sheepfold warm, 
 Away from the wrath of the coming storm, 
 For, whenever the sheep and the lambs go past, 
 A storm cloud will follow them sure and fast. 
 
 And their shepherd, the wind, is tending them well, 
 As, if you listen, you'll hear me tell. 
 
Driving them home from the fields of blue, 
 Home from the meadows of daisies, too. 
 
 Home to the sheepfold he brings them back. 
 From the reach of the storm-clouds fierce and black. 
 And so you may see them pass all day; 
 Now quickly, now fast they go on their way. 
 
 Now. listen, my lass with the eyes of brown. 
 When the fleecy white clouds come a-floating down. 
 Come a-drifting down the lanes of blue, 
 They give a warning to me and you. 
 
 For whenever the tiny, soft clouds so white 
 Go scurrying out of the sky so bright, 
 Then a storm-cloud is coming, as you may know. 
 Coming at length whether fast or slow. 
 
 And the place for the lambs and the children, too, 
 
 Whether here on the earth, or in heaven so blue, 
 
 Is at home under shelter strong and warm, 
 
 Protected safe from the coming storm.— Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 A SECRET. 
 
 Robin Red Breast found it out first, and told it in confidence, for 
 he couldn't keep it all to himself, to his gossiping neighbor, the crow. 
 Of course, that really settled the matter, as far as keeping it a secret 
 was concerned. All the world might as well know it now as at any 
 other time. For the Crow just dropped a hint to a Sparrow, such a 
 modest little creature that it would never tell a soul. But he forgot 
 that "a friend's friend hath a friend," or even more, and so in a very 
 few minutes all the Sparrow family knew Robin's secret. One of them 
 even dared to tell him, the saucy thing, as though he hadn't found it 
 out first. Then all the birds came flocking to see, and, after chatter- 
 ing for a few minutes, flew away, and burst out singing. The South 
 Wind, mischievous fellow, heard it next, and then it went flying every- 
 where, for he whispered it to every living thing. But Robin, no longer 
 proud possessor of a secret, nevertheless sat on his favorite limb of 
 the old oak tree and almost burst his throat with a rush of song, for 
 wasn't the first crocus up and open to-day? — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 THE TEAKETTLE'S SONG. 
 
 It had been an unpleasant day from beginning to end. Baby was 
 cross, Cook had burned her fingers, Ted and Bess were full of mischief, 
 and Mother was tired. Now it was evening; and. when Father came 
 
 91 
 
home, he would miss his usual pleasant greeting from four happy faces. 
 The family were, with the exception of Father, in the kitchen, that 
 big, cheery room where they always gathered on stormy nights. Cook 
 filled the teakettle, and sat it on the front part of the stove. Almost 
 at once it began to sing. Ted and Bess, who were teasing the cat, came 
 up close to hear the sound, and Baby forgot to fret. The Kettle began 
 like some old man who is trying to recall a song of his youth. A few 
 fitful sputters from its depths, and it was ready. A high note first to 
 test its vocal powers, then it was fairly started. The lid vainly tried to 
 keep time by bouncing wildly up and down. Now on one side, now 
 on the other it danced, but always hopelessly behind the kettle, for the 
 music went on without a break. What a merry bubbling song it was! 
 First a sound like a murmuring brook, then a whole hive of bees 
 droned lazily, then the wind whispered through the trees, and finally 
 it became a contented purr. The cheerfulness was infectious. Ted 
 and Bess began to dance in time with the jolly lid. Baby sang a song 
 as sweet as that of the kettle. Cook forgot her burned fingers, and, 
 as she prepared supper, hummed "Rest for the weary." Mother's face 
 lost its troubled look; and a happier picture than was to be seen in 
 that kitchen would have been hard to find. At least, Father thought so, 
 as he stood by the stove warming his hands in the steam from the 
 kettle, and laughed to see the clumsy antics of the lid. But no one 
 ever gave the kettle credit for working the transformation. — Helen M. 
 Jewell. 
 
 THE TREE'S CHILDREN. 
 
 As long as they were young, the leaves were content to stay at 
 home with their mother; but, when they grew old enough to laugh 
 familiarly with the sunbeams, their desire to be independent waxed 
 strong. Poor, deluded leaves, they little realized what a cold, bare 
 place the world would be without their mother's arms around them. 
 At last nearly all their neighbors left them, and they became impatient 
 to follow. So every morning a clamor arose over the question of going 
 away from home, but the old tree's only answer was, "Not now. Wait 
 ? t ]'•>'." In the night they heard their mother tossing her arms and 
 moaniEg, as she thought of the time when she would be alone. The 
 leaves, however, thought such behavior foolish, and, green little crea- 
 tures as they were, felt sure that they knew best. Finally a day came 
 when their mother told them that, as soon as their new dresses were 
 ready, they might go. How they all danced with glee when Mr. Frost 
 at length brought them their beautiful clothes! Each vain little leaf 
 tossed its saucy head, and dreamed of freedom. Soon their mother 
 sent them away, and off they flew. The old home looked desolate, but 
 none of the leaves turned back to see. The mother watched until the 
 last had disappeared over a neighboring hill. They had a merry race 
 down, and, when they reached the bottom, stopped to talk over their 
 
 92 
 
plans. Just then the autumn wind played a lively march, and they all 
 ran nimhly after. Whether he led them into a hillside, a second Pied 
 Piper, no one ever knew, for not a leaf came back. Poor, foolish little 
 leaves! — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 It was one of those sultry July evenings when in the coolest spot 
 no relief can be found, when the air throbs with heat, when the wind 
 is hot and stifling. On such an evening before a saloon on North Hai- 
 sted Street a crowd of weary people vainly sought relief from the 
 oppressiveness of the day. Whether the fact that a stunted oak tree, 
 struggling for a bare existence in that unfavorable place, cast its light 
 shade there, whether the thought that they might refresh themsei 
 with cooling draughts from the saloon, or whether the delusion that 
 the hot wind sweeping down the street might relieve their discomfort, 
 influenced them in their choice of a situation, it would be hard to say. 
 At all events, there they were in the most pleasant spot in the neigh- 
 borhood. The street was muddy with water from a passing sprinkler, 
 and a number of dirty, ragged children were splashing after it in the 
 gutter, trying to cool their blistered feet. From the rickety walk in 
 front of the saloon rose a cloud of oppressive steam, for the bartender 
 was dashing water over the rotten boards. Near the open door beside 
 a sickly oleander in a green tub sat half a dozen men, endeavoring 
 to forget the heat in their enjoyment of mugs of foaming beer. Their 
 chairs were tilted back, and their arms and chests were bare, as they 
 fanned themselves with their broad-brimmed hats. A crowd of young 
 fellows sat along the edge of the sidew r alk, laughing loudly at the 
 efforts of a little boy to take a swallow of whisky without making a 
 wry face. Two women in faded calico wrappers were pushing baby 
 carriages up and down through the crowd. The poor little children 
 cried fretfully, but their mothers were so weary that they scarcely 
 noticed the complaints. A child of ten was carrying a tiny bundle in 
 a faded shawl, and from the pitiful moans within the wrappings it 
 seemed to be a baby. Children of all ages sat among the men, listening 
 to their vulgar conversation and receiving their sole education. No 
 one paid the least attention to a drunken brawl across the street, to 
 the arrival of the patrol, or to the arrest of the participants. It was 
 a daily, hourly, occurrence with them. A family dispute, the sounds 
 of which came from an open window, did not excite more than the 
 passing remark that "Pat and Biddy was at it again." As night settled 
 down with no prospect of rain, the weary, discouraged people went to 
 their wretched homes — to sleep? — to toss and to suffer through another 
 long and dreadful night. — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 93 
 
THE SECRETS OF THE WIND. 
 
 The wind is sighing through the trees; 
 They tell their secrets to the breeze 
 
 In shy, confiding tones. 
 The wind comes murmuring in my ear, 
 And tells the secrets low and clear, 
 
 The secrets of the leaves. 
 
 It blows above the violet, 
 
 And touches soft its petals wet, 
 
 And hears its simple tale. 
 It brings to me in fragrance sweet 
 That message from my very feet, 
 
 For me alone to hear. 
 
 It rocks the ripples into rest, 
 
 It soothes the birdling on its nest, 
 
 And comes to tell me all. 
 It tells each secret natture knows, 
 And then on other errands goes, 
 
 To learn her lessons sweet. 
 
 And as for me, I ponder long 
 On secrets told by nature's song, 
 
 By idle, roving winds. • 
 And who will listen, too, may hear; 
 The wind, — it seeks a willing ear 
 
 To trust its secrets to. — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 WHEN SPRING RETURNS. 
 
 When spring returns, our hearts are glad and gay; 
 Although we find wide puddles in our way, 
 Although the mud is thick and sticks like clay, 
 Still we are glad and gay, when spring returns. 
 
 When spring returns, the robin's note is heard, 
 The air is full of songs of every bird, 
 And gentle maidens' hearts are always stirred — 
 By thoughts of Easter gowns, when spring returns. 
 
 When spring returns, the air is fresh and clear, 
 And sounds of merriment ring far and near, 
 Unless the fog-horn with its message drear 
 Announces gloomy days, when spring returns. 
 
 When spring returns, the poet's heart is glad, 
 And swells with fancies sometimes good — or bad, — 
 94 
 
And many a burdened editor is sad 
 
 To read the verses wild, when spring returns. 
 
 When spring returns, the gentle zephyrs blow 
 And murmur through the trees a message low, 
 Or, bent on errands fierce and furious, go 
 To devastate the land, when spring returns. 
 
 And yet when spring returns our hearts are gay; 
 For o'er the earth the sunshine holds its sway, 
 And into gloomy hearts sends many a ray 
 
 To brighten cheerless lives, when spring returns. 
 
 — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 SPRING'S LULLABY. 
 
 Rock, little buds, in your cradle so neat; 
 
 Rock high and low, rock high and low. 
 Sleep, while the winds croon a lullaby sweet. 
 
 Swing fast and slow, swing fast and slow. 
 "Rock-a-by," soft sings the wind in the tree, 
 "Rock-a-by," twitters the robin to thee. 
 
 Hush, never fear; hush, never fear. 
 
 Soft winds are blowing; springtime is near. 
 
 Sleep, tiny buds, in your snug little nest; 
 
 Sleep while you may, sleep while you may. 
 Wrapped close and warm, never fear, only rest. 
 
 "Sleep," breezes say, "Sleep," breezes say. 
 Lullaby, lullaby, why should you wake? 
 Melodies sweet the south breezes will make. 
 
 Hush, never fear; hush, never fear. 
 
 Springtime is coming, summer is near. 
 
 Wake, little buds, on the appletree high; 
 
 Wake from your sleep, wake from your sleep. 
 Springtime is here, and the summer is nigh. 
 
 Forth shyly peep, forth shyly peep. 
 Wake, for the birds sing a message to you; 
 Wake, for there's plenty of work now to do. 
 
 Wake, never fear; wake, never fear. 
 
 Springtime is passing, summer is here. 
 
 — Helen M. Jewell. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 
 
 He loved her. He had loved her when first he met her in college, 
 and it had grown as their acquaintance ripened. He was a graduate 
 and would enter his chosen profession soon. It was vacation now, and 
 
 9a 
 
he was taking a bicycle trip to visit at her home, which was in another 
 State. As he rode along, he thought of the jolly times gone by. Ah, 
 those were happy days — and evenings. He recalled the many strolls 
 along the lake shore in the bright moonlight. How beautiful and 
 tender she seemed at such times! 
 
 Did she love him? He could not help believing that she did. He 
 had squeezed her hand once, and she had not objected. She had 
 invariably accepted his offers to go walking or to have an ice-cream 
 soda. And now he was on his way to visit her. How surprised and 
 delighted she would be! In a short half-hour he would see her, and 
 once more rejoice at her beauty. Her father was very wealthy, too. 
 Ah well, that was nothing against her. 
 
 In imagination he saw himself folding her in' his manly arms and 
 receiving the parental blessing. Yes, he would settle it all during this 
 visit. Of course she might have to wait a few years before they could 
 marry, for he must work up a practice first, but if she was in a hurry, 
 why, her father had money, and — and, — well, of course, if he offered 
 it, they certainly could not afford to offend him by a refusal. 
 
 His heart beat high as he drew near her home. He chuckled when 
 he thought of her delight. As he rode up the beautiful driveway, he 
 caught a glimpse of a hammock with its occupant, among a grove of 
 trees. One glance was enough. He would recognize her among a 
 thousand. On he rode, his eyes bright with anticipated pleasure. He 
 started with annoyance, however, when he drew nearer, to find that 
 she was not alone. The rubber tires enabled him to approach noise- 
 lessly, and so he was able to obtain a full front-view without being 
 noticed. A man was with her. A sleeve of a red golf-coat was around 
 the waist about which he had so often longed but never dared to 
 put his arm. Her head reclined on his shoulder, while the hand of 
 his free arm was gently patting her cheek. 
 
 A muffled oath, the creaking of a chain at high tension, and the 
 rapid whirr of wheels aroused the pair from their reverie and she 
 asked, "Who is that man who is riding so furiously down the road?" — 
 Alton P. Johnson. 
 
 ANOTHER SCANDAL. 
 
 For the last week students going to and from their, classes by 
 was of University Place, have had their ideals shattered and their 
 blind confidence rudely shaken. Painted prominently on the fence 
 belonging to a man whom all delight to honor were the words, 
 "Schlitz Beer. Family Entrance." Has it come to this? Is there 
 no one we can trust? For years the owner of that fence, who is a 
 man widely known in university circles and who is a member of 
 our own faculty, has held the implicit trust of both students and 
 community. No one ever dreamed of accusing him of that for which 
 he now voluntarily stands. He has always been regarded as a tem- 
 
 96 
 
perate, Law-abiding citizen, but now he openly defies the law, and 
 encourages others to do likewise. 
 
 Think of the grief of the trusting parents who send their boys 
 here, hoping to see them return home, educated and moral men, 
 and who, on reading the newspapers, find that the head of the uni- 
 versity not only sanctions the use of intoxicants, but actually encour- 
 ages it by offering beer for sale, urging the special inducement of a 
 "family entrance"? We can now understand the full significance of 
 that high fence which we assumed was to conceal a vegetable garden. 
 
 But perhaps we are wrong. The doctor may have ideas more 
 advanced than we, with our limited learning, can appreciate. What 
 we, in our ignorance, condemn, he, by reason of his greater knowledge, 
 may know to be a blessing to mankind. 
 
 There are two explanations afloat which promise to solve the 
 problem. One is that all truly great men give evidence of some form of 
 insanity, and that this nervous mental-disorder is shown by peculiar 
 conduct. Now, that the doctor is great, none dare deny, so why 
 should we be surprised at this added proof of his greatness? 
 
 But another and broader excuse for the sign is urged. While the 
 heads of other universities have bought up newspapers, waylaid mil- 
 lionaires, publicly taken interest in Olympian games, interviewed the 
 President, and in many ways sought to direct public attention to their 
 respective institutions, their schemes have been purely experimental, 
 and have not been very successful. Not so with the head of the North- 
 western University. With shrewdness not to be surpassed, he has 
 taken the only tried and reliable method of bringing fame to the 
 institution he represents. "Schlitz Beer" has made Milwaukee famous; 
 it will do as much for us. Hereafter, when the name of Northwestern 
 has become a household word, when our Alma Mater has reached the 
 acme of perfection as an institution of learning, then, high in an 
 honored spot where reverent eyes may read and appreciate, should 
 be hung the motto, "SCHLITZ, THE BEER THAT MADE NORTH- 
 WESTERN FAMOUS."— Alton P. Johnson. 
 
 THAT DOG. 
 
 I met him on a side street, just as I was crossing the alley. He 
 was thin, and he was yellow. You have seen his picture hundreds of 
 times, in the comic papers. With every rib showing prominently, tail 
 despondently curled between his shaking legs, he presented a sorry 
 picture. He huddled close to the fence as if conscious of his utter 
 worthlessness and as if he were trying to become merely a part of 
 the scenery. 
 
 And yet the drooping head betrayed a slight interest in the sur- 
 roundings, for he gazed at me, somewhat doubtfully, to be sure, 
 with his large, mournful eyes, as if to learn my intentions. Then, 
 
 97 
 
as if to show that he still retained a remnant of his youthful trust in 
 mankind, he feebly wagged his slightly truncated tail. He seemed to 
 grin at me so as to open the way for any advances I might wish to 
 make and also to show that, so far as he was concerned, there were 
 no hostile intentions. 
 
 Inspired by pity for the forlorn little fellow, I spoke kind words 
 of encouragement to him, dwelling particularly on his good character 
 as a dog and ascribing to him every mark of virtue. His lonely heart 
 warmed under the praise, and my open admiration of him seemed 
 to strike a responsive chord, for he immediately gave evidence of 
 the warmest regard for me. His eyes seemed actually to laugh with 
 joy as he squirmed and fawned at my feet, while his tail wagged 
 furiously and seemed to shake his entire body. At last he had found 
 his affinity! He knew it! No little bird or whispering breeze told 
 him of it, but deep down in his now wildly agitated heart, he knew it. 
 
 Feeling that I had renewed hope in a despairing mind I started 
 on my way. But no, I was wrong. I should have said, we started on 
 our way, for the dog went with me. What? Did I think that friend- 
 ships could be made and broken thus lightly? If I did, the dog 
 had other and more pronounced views. Hereafter we were to be 
 comrades. I had been formally adopted. I realized my mistake, but 
 knowing the utter hopelessness of any attempt to dissolve the rela- 
 tionship, I sighed as we went on our way, one of us rejoicing and the 
 other, — resigned. — Alton F. Johnson. 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING IN THE CITY, AS SEEN FROM OUR BACK 
 
 PORCH. 
 
 It is an ordinary evening in summer. The heat of the day has 
 passed, making the cooling breeze doubly welcome. The very earth 
 seems to breathe a sigh of relief. The moon rises majestically from 
 behind yonder brewery, and sheds a mellow light over all the back 
 yards and sheds. The tall brick chimney, which seems to rise and 
 stretch heavenward, looms up ghostlike in the night, and adds an 
 air of solemnity to the scene. 
 
 All is still save the low gurgle of water, as it ripples out of 
 the hose into the cement-barrel in the yard below. Soon a cable-car 
 winds its way around a curve, and then goes clattering off into the 
 distance. The rhythmic beating of a horse's hoofs, combined with 
 the muffled bumps of a wagon, comes up from the alley-way. And 
 faint, from farther distance borne, comes the sound of a German band 
 at work before the corner saloon. 
 
 To the right, the Lutheran church is clearly outlined in the 
 moonlight, which now comes in fitful beams through the smoke from 
 a chimney, close at hand. To the left stands the stable which belongs 
 to our neighbor. We are unconsciously drawn closer to nature as we 
 
 <*8 
 
hear the soft stamping of the horses, and have other attending evi- 
 dences of a barn wafted up to ns. 
 
 Nothing disturbs the sense of absolute rest which pervades the 
 scene, save the shrill cry of a crowd of small boys who are playing 
 "Run, sheep, run," near by. The plaintive cry of a cat calling its 
 mate adds a note of sadness to the situation. 
 
 As we lie in the hammock and drink in the comparatively pure 
 air, it would seem as if all the world were at peace, were it not for 
 the number of people who pass in and out of the back door, and who 
 must necessarily bump against the hammock in doing so. 
 
 On such a night, one realizes that life is well worth the living, 
 and a feeling of thankfulness springs up in the heart, that there is 
 no boiler-factory in the neighborhood. — Alton F. Johnson. 
 
 TWO SPEECHES. 
 
 Speech I. 
 
 ! 
 Aguinaldo, the devoted rebel chief, gathered his faithful followers 
 
 about him, and began: "Soldiers, let the good fight go on! Heaven 
 will not always refuse to hear our prayers, but will some day grant 
 us a sign that it is ever on the side of right. As for you, dear 
 friends, you who have forsaken all that your country might live, you 
 who have won so many glorious foot-races from the hosts of the 
 invaders, do not now hesitate nor tire of the fight. The cause of free- 
 dom was ever a triumphant one when properly conducted, so do not 
 despair. As for that traitorous brood who have yielded to the false 
 promises of the foe, regardless of the lamentations of our afflicted 
 people, words cannot describe my loathing. Though others forsake 
 the cause, I will continue the struggle for freedom as long as breath 
 is in my body and as long as my suffering people call me to arm for 
 their defense. My heart swells with hope when I see the daily evidence 
 of the unshaken resolution of my countrymen, for it foretells ultimate 
 victory. In future years, our posterity will rise and call us blessed, 
 and perhaps we in our graves shall hear and appreciate. Will some 
 one kindly hand the Capitol to me, for I hear the enemy approaching, 
 and so must prepare for the sprint?" 
 
 Speech II. Ten days later. 
 
 Aguinaldo, the much-pampered captive of the United States Army. 
 took a sip of the Colonel's wine, removed his feet from the cushions, 
 lighted a fresh cigar, and began: "My dear countrymen! We have 
 fought well, but we could not win and we know that we never expected 
 to be victorious. Let us therefore accept the ennobling and enlighten- 
 ing influences which our kind friends, the Americans, so generously 
 
 99 
 
offer. The majority of my fellow countrymen, in fact all of the really 
 desirable persons, have long ago united about the glorious, sovereign 
 banner of the United States. Ah, my friends, when I look at that 
 starry emblem of freedom which belongs to my now dearly-beloved, 
 adopted country, I cannot repress a thrill of emotion, and my heart 
 swells with gratitude that I am deemed worthy to have its protecting 
 shade forever my own. I cannot too severely condemn the actions of 
 the few remaining robbers and cut-throats who, in the name of patriot- 
 ism, continue to annoy our benefactors. 
 
 "The country has now unmistakably declared for peace. So be it. 
 There has been enough blood, devastation, and rebellion. I can no 
 longer resist the voice of the people calling to me to declare peace 
 and to swear allegiance. Ah, what a glorious future I see before us! 
 At least for some of us. The happiest moment of my life will be 
 when I see the star-spangled banner of freedom waving protectingly 
 over my native land, while the voices of the people of both nations 
 join in proclaiming the Philippine Islands and the United States one 
 and inseparable, now and forever. I thank you! There, Colonel, 
 do I get that check? And, — ah, — before you go, Colonel, has — er, — my 
 commission arrived yet?" — Alton F. Johnson. 
 
 A TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 The farther away an object is, the shorter do intervening distances 
 appear. So it is with cities. Forty miles from New York City 
 seems merely a border to it, when viewed from San Francisco. When 
 one is fifty or a hundred miles distant, a city appears only as a unit, 
 a spot, a point, having neither length, breadth, nor thickness. At 
 least that is the way our country cousin imagines it. 
 
 Last summer I lived in a small town which was four miles from 
 a railroad and fifty miles from Chicago. One day I innocently told the 
 stage-driver that I intended going to the city on the morrow, to make 
 a few purchases and also a few visits. Ten minutes later Ben Bailey, 
 a prosperous farmer, drove up and after inquiring after my family, 
 wondered if it would be too much trouble for me to take a plow-point 
 to the city with me. It seems that the plow-point was defective, and 
 so must be returned to the makers. I could not refuse the request, 
 although the factory was out of my way, it being on the West Side 
 while I was going to the North. 
 
 Soon after, the smiling face of the stage-driver's wife came toward 
 the house. I rose to meet her. After advising me concerning the 
 planting and care of the small flower-gardens which deck our front 
 yard, she admitted that she hated to ask me "to do it," but would I, 
 while in the city, buy for her ten yards of muslin like sample, and 
 bring it back in the evening? With a sigh I answered that I would. 
 
 The young man who frequently did odd jobs about the house for 
 
 100 
 
us slouched up, and after wishing me a very good day, wondered it' 
 1 was going near "Barne's Livery." I confessed perfect Ignorance 
 of the situation of said "livery," hut, noticing his surprise, I said 1 
 would he glad to know. He took that as a promise evidently, for 
 after explaining the exact situation he told me that his uncle worked 
 as driver for that livery-Stable, and had promised his nephew a similar 
 position. 
 
 Before noon I had promised enough to furnish work for six men, 
 to say nothing of what I had intended to do for myself. To save my 
 reputation for friendliness, I hastened through my dinner, and hurried 
 away to the lake, to fish. The hoatman in charge was an ideal one. 
 His extreme quiet, combined with the fine fishing, soon allowed me to 
 forget my troubles. As we started for home in the evening and while 
 I was rejoicing over a good "catch," the rower, who had not broken 
 the silence for over the hour, drawled, "Say, being as you're going to 
 the city to-morrow, maybe you'll bring me out a dozen plugs of 'Jolly 
 Tar' and I'll pay you for them." My troubles had returned. 
 
 When I reached home, I was told that four men had called to 
 see me and, after expressing themselves as sorry that I was not at 
 home, said they would return in the evening. Two women had also 
 been there to see me, and had left messages saying that if I met 
 certain of their relatives while in town, to deliver best regards and 
 well-wishes. 
 
 I felt ill almost immediately. This suggested a solution of the 
 difficulty, and in an hour the report was circulated that I was taken 
 suddenly sick and could not go to the city on the morrow. I was 
 saved. — Alton F. Johnson. 
 
 BABY'S DREAM. 
 
 Did you ever watch the baby, 
 When his eyes are closed in sleep, 
 
 When the little hands lie idle, 
 And in quiet rest his feet? 
 
 Have you watched the tiny dimples 
 As they play at hide and seek, 
 
 While passing gleams of sunny smiles 
 'Round his wee mouth slyly creep? 
 
 Is he playing with the fairies, 
 In that far off land of dream? 
 
 Do the angels bring to baby, 
 Visions that are never seen 
 
 By the eyes grown dim in service, 
 By the hearts grown faint with care, 
 
 101 
 
That for one such hour of slumber, 
 Would give all that life holds dear? 
 
 Sleep on, darling little dreamer, 
 
 In thy innocence and glee. 
 May the world-touch never blighten 
 
 Thy sweet, childlike purity. 
 
 May the angels ever guide thee, 
 
 Through this world of storm and strife, 
 
 'Till the last sweet sleep enfolds thee, 
 At the other end of life. —Ethel Goodrich. 
 
 REVERIES OF A SENIOR. 
 
 It is the night before Commencement. A soft, mellow glow 
 shrouds the stately college halls, and blurs the sharp outlines of the 
 buildings. The youthful moon dapples the ground beneath the trees, 
 and the lake's gentle swash murmurs "rest." To the senior who 
 thoughtfully wanders over the campus the night seems strangely quiet. 
 Even the patient stars seem to reproach his unrest. As he strolls 
 toward the old, dingy walls that have so long made for him a home, 
 the worn paths meet responsively the feet that have trod them for 
 so many years. Happy years of triumphs and defeats, of broken hopes 
 and knitted friendships. To-night is his. To morrow he must leave 
 the spot and the friends he has learned to love. To-morroW he will 
 once more join with his class; there will be music and speeches, there 
 will be diplomas, — his diploma, there will be handshakings and fare- 
 wells, and then — ! As he loiters in the shadow of the old oaks he 
 thinks of the dim life that stretches out, far and wide, beyond the 
 morrow. One piercing thought into the vast unknown strips pride of 
 all its gewgaws, and a humble senior shrinks back into the deeper 
 shadows of the oak. He turns for one last, long look over the campus. 
 His eyes linger lovingly on the old college-hall. Four years have 
 changed the look of it, for its features have grown familiarly dear. 
 Yet the full-risen moon tips the same spires that it silvered four years 
 ago. As the saddened senior turns away his face, and slowly retraces 
 his steps, the same faithful clock strikes farewell that four year ago 
 bade him welcome. — Ethel Goodrich. 
 
 A MODERN SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 It was the day before Christmas. The "big folks" had all gone to 
 town and left the children to entertain themselves, which they pro- 
 ceeded to do in the most novel way. All were agreed that they would 
 play Santa Claus, but it was Johnnie's fertile idea that they have 
 
 102 
 
him come down the chimney and out of the fireplace like the real 
 Santa Clans. Little Ted. who was willing to do anything that would 
 win him the favor of his bigger cousin, was honored by being chosen 
 as the one who could best make the descent. Accordingly, he was 
 taken to the housetop, balanced for a moment on the chimney, and 
 then — whiz! amid rattling bricks and falling dust he went sliding 
 down. down, 'till he came to a sudden halt. He was stuck fast, and, 
 with his arms pinned to his side, he hung there, a helpless prisoner. 
 In vain the children awaited his arrival at the other end of the line, 
 but dismal cries from the hollow depths of the chimney announced 
 the fact that he was not "happy on the way." Johnnie took in the 
 situation at once, but. nothing daunted, he rushed for the clothes pole, 
 which, alas! proved too short to push the unfortunate one either up or 
 down. Some one suggested that oil poured down the chimney might 
 enable the would-be Santa Claus to glide peacefully along y. but 
 
 kerosene was the only oil at hand, and the smouldeiing coils in the 
 ace made that course unsafe. The heat also increased Ted's 
 misery, whose cries of "Fire!" so alarmed the children that they 
 hastened to pour w T ater over the coals, and then Ted simply howled, 
 for the steam and heat almost stifled him, and the poor little fellow 
 felt sure that his day had come. Just as the youngsters were dis- 
 cussing the advisability of furthering Ted's progress by turning the 
 hose upon him the "big folks" returned, the little folks retired, several 
 bricks w r ere removed from the chimney-place, and an exhausted, be- 
 grimed Santa Claus was extracted. — Ethel Goodrich. 
 
 IN THE GARRET. 
 
 It is an old. unfinished garret. The boards between the brown 
 1 afters are stained with the rains of many years, and as the shower 
 quickens its flood it seems as if the torrent would break through the 
 shingles. But you know it will not. For years, this same old garret- 
 roof has sheltered you and those you love from the heaviest rains, 
 which only ooze through the leaks, and trickle down the brown stains, 
 — like tears. You love the old garret. What a forage ground it offers 
 on rainy days! Piles of old mattresses to romp on. big trunks to 
 rummage in, pieces of quaint furniture to resurrect from the dusty 
 corners. But best of all is the stock of cast-away clothes, of twenty 
 years gone by. What sport to put them on. buttoning in a pillow or 
 two for the sake of good fullness. Or a broken tomahawk may sug- 
 gest less peaceable sport, and, tricked out in your war-paint and gaudy 
 blanket, you howl, dance, and wave your weapon to the terror of your 
 little sister. Yes, you can make all the noise you please, for there 
 is no company in the garret to be disturbed; there is no baby in the 
 garret to be wakened. But you grow tired of this, and glide away 
 into the corner with a yellow-stained copy of "Robinson Crusoe.' 1 The 
 
 ion 
 
rain drops fall faster, the shadows grow longer, but with your head 
 upon your hand, by the little garret window you take passage with 
 your hero, and drift away to the South Sea island, to the land of the 
 hungry cannibal. — Ethel Goodrich. 
 
 LIFE AND LOVE. 
 
 Life stood on the shore and waited. She waited, but knew not for 
 what. Gently the sun kissed her brow, and mild breezes played with 
 her locks. Cool, silvery waves bathed her feet. Yet she moved not. 
 Slowly the sun hid his face, and the sky grew dark with clouds. 
 The breezes grew less boisterously bold in their frolic with her 
 wayward tresses, and the waves became rough and wild. Still she 
 moved not. Heedless of the wildness about her, she scanned the wide 
 sea before her. At last, wearied with her faithful watching for a 
 something she could not express, Life rested on the cool, clean sand, 
 and the waves and the rolling pebbles sang to her a soft lullaby. 
 She did not see the tiny speck that appeared far off on the horizon. 
 She did not see it come nearer, nearer, nearer. But she heard the keel 
 grate on the sand, she felt a kind hand on her arm; she awoke, and 
 gazed into the wide, wistful eyes of Love, — and Life knew for whom 
 she had waited. — Ethel Goodrich. 
 
 WHY THEY CAME. 
 
 The bell had rung. The rollicksome boys and giggling girls had 
 fallen into their seats. The "opening exercises" had been "per- 
 formed," the chart class had filed to the front seat, and to the 
 rhythmic tune of their A, B, C's, aimlessly swung their little feet. An 
 atmosphere of industrious good-will, characteristic of the morning 
 hours, pervaded the school-room. Suddenly, a knock was heard at 
 the door. Instantly the pencils ceased their wild incantations, the 
 buzzing became subdued, and all the freckle-faced Marys and tousle- 
 headed Johnnies craned their necks to see who the visitor might be. 
 With the dignity befitting his position, a school-director entered, 
 stalked to the platform, and ensconced himself in the teacher's chair. 
 The pencils resumed their tasks, the buzzing began anew, only to 
 be interrupted by another knock. Again an expressive silence as the 
 second director was ushered in. What could it mean? The children 
 looked questioningly at the teacher, and she in turn at the directors. 
 But the morning program continued. Johnnie Johnson imparted the 
 startling information that c-a-t spelled dog, while Tommie Tuckett 
 maintained that four less two made six, and little Anna Moffat fell 
 off the seat in her frantic endeavors to air her knowledge on the 
 subject. All that the children had ever known had evidently departed 
 from them. The teacher was in despair, for in the meantime the 
 
 104 
 
third director and the county superintendent bad appeared on the 
 scene. This certainly was no chance meeting, and the significant 
 combination struck terror to the heart of the pedagogue. In truth, her 
 knees shook, her voice trembled, and she knew not what she did. 
 Slowly the morning hours dragged along. At noon the worthy guests 
 departed, and in the course of time the teacher learned that the object 
 of the meeting had been the consideration of placing a pump in the 
 school-yard. — Ethel Goodrich. 
 
 TEMPTED. 
 
 A ragged, barefoot, whistling boy, 
 
 An active study in brown, 
 Trod merrily the dusty way 
 
 That leads from home to town. 
 
 The dust lay deep along the road; 
 
 It oozed between his toes, 
 And circling round in smoke-like clouds, 
 
 Lay lightly on his clothes. 
 
 The tattered suit, those feet, that face, 
 
 Alike were turned to gray; 
 A lock of hair stuck through his hat 
 
 Like a wisp of last year's hay. 
 
 The sun burned hot in the summer sky, 
 
 His arms hung listless down; 
 The way it seemed eternal long 
 
 As he trudged from home to town. 
 
 He reached the bridge below the dam; 
 
 He stopped, and looked him down 
 Into the cool where the minnows lay; 
 
 They never went to town. 
 
 What pleasant lives the fishes lead; 
 
 On a red-hot summer day! 
 They lie in the shade of a dank old bridge 
 
 And sleep the day away. 
 
 For a time he stood, and then he sat, 
 
 Dabbling his toes in the brook. 
 He thought of the swimming above the dam, 
 
 And followed his thoughts with a look. 
 
 And as good St. Augustine has said, — 
 We doubt him not at all — 
 loo 
 
The downward course of man is thus; 
 Look, picture, fascination, fall. 
 
 And thus with this poor erring youth, 
 
 The picture followed the look; 
 The fascination followed in turn; 
 
 The youth he followed the brook. 
 
 And the last I saw of this sinful lad, 
 
 He had cleared at a bound the wall; 
 But the last I heard of his downward course 
 
 Was the liquid splash of his fall. 
 
 — Albert D. Sanders, Jr. 
 
 A TALE OF NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 In a little hill town in an eastern state, there lived a boy; not 
 an unusual boy, nor is this an unusual story. He was intermittently 
 schooled in the learning of books until his thirteenth year, when his 
 father, a farmer of the rugged hillsides of a rocky country, took him 
 from his books and set him at the task of picking rocks from the fields, 
 whose absolute barenness so often finds its reflection in the heart of 
 him who tills their surface. The task was a tedious one, a never 
 ending source of employment, and left the boy alone with his thoughts. 
 It was ever the part of the American youth to think. And as this 
 boy worked in the fields his heart became very bitter over the simple 
 problems of life that confronted him every day. His ancestors for 
 generations had reaped crops both physical and spiritual from these 
 fields; their bodies had been hardened upon the fare which their scant 
 harvests afforded, and their hearts seemed to have partaken of the 
 nature of the rocks among which they lived; everything underwent 
 a process of hardening. What had this life of drudgery, of suppressed 
 emotions, and of hard-hearted Puritanism to do with real life? 
 Life was intensely real to him. Every night after the evening meal 
 his father read the only piece of current literature the house afforded, 
 a weekly news sheet, holding a candle in his hand to illuminate the 
 page. The boy filled the wood-box and wiped the dishes for his 
 mother. It was at this time that he really lived; it was then that 
 he unburdened the accumulated bitternesses of his heart; and it was 
 the loving, living sympathy of this poor, work-worn woman that kept 
 these feelings from becoming a part of his nature. At a quarter before 
 eight, the paper in the other room was folded, the family Bible was 
 taken down, the mother and son took their seats, a chapter was 
 read, a prayer was offered or rather spoken, and each took a candle 
 and went to bed with scant good-nights. In his bed in the attic, he 
 used to lie awake and wonder what those chapters meant to his 
 father; for, if they appealed to a man, they must arouse some emo- 
 
 106 
 
tion in his soul; still his Father was absolutely emotionless. Bitter 
 thoughts crept into his soul: but then the picture would come to 
 him of that prematurely gray-haired woman kneeling there by the 
 mantelpiece, with fact' transfigured, and he knew that God was real. 
 One evening he told his mother that he could not stand it, that he 
 must leave home; and that night, when all was silent, he quietly 
 red for his departure; as he was about to leave the house, 
 a frail little figure met him by the door, put a dog-eared book into 
 his hand, kissed him. and disappeared without a word. He felt that 
 his cheek was wet: and, as he went out into the darkness, he realized 
 for the first time what it all meant. — Albert D. Sanders, Jr. 
 
 A DECEMBER NIGHT. 
 
 The half-moon peered over the house-tops and down at an earth, 
 lying in the iron grasp of relentless winter, who pinched and pulled 
 at the paving blocks until they crackled in angry protest. Every 
 sound was magnified to its utmost extent by the frosty air, and was 
 flung from wall to wall in cracking echoes. Overhead the sere leaves 
 of a gnarled oak shook in the vagrant breeze, mingling their silken 
 rustle with the hum of an electric-wire, which bespoke the departing 
 street car. The lamp in the little railroad station burned red through 
 a soot-blackened chimney, the lanterns at the crossing winked and 
 blinked their green eyes as they swung to and fro on their unsteady 
 supports, and the only sign of life was a tiny column of wood smoke 
 rising perpendicularly with scarcely a break from the stovepipe 
 protruding through the roof of the gate-man's tower. The world had 
 sought and found "that gentle thing called sleep;" and the mute 
 witnesses of man's strenuous life such as horseless wagons, trainless 
 tracks, empty streets, and a painter's scaffold hanging at a lazy angle 
 on its sign-board served only to strengthen the impression of uni- 
 versal peace and quiet. — Albert D. Sanders, Jr. 
 
 THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 One night the north wind rushed down the valley and shrieked 
 out at the gap, whipping the Connecticut into a foam, which shone 
 through the darkness with a^ almost phosphorescent light, and lash- 
 ing the pines of Mt. Nonatuck with a diabolical fury, which filled 
 the forest with the cracking of straining limbs. The clock in the 
 steeple of the church at the foot of the mountain had scarcely finished 
 striking the hour of nine, when there appeared on the mountain a 
 sight which filled the windows in the valley with faces, which were 
 w r ritten over with mingled awe and delight. The mountain-house 
 was in flames. And, within ten minutes of its discovery, the fire 
 had completely enveloped the building. Savagely the wind fanned the 
 
 1 . 
 
flames, tearing away great sheets of fire, and hurling them off into 
 space. The flagstaff, with a flaming pennant at its peak, tottered and 
 fell, sending up a shower of sparks. Portions of the house began to 
 fall in; and the wind, redoubling its force, tore off great blazing 
 planks, hurling them high in air. Soon the fire spread to a part 
 of the forest, and the awful sight of a forest-fire was added to the 
 already fearful spectacle. On the mountain a blistered and scorched 
 old man fought the fire with the desperation that comes to him who 
 defends his home; while, in the shelter of a huge boulder, sat a 
 whimpering old woman. At day-break this same old woman led a 
 man to the door of a farm-house in the valley. And, as she knocked 
 at the door, the "old man of the mountain" turned his eyes toward 
 the summit where a towering pine was still blazing merrily and, 
 laughing, clapped his blistered hands. And now, on a pleasant sum- 
 mer afternoon, an old man with fire-scarred face and hands sits on a 
 bench before the red brick house on the hill; and he laughs as from 
 time to time he raises his sightless eyes toward invisible mountains. — 
 A. D. Sanders, Jr. 
 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 "What's the commotion? Is some one hurt?" was whispered from 
 lip to lip as a surging mass of people crowded around the front elevator 
 in one of the large stores. A deep inexplicable hush of fear was felt; 
 surely something had happened. At length, after carefully and pain- 
 fully making our way nearer, we could see the object of pity, a 
 woman's form reclining in a man's strong arms. She had fainted, 
 probably from exhaustion or fright, or perhaps had been seized with 
 heart failure. At any rate she was in a helpless condition, and her 
 benefactor was in the act of carrying her to the physician's office. 
 He evidently was not much of an expert in caring for women so 
 afflicted, for he held her in what seemed to be a very uncomfortable 
 position, but gave his attention to the care of her rich silk dress. 
 He also seemed ignorant about the care of the body in such cases or, 
 perhaps, wanted to shift the responsibility upon the physician, — for he 
 made no attempt to get water or smelling salts or even to loosen 
 the garments about her throat and waist. No wonder that the poor 
 thing could not breathe! And still the crowd pressed nearer. It 
 seemed that the elevator would never come. Every one realized that 
 something must be done, when a motherly old woman pressed her 
 way nearer, and leaning forward looked anxiously into the face 
 of the motionless woman, but turned abruptly away, exclaiming, 
 "Its wax." — Mary Window. 
 
 TO A VIOLET. 
 
 Mystified, I look at you, 
 Violet so sweet and true, 
 
 I(i8 
 
Gazing with your soulful eyes, 
 Ever upward toward the skies. 
 Why God chose you first to bloom, 
 First to brighten winter's gloom, 
 This I ask. 
 
 Tell me, was your heart so true 
 That he made you heavenly blue? 
 Did he think that one so fair 
 Lived alone on Spring's pure air? 
 If some day I come to thee, 
 Wilt thou whisper then to me 
 
 All I ask? — Loulu M. Mann. 
 
 MY ONLY BURGLAR EXPERIENCE. 
 
 '[ he most exciting experience I ever had was when I was but a 
 girl of fifteen. I was visiting at my grandmother's home in Virginia. 
 One evening we staid up very late, talking on the wide veranda. 
 About midnight I went up to my room. A peculiar feeling came over 
 me just as I was entering, and for the first time I felt afraid. 
 Glancing about, I noticed that everything was undisturbed, except 
 a lattice window which opened upon a veranda. I had taken down 
 my hair and was standing before the mirror brushing it, when I 
 noticed a movement of the white curtain which hung around the bed. 
 Mechanically I continued brushing, but my eyes were fixed on that 
 part of the mirror which reflected the lower part of the bed. There 
 was a brown hand pulling it back, and then from behind this curtain 
 peered the evil face of a man. The dark eyes sent a horrible shudder 
 through my being, but still I brushed. In a moment the curtain fell 
 back in place. Realizing that it would be impossible to open the 
 heavy door, fastened with its lock and chain, in less than a minute I 
 gave up the idea of rushing out of the room. My heart beat furiously, 
 but soon I began to hum a tune, meanwhile wondering what 
 to do. Suddenly a thought came to me, and pulling open the dresser- 
 drawer I searched for hair-crimpers. Then walking over to the 
 opposite corner of the room, I looked into the water-pitcher. It 
 was filled with water, but I stopped my singing with the exclamation, 
 "What luck! Just because I simply must have some water, there isn't 
 a drop." Catching up a small pitcher I started for the door, and 
 with nervous hand and a fast throbbing heart, I undid the fastenings 
 and went out. 
 
 On tiptoe I ran down the long hall-way and straight to the servants' 
 quarters. Six men in a few minutes were ready to capture the man. 
 They suspected that there was more than one, and they were not 
 mistaken, for soon the one seen in my room came stealthily out upon 
 
 109 
 
the veranda and was joined by another, then both entered my room 
 again. 
 
 I stood out in the yard trembling with fright. Soon sounds were 
 heard from the house and several shots, then a man dashed out in 
 the darkness. 
 
 Well, I always hate to think of what happened then. The man 
 who attempted to escape was captured, and the other was carried 
 from the house, lifeless. — Loulu M. Mann. 
 
 HER STRUGGLE. 
 
 The day was drawing to a close. The pictures, furniture, and 
 carpet were gradually merging into a dull gray. 
 
 She sat with bowed head as if in deep thought. Her features 
 were not discernible, and her old-fashioned, worn garments were 
 hidden by the sympathetic gloom. 
 
 At a window stood a child of but two years. That he was 
 tramping upon fragile curtains, rubbing his nose and fingers across 
 the window-pane, and chattering to himself gleefully, seemed to 
 make no impression upon her. 
 
 After waiting some little time the maid appeared and said, "The 
 Ladies of the Board told me to take the little fellow to the nursery 
 after you had signed these papers, so I will be back in just a moment." 
 
 The mother took the papers in her toil-marked hands,, read them 
 through, once, twice, and then again. There were no tears on her 
 cheeks; the firmly-closed lips and the expression of unutterable sorrow 
 showing so plainly on her face revealed her grief. Finishing, she 
 dropped into a chair, thought of the fatherless home, the dreary 
 prospects, the hard struggle for bread; then fighting again the battle 
 and conquering, she signed her name after the sentence, "To the 
 aforesaid Home for Friendless Children I give this child, and hereby 
 relinquish all claims." — Loulu M. Mann. 
 
 TOWSER'S SLEEPING INTEREST. 
 
 They were sitting on the veranda smoking. The moon in her 
 splendor lighted up the darkened earth. A lull had come over the 
 conversation of the party; the fund of stories and jokes seemed to 
 be exhausted; and even the laughter of the girls overhead had died 
 away. 
 
 Old Towser was lying at Jack's feet, with his head resting on his 
 fore-legs breathing heavily. "Kick that dog, will you," said the 
 man sitting on the step, "and wake him up. If there is anything I 
 cannot endure its snoring." Jack leaned over, massaged vigorously 
 the ear of the sleeping dog and said, "Here, old fellow, you mustn't 
 disturb the public peace." Then all was quiet once again. Jack kept 
 
 110 
 
his eyes fixed on the man on the step, and wondered what he was 
 thinking of, and whether the girl with whom he had been all the even- 
 ing was as much to him as to himself. Jack had come to the con- 
 clusion that this house party would settle the whole matter, and 
 he feared that it would not be as he wished it. It was pretty hard, 
 he thought, to be obliged to give her up just at the time when 
 fortune seemed ready to add its blessing. It was still harder to 
 think that he was to be thrust aside for a man like Dunn. While 
 Jack was thus meditating, Dunn, once more annoyed, hit Towser 
 a blow on the head. The old fellow growled, then rising walked 
 around to the other side of Jack's chair and lay down. A thought 
 flashed through Jack's mind. He jumped up, took Tom by the arm, 
 and started down the drive-way. Jack talked earnestly, and Tom 
 listened attentively. Then after a few minutes excited conversation 
 they hurried to find the coachman. A little later the two men were 
 seen carrying grips and dress-suit cases from one part of the upper 
 hall to another. Then they went down stairs, and met the men 
 coming indoors. "It's one o'clock," said Dunn, "and I am tired, 
 so will just go to my room." "Hope you won't feel offended, Dunn," 
 said Tom, "but sister said that she thought you would get better 
 air in the corner room having north and east windows, so I had 
 your baggage moved over there — you will find it all right." 
 
 The next morning the girls and men were eating breakfast and 
 chatting gaily. Tom and Jack exchanged significant glances on notic- 
 ing Dunn's scowling countenance. The picnic planned for the day was 
 a success, but Dunn, wearied by a sleepless night and the long drive 
 in the sun, had excused himself, and had gone back to the house to rest. 
 When the party came home late that evening the maid said that Mr. 
 Dunn wished to be excused as he was suffering from a headache. Then 
 Jack and Tom got together again, held another interview with the 
 coachman, and again piloted him to the north-east room on the third 
 floor. The next morning Dunn was no better; he had passed a sleepless 
 night, he said, and then made inquiries of Tom as to who occupied the 
 rooms on the floor above. Indifferently Tom told him the rooms which 
 the different girls had chosen. "And who did you say," asked Dunn, 
 "had the north-east room?" "Oh, sister has that," Tom replied. "She 
 snores to terribly that she took the corner room so as not to disturb 
 anyone." 
 
 The next day Dunn was worn out. After reading his mail, he 
 announced that the firm had asked him to return immediately to head- 
 quarters, so he left on an afternoon train. Two weeks later, all the 
 guests had departed, all except one, and that one is sitting under the 
 shade of the apple-tree suspiciously near Tom's sister, while Towser, 
 quietly asleep at their feet, snores on. — Loulu M. Mann. 
 
 Ill 
 
MORNING CHARMS. 
 
 In summer is the slothful man most reprehensible. Then the 
 beauties of early morn appeal to the most insensate of natures. 
 This morning the sun had risen to an altitude of twenty degrees, and 
 his fervid rays had banished the chill of night. The street lay in 
 quiet grace before me. The shadow cast by a three-story flat fell in 
 sharp outline across the white road. The trees stretched away to 
 where they met the deep blue of the horizon, their green foliage 
 outlined against the hazy background of sky. The tender leaf of an 
 old oak tree seemed, in its length of scarce an inch, diminutive beside 
 his more advanced companion on the maple whose brownish-green face 
 shone in the sunlight. Even the ash lifted her head in pride as she 
 gazed upon her slender leaves, while the sparrows twittered and 
 tittered as a robin hopped slowly beneath their cozy retreat. A cool 
 breeze came laden with secrets from the southwest. A few houses 
 had assumed a busy air, but the majority lay deep in slumber, 
 unmindful of the gay lawns which the sunlight had awakened with 
 its kisses. And yet, though one's . heart chords may be attuned to 
 harmonize with nature, man will remain in tne denseness of slumber. 
 — W. A. Oldfield. 
 
 ROARIN' TAM. 
 
 Doun frae the Hielands cam' auld roarin' Tarn, 
 Wi' a pipe in his man' an' his pooch in his han, 
 And he'd fecht ony mon wha would no tak' a dram 
 To the health o' Bonnie Prince Charlie. 
 
 Wi' a guid canny Scot he would aye tak' a gill, 
 For he lo'ed fine the whusky that comes frae the hill, 
 And the bumpers wi' toddy he'd owre and owre fill 
 To the health o' Bonnie Prince Charlie. 
 
 When the pibroch brak' forth wi' its bonny wild skirl, 
 His een would flash fire and wi' mony a whirl. 
 He'd dance off a reel wi' maist ony auld churl 
 To the glory o' Bonnie Prince Charlie. 
 
 Then awa' wi' the Camerons to join Charlie's band, 
 And awa' bearin' speedy the blood-dipped brand, 
 Ca' the clans a'thegither from over the land 
 To fecht for Bonnie Prince Charlie. 
 
 And among the brave lads who to Culloden came, 
 None focht ony fiercer than our roarin' Tarn, 
 But the coronach wailed o'er him at Preston Pan 
 For he died in the cause o' Prince Charlie. 
 
 — Geo. Craig Stewart. 
 112 
 
A LULLABY. 
 
 The heather is rolling in billows of blue; 
 
 Sleep, my pretty dearie, O; 
 And the burnie is wimplin' and calling to you; 
 
 Sleep, for my bairn is weary, 0; 
 Away in a dream-cable out to the deep. 
 Rocking along on the billows of sleep, 
 
 From a land that is mirky and dreary, O. 
 
 Cludies are puffin' across the sky, 
 
 Cuddle close, ma' weanie 0; 
 Your faither is bringin' hame the kye, 
 
 Close your roguish eenie O; 
 The moon is keekin' asklent the braes, 
 And her beamies are kittlin at your taes, 
 
 Sleep, ma bonnie wee Jeanie O. 
 
 Stars are tumblin' into our ken; 
 
 Canty, and gey, and happy, O; 
 Shadows are creepin' about i' the glen; 
 
 Sleep, and take your nappie 0; 
 Father is coming over the lea, 
 Bringing a leesome kiss to thee, 
 
 Hark! There's his gentle tappie, O. 
 
 — George Craig Stewart. 
 
 THE POET AND THE OTHER WORLD. 
 
 To all true poets is given an insight clear 
 To life and death and mysteries profound; 
 And bliss it is to sit us down and hear 
 The lofty harmonies of sense and sound, 
 That in their verses, heaven-born, abound. 
 Some call Death foe, but one who is a bard 
 Cries out, "O Death, the poor man's dearest friend, 
 The kindest and the best," and smiles at him. 
 Another thus, for "there no shade can last, 
 In that deep dawn behind the tomb." Thank God, 
 "That undiscovered country, from whose bourn 
 No traveler returns" is now revealed. 
 Do thou no longer fear; "sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him and lies down to pleasant dreams." 
 The life that aged, slips away from us, 
 Goes "gently, like the light upon a hill, 
 
 113 
 
Of which none names the moment that it goes, 
 Though all. see when 'tis gone." Our death and birth 
 Alike mysterious; how well 'tis said, 
 "Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 Has had elsewhere its setting." There's no death. 
 "Dust to the dust, but the pure spirit shall flow 
 Back to the burning fountain whence it came, 
 A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 
 Thro' time and change unquenchably the same." 
 1 know how people say live now or never; 
 But hark, "Leave now for dogs, — man has forever." 
 No doubting shackles poets; they are seers, 
 And speak as with authority; they rise, 
 And lead us on, and point unerringly. 
 "There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth; 
 No heart-benumbing cold nor scorching heat, 
 Famine, nor age, have any being there." 
 And when they pass away, these sons of God, 
 They bridge the chasm twixt earth and God's own home, 
 And pant, "Heav'n opens on my eyes — my ears 
 With sound seraphic ring:" and then they shout 
 "Lend, lend your wings, I mount, I fly! 
 O grave! where is thy victory? 
 O death! where is thy sting?" 
 j — George Craig Stewart. 
 
 THE LYNCHING. 
 
 The slayer of youth is found, 
 
 And hurried away to jail, 
 But a thousand feet rush thro' the street, 
 
 And hoarse throats gasp the tale 
 Of a daughter's death, and they catch their breath, 
 
 And their faces flushed turn pale. 
 
 And the prisoner shrinks in fright, 
 
 As he hears that blood-chilling yell, 
 A rush; a crash; down go doors with a smash, 
 
 And the horde struggles in pell-mell; 
 "Drag him out! Let him stretch! Shoot him! Burn him, the wretch! 
 
 Men rave like the fiends of hell. 
 
 He is bound to a stake with chains; 
 
 The faggots about him piled; 
 And he shrieks as the heat reaches up from his feet, 
 
 And his bloodshot eyes glance wild. 
 
 114 
 
All is silence save there where his - the air; 
 
 This poor sinner that's some mother's child. 
 
 All is over, the fire is out. 
 
 The crowd has dispersed and gone home; 
 But the charred corse is there with its horrible stare, 
 
 From those blackened sockets of bone. 
 And the soul that was there, has swung out on the air 
 
 To appear at the great judgment throne. 
 
 And is this the proud land of my birth, 
 
 With its progress so boasted and grand? 
 Is justice now dead ; is it no longer said 
 
 That law is a part of our land? 
 Whether negro or white, know that might ne'er makes right, 
 
 And together on justice we stand. 
 
 — George Craig Stewart. 
 
 A CHALLENGE. 
 
 ( With due apologies to the shades of Wendell Phillips.) 
 
 Now. bright-eyed pansy, proud of your fame, go back with me to 
 the beginning of the spring, and select what flower you please. Let 
 it be either wild or tame; let it have a fragrance, the result of many 
 generations of culture; let it have the best of nature's care; let it add 
 to this the better preparation of vigorous life; crown its stem with 
 leaves of richest green, and show me the flower of any family for 
 whom its most ardent admirers will breathe forth praises numerous 
 as flower-lovers have showered upon the violet. 
 
 ******** 
 
 You think me a fanatic to-night; for you see nature, not with your 
 eyes, but with your fancies. But when other days shall have come, the 
 Muse of Beauty will put the wild rose for the summer, the golden rod 
 for autumn, the carnation for winter, the geraniunvfor all seasons, 
 choose the hypatica as the first-born flower of our opening sprinr;. 
 and the bloodroot as the short-lived child of noon-day; then, dippi: -..-; 
 her pen .in the clear blue sea, will write on the white page, 
 them all, the name of the modest, the beautiful, the ever-blue violet. 
 — Esther L. Stowe. 
 
 THE IMMORTAL J. X. 
 
 The "Immortal J. N./' that peculiar character who is well known 
 throughout Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, was once a brilliant lawyer. 
 At one time he defended a prisoner accused of murder, and won the 
 case. The freed man later confessed his crime to the lawyer, and 
 the 'Immortal J. A.." or J. X. Free, as he was called at that time, was 
 shocked by the confession, and, as a result, his mind was deranged. 
 
 II.") 
 
Since then he has imagined that he has absolute control of a secret 
 and wonderful power that he has termed "the pressure." At his will, 
 this power may be released, and all humanity will be crushed out of 
 existence. He also has the power to "raise the veil." What this power 
 is nobody knows, and J. N., as he is commonly called, has not yet taken 
 it into his head to explain. With his erect figure, his long grey hair 
 that hangs to his shoulders, and his strangeness of manner, he is a 
 character not easily forgotten. J. N. has a roving disposition, and 
 frequently makes engagements "to relieve the pressure," or "raise 
 the veil," but a telegram always announces, at the last moment, his 
 inability to be present, and "the veil" and "the pressure" remain 
 unchanged. J. N. has no occupation, but his over-developed persistence 
 has enabled him to live at the expense of hotels and charitable people 
 and to secure a life pass on almost every railroad in the three States 
 mentioned. J. N. sometimes encounters a railway superintendent who 
 is stubborn, and who refuses to give up a pass at the first demand. 
 However, the "Immortal's" time is not valuable, and he patiently 
 holds "the pressure" over the head of the determined superintendent 
 until, in order to get rid of a nuisance, the official grants transpor- 
 tation. Not long ago the pass-finder entered the office of a division 
 superintendent of the Erie Railway and asked for transportation to 
 Chicago. The superintendent had heard of J. N., and was prepared. 
 He wrote out a pass over the Erie line that read, "good to walk from 
 L to Chicago." J. N. accepted it without a murmur. The con- 
 ductor on the next west-bound train noticed a strange-looking man 
 walking up and down the aisle of a car. Upon demanding the 
 stranger's ticket, the bogus pass was produced. The conductor 
 informed the man that it could not be accepted. "The Superintendent 
 gave me this pass," J. N. replied, "and you will find me walking right 
 here when this train goes into Chicago," and he was. — Harry E. Weese. 
 
 THE NEW AUTOMOBILE. 
 
 What is that creature that I see 
 A-coming down the street? 
 
 It looks much like a hitching-post; 
 .It moves. Where are its feet? 
 
 It seems to have a head and hat, 
 And arms methinks I see. 
 
 A hitching-post with arms and head? 
 What may this creature be? 
 
 It comes much nearer, and I spy 
 Great buttons in two rows. 
 
 A flopping train brings up the rear, 
 And sweeps where'er it goes. 
 
 116 
 
The moving object is at hand — 
 
 This is no idle joke — 
 It is a woman, lately clad. 
 
 In "automobile" cloak. 
 
 — H. E. Weese. 
 
 HOW WILLIE SMITH BECAME NOTORIOUS. 
 
 The Smith family was having its troubles. Mrs. Smith, a nervous 
 little woman, was almost prostrated, and all because her son Willie 
 had I Gen unwise enough to swallow a tack. Of course, the operation 
 of eating a tack is nothing in this day of salads and midnight lunches, 
 and Willie's act had caused the Smith family little concern. How- 
 ever, the eagle-eyed reporter who lived across the street saw an oppor- 
 tunity to make enough to pay his dog tax, and, in order to give the 
 story a little local color, he had Willie Smith at the po*nt of death 
 as a result of inhaling two dozen tacks during a violent sneeze. The 
 article said that physicians were unable to remove the obstacles from 
 WJU'e's wind-pipe, and, as a result, the youth was dying. If there was 
 one thing above all others that Mrs. Smith did despise, it was news- 
 paper notorietv. However, she soon learned that this was the least 
 of her troubles, for the story had left her a victim of a sympathetic 
 public. The next day she received a letter addressed in a strange 
 hand. She opened it, and found the following: "My dear Mrs. Smith: 
 Have just read the account of your son's bad condition to mortal 
 sense. Call a Christian Science healer. My son was on the verge of 
 the grave from inhaLng cigarettes. He is now cured. If Christian 
 Science will cure one who has inhaled cigarettes, it can cure one who 
 has inhaled tacks. You will find it a sure remedy in all phases of 
 error and disease. Turn to it as a last resort. In brotherly love, 
 "Duluth, Minn. Mrs. Pennyfather. 
 
 "P. S.— I don't want anything for what I do." 
 
 I rs. Smith was almost frantic. A letter that came the next day 
 would have remained unopened, had not curiosity, which is natural 
 to her sex, urged her to look into the contents of a second message' 
 sent for Willie's benefit. It was addressed to Willie Smith, Chicago, 
 111., to be opened by friends or relatives. Evidently, in some localit ei, 
 Willie was thought to be very near death's door. The letter read as 
 follow.: "Having seen the enclosed clipping in the New York Herald, 
 I wish to suggest a way to remove tacks. Make an artificial magnet 
 with a small wire for core. Insert wire, turn on current, and tacks 
 may stick to end of wire. Hoping to hear of their being removed some 
 way, I am, Yours truly, 
 
 "Augusta, Me. M. H. Wells." 
 
 The writer took especial pains to place his address in full at the 
 bottom of the page. No doubt he anticipated a large reward for this 
 
 117 
 
bit of information. At this moment, the supposedly dying youth was 
 "it" in a game of "gone off," while his mother was wondering how 
 she might stop this unpleasant and one-sided correspondence. During 
 the following week letters were received from points in California, 
 New Mexico, Florida, and Vermont. However, they remained 
 unopened, for Mrs. Smith had stopped reading letters, and had stopped 
 speaking to her neighbor reporter, while her son, Willie, has proved 
 that notoriety is not always gained by great deeds, but that anyone 
 may win national renown by swallowing an insignificant tack. — Harry 
 E. Weese. 
 
 THE FALL OF MARTIN. 
 
 Martin Jones was the laziest man in town. He knew it, his wife 
 knew it, and all the neighbors knew it, yet he was without a care. 
 He had, apparently, outlived his pride, and industry had ceased to 
 appear to him a virtue. For all his laziness, "Mart" was a good- 
 natured man, and always listened attentively to the numerous upbraid- 
 ings of his industrious little wife. Only on rare occasions would he lose 
 his temper, and at these times he would prove himself a connoisseur 
 in the art of swearing. Of late, his wife had had more than her share 
 of trouble. She had begun her house-cleaning, but the work could not 
 be completed until one of the rooms of the second floor of their "story- 
 and-a-half" dwelling had received a coat of whitewash. "Mart" 
 had been asked twenty times, at least, to do this work, and had prom- 
 ised as often. However, it was always "to-morrow" with him, but 
 to-morrow never came. It had come to the point where Mrs. Jones 
 could endure his inactivity no longer. "Mart Jones," she said, in her 
 most angry tone, "if you don't whitewash that room before the mis- 
 sionary society meeting, and that's just a week from to-day, 1 am 
 going to tell all the women just how lazy you are." "I'll do it to-mor- 
 row," drawled Martin, but the work was unfinished the day prior to 
 the meeting. Mrs. Jones and her neighbors were surprised when, on 
 his last day of grace, they saw "Mart," attired in blue overalls and 
 jacket, stirring whitewash in the back yard. He rushed 'through the 
 room and escaped upstairs with his brush and bucket, just in time to 
 avoid the first visitor. For once his little remaining pride had urged 
 him to work, and his wife was happy. It was a sultry afternoon, and 
 it seemed to Martin that this bit of work was severe enough to repay 
 him for his many days of ease. The sun beat down hot upon the 
 roof, and, with a muttered curse, the whitewasher threw aside his 
 jacket, and continued his work in the somewhat decollete costume of a 
 laborer. In the cool room below the little band of faithful women 
 worshiped in peace, and little dreamed that, immediately over their 
 heads, a fellow-creature was enduring all the torments of the lower 
 regions. One of their number was in the act of closing the meeting 
 with a short prayer. "If a man fall," she said, but she did not finish. 
 
 118 
 
Their was a muttered oath, a crash, and tlio door leading to the stair 
 case hurst open. Out shot a long-handled whitewash brush, followed 
 closely by an empty bucket and a six-foot man. so white that he 
 resembled a new kind of flexible statue. The fall of the discomfited 
 Martin ended when he struck beneath a table that was standing against 
 the wall opposite the stairway. The women were, at first, too aston- 
 ished to speak, and the prayer ended without ceremony. "Mart's' 
 wife was the first to regain her voice, and she timidly asked him if 
 he was hurt. Martin made no immediate reply, but remained beneath 
 the friendly table long enough to collect his scattered senses and to 
 shake a little whitewash from his eyebrows and whiskers. The sym- 
 pathetic women began to gather around, but withdrew respectfully 
 when they heard the language that came from beneath the table. 
 Despite the fact that he made the air blue with his cursing, "Mart" 
 left a white path as he retreated towards the kitchen. His long 
 delayed attempt at work barely saved him from being exposed to the 
 company by his wife, but, unfortunately for himself, a stumble over 
 his bucket caused his pride to take a fall, and he was thus forced to 
 expose himself unexpectedly to the missionary society. The lesson 
 had its effect on "Mart." Although his wife knew better than ever 
 to mention the word "whitewash" to him again, he was always prompt 
 in answering her demands, but could never be persuaded to have the 
 least sympathy with a missionary society. — Harry E. Weese. 
 
 THE COWSLIP. 
 
 Cowslip by the rill. 
 
 Tell me are you never lonely? 
 
 Do you never wish 
 
 Some great place to fill. 
 
 Cowslip by the rill? 
 
 Does not your bright eye 
 Long on wider fields to gaze? 
 Does not your gay heart sigh. 
 Like the birds to fly? 
 
 Like them to sing, 
 To mount the tree tops high, 
 Then soar across the sky, 
 O cowslip by the rill? 
 
 You nod and dance in glee, 
 Wink and blink at the sun. 
 Flirt with each breeze you see. 
 If you could, away you'd run. 
 
 119 
 
Cowslip by the rill, 
 
 Wonder fills your face, 
 Innocence with every grace, 
 Cowslip by the rill. 
 
 Ah! your roguish face and eyes, 
 What charm and beauty in them lies; 
 Enough blind Cupid's string to clip, 
 If he should take a sip. 
 
 Blooming in the meadow, 
 Alone and unseen; 
 Glittering 'neath the willow, 
 In your bed of green. 
 
 Happy cowslip! 
 Who can your place fill, 
 When you've left us, 
 Cowslip by the rill? 
 
 — Josephine Gilmore. 
 
 A LITERARY CONVERSATION. 
 
 It was a cold winter day. Through the air shivered a few snow- 
 flakes; while the lingering leaves', hanging their dejected heads as if 
 loath to leave their summer home, were lit up only by the last rays 
 of the setting sun. Peering out upon this bleak scene, the dejected 
 student viewed the heavens and earth to find a subject for a para- 
 graph. Everything seemed to congeal before his eyes. It was a dreary 
 outlook to his weary, troubled mind. Autumn had come, gone, was 
 dead, buried, and the funeral rites were now over. Winter was 
 approaching, but it gave him a chill even to think of that. His cour- 
 age was failing, and he was about to give up in despair. 
 
 Suddenly, voices from his study table aroused him. In clear 
 accents, the clock recited, "Some doubt the courage of the negro." 
 Judging from the pale face, trembling hands, and the subject, it was 
 his first attempt at speaking before his friends. Mr. "Cumnock's 
 Elocution" was continually interrupting him, saying, "Break it up, 
 break it up." This greatly confused him, and he was so alarmed at 
 the ringing of the bell that he stopped short. Horace talked about the 
 "golden mean" to the big, fat apple stuffed so full that he could hardly 
 roll. The apple blushed, but had to listen to him. Finally Horace 
 gave the apple a little push, and, highly offended, it crept down from 
 the plate, hiding under the table. No less imposing than the clock 
 sat the tall lamp soliloquizing in the centre of the table. However bril- 
 liant he is at times, just then he was in low spirits because he had 
 been "turned down" the night before for not going to bed on time, 
 as he was a "wicked" lamp, and had been "put out" several times for 
 
 120 
 
smoking. The pen and pencils were at sword's points with each other, 
 quarreling, as usual. 
 
 At last the big newspaper began to speak. His audience was 
 quiet, for he always had something important to say. The lamp began 
 to shade his eyes to see, the clock stretched out his hands for all to 
 listen; the pens and pencils stopped quarreling and stood on tip-toe 
 lest they should miss a word; even the little picture above the table 
 hung in suspense. Surely, the paper had something unusual to say. 
 Slowly he began in a low. deep voice, "Northwestern, five; Chicago, 
 nothing." The rest of his words were drowned by shouts of "hooray! 
 hooray! hooray!" The pencil with his wooden leg led an Indian war 
 dance with the pen. Following was the clock not at all behind time. 
 The lamp was all ablaze with glee, while the ink bottle turned a 
 somersault, bumping into the fat apple, who rolled with laughter. 
 It was some time before the paper could continue. He could only 
 say, "If you don't believe it, read it yourself." The poor, dejected 
 student arose from his seat by the window, and, forgetting his para- 
 graph, snatched the paper, and again reviewed the game. — Josephine 
 Gilmore. 
 
 THE BLIND CHILD'S ESCAPE. 
 
 There was once a little blind child who lived amid all the splendor 
 that money can procure, yet he loved best to feel the warm sunshine 
 on his face, to touch the soft blades of grass with his hands, and to 
 listen to the many sounds that fell upon his ear. From afar, he heard 
 wonderful music, but he did not know that it came from the birds 
 in the forest; or perhaps, on a still day, he sometimes heard the 
 brooklet, if it was in its gayest mood. He wondered much, but said 
 little, for his nurse gave impatient answers to his timid questions. 
 At last, one warm day, he slipped away, following the sound of the 
 wonderful music, until he came to the great forest. He put forth his 
 tiny hands and felt the rough tree-trunks; his feet sank into the soft 
 loam, and the small bushes brushed his face as he passed by. He sat 
 listening to the bewildering harmonies until he fell asleep upon the 
 moss. The great wind, resting in the tree-tops, looked down at the 
 lonely child, and pitied him. The little stars came out and blinked 
 to keep back their tears. Presently the moon came sailing by in 
 silent majesty, and she, too, saw the little dreamer, and asked who 
 he was, for she had never seen him before. Then a gentle breeze told 
 her that he was a lonely blind child whom nobody loved. Then she 
 looked again, and saw how fair he was, for lovely dreams had driven 
 the sadness from his face. As she gazed, her heart was filled with 
 pity, and she sent down a thousand beams to bring the child up to 
 her. The little breeze flew down with them, and gently fanned his 
 face that he might not awaken. The great oaks sighed, and the leaves 
 fluttered in farewell. Then the moon took him in her arms, placing 
 
him upon a fleecy cloud, and they were wafted away to the westward. 
 Par below, in the dark forest, lights were flitting about in search 
 of the blind child; but they never found him, for those who knew 
 would not tell what they had seen that night. — Alma S. Carlson. 
 
 THE NEW BELL. 
 
 How lonely he had been at first, away from all his companions, 
 high up in the great steeple! But, as there was none of the baser 
 metal in him, his heart was brave and true, and he rang strong and 
 clear, though a little sadly at first, to herald his arrival. Yet there 
 was no answering peal. After he had become quite silent, he thought 
 he heard, glad and clear, though far, far away, a chime that thrilled 
 his mighty frame as he listened; but soon it died away so sweet and 
 faint that he feared his imagination had played him false. How 
 could he know that his proud peal had drowned the timid voice of 
 the little chime? 
 
 Before long, he became friendly with the swallows that nested 
 above him, and he listened as they chatted. But much he could not 
 understand, for their little conversations were of fields an! trees and 
 flowers, and sometimes of pilfering boys. Often a breeze, fluttering 
 down from its perch on a cloudlet, rested a moment and whispered to 
 him of strange scenes; still, he could ask no questions, for the breeze 
 always took fright at his loud voice, and flew away. But he took the 
 most comfort when his friend, the sun, arose. Its warm beams 
 caressed him, and seemed to love to linger about him. At first, when 
 the fragile, golden things appeared, he almost held his breath lest he 
 should frighten them away; but even when he playfully swung the 
 great iron clapper, they leaped about in great glee, playing hide-and- 
 seek round his gleaming sides. 
 
 When the sunbeams were gone, the stars came out, one by one, 
 and twinkled brightly at him. He could not help wondering if they 
 were like the flowers that the swallows talked of. Yet he grew to 
 love them, though so cold and distant, for they listened calmly when 
 he spoke to them. 
 
 But best of all, he loved, on a dark night, to awaken to the crash 
 of mighty thunder, for somehow, somewhere, in the forgotten past, a 
 dim recollection of it lingered with him. When the fiery darts of 
 lightning fell, he could see the dark thick masses of cloud piled all 
 around. Then how he strained with mighty strength to send forth 
 his voice into the storm! But he could not. Only the great rain- 
 drops stopped to comfort him, and he grew calm again. 
 
 Yet not even among the playful sunbeams, or the brilliant stars, 
 or the glorious tempest, had he forgotten the sweet chime; how he 
 had listened, hoping against hope, to hear again that far-away, gentle 
 voice. At last he was rewarded, for one day he was awakened by a 
 
 122 
 
timid, tender call from the distant bell, so sweet, so sweet, his pulses 
 throbbed as he drank in the dear notes. Ah! she was hesitating now, 
 and the voice grew faint in maidenly confusion, and then died away. 
 But listen! what peals ring out from above, strong, thrilling, wonder- 
 ful! In a far-away steeple, a tiny bell throbs with joy. Below, people 
 smile and say to each other, "Ah, our bell has the right sound now." 
 Poor things, how could they know!— Alma S. Carlson. 
 
 SINCE GRANDMA WENT AWAY. 
 
 The dear old house is empty now, 
 
 Since Grandma's gone away. 
 The door is closed, the window barred; 
 
 The wind moans softly all the day 
 About the house upon the hill, 
 
 Since Grandma went away. 
 
 The sparrows chirp, and look in vain, 
 
 Since Grandma went away, 
 For the feast of crumbs, each frosty day, 
 
 That fell so free from a loving hand 
 Stretched forth to help, and soothe, and bless, 
 
 Ere Grandma went away. 
 
 No tender face beams kindly forth, 
 
 Since Grandma went away; 
 No gentle hand smooths back the curls 
 From the troubled brow of childish care, 
 Or lightens the load by words of love, 
 
 Since Grandma went away. 
 
 Since Grandma went away, 
 
 The nodding rose above the door 
 
 That saw, when none were nigh, 
 
 A pleading face toward heaven raised, 
 
 Now droops in sorrow, left alone, 
 
 Since Grandma went away. 
 
 — Alma S. Carlson. 
 
 THE BROOM PEDDLER. 
 
 One day, in answer to a brisk knock at the door, I found myself 
 face-to-face with a shambling, portly little man shouldering a stock 
 of brooms. Giving me a penetrating glance, he immediately settled 
 upon his method of attack by glibly reciting the merits of his brooms. 
 In a trice I saw a thousand faults in the faithful broom standing 
 shamefacedly in the corner while the pert newcomer's bristled with 
 importance. It is doubtful to what lengths the peddler's shrewdness 
 
 123 
 
might have led me had he not, fortunately, changed the subject; — 
 "Any old rubbers, ma'am?" Leaving him standing pondering on his 
 next move, I brought forth rubbers enough to pay for three brooms. 
 In the meantime, he had espied a pair of boots which he thought 
 ought to be added to the collection. But finding I had sense enough 
 to refuse that, he bravely insisted upon ten cents into the bargain. 
 By this time my sister was an interested listener, but this last demand 
 was loo much for her justice loving soul. An indignant flush mounted 
 to her forehead, and there was wrath in her voice as she said we 
 \ ould keep the rubbers for the ragman. Not at all abashed, our 
 \ ouldbe merchant, with the quick penetration of his class, seeing tha. 
 drift of affairs and still keeping his covetous eyes upon the rubbers, 
 vary blandly offered a broom in even exchange. Somewhat mollified 
 by this, we parted with the rubbers and took the broom. Nor was 
 it long before we saw how completely we had been taken in. Since 
 then, at our house, the traveling merchant, encounters a supercilious 
 fciare, and his generous offers meet with a cold rebuff. — Alma S. 
 Carlson. 
 
 THEIR FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 1 lie knife blade was really angry- Although always noted for 
 timer, he had never lost it before in the presenca of his wife, the 
 stag horn handle. She was such a transparent little creature that 
 she could not conceal her apprehension when she perceived that the 
 blade was on his mettle. To his first cutting remarks she made no 
 answer; but, as his tones grew sharper, she said gently: "My dear 
 husband! calm yourself. This display of temper can only injure you. 
 What is the matter?" "You can ask what the matter is! haven't I 
 been on edge all day, and didn't I narrowly escape a grinding from 
 that silly boy? My lucky slip just saved me." The mild handle was 
 roused. "Yes, when out of my control, you always cut and slash. I 
 saw how you pretended to slip just to give poor Johnny a deep gash 
 in his finger. And I was glad that your face grew red as you turned 
 frcm your wicked deed. You try to cut a fine figure, but I know that 
 at heart you are cold and cruel. As this is our first quarrel, let me 
 rem nd you of a few things. Not many years ago, you were far 
 beneath my notice, and, as I was game, you never dared approach me. 
 S'rue then you entered the world, came into contact with its refining 
 influences, and acquired the polish of civilization. Soon I lost my 
 high position, and, after your numerous relatives had brought all 
 their influence to bear upon me, I became your wife; and what a life 
 I have led, chilled by your coldness or frightened by your temper! 
 yet here I must remain to receive you. Look at these wrinkles! do 
 you know what brought them?" Without deigning a reply, he turned 
 his back to her. But soon he began thinking of the many knocks 
 and blows the frail creature had endured for his sake, until his heart 
 softened, and, stealing his arm about her, while her head found its 
 
 124 
 
accustomed resting place upon his shoulder, he spoke, soft and low 
 words intended for her ear alone.— Alma S. Carlson. 
 
 WHAT FIDO SAW. 
 
 The Baby and I had fallen asleep. Hearing a rustling and a tip- 
 toeing about the room, I was soon wide-awake, but, when I knew that 
 my mistress was there. I opened only one eye, when she came near 
 me, to let her know that I was still on guard. Presently all became 
 quiet again, and I slept until the cooing of the baby awakened me, 
 and there, close by the crib, I saw an impudent one-eyed fellow star- 
 ing at Baby, who was crowing and smiling up into his face; but the 
 fellow stood stock-still, and never took his eye off him. Then the 
 Baby showed all his dimples and finally managed to uncover his pink 
 toes, but even that made no impression upon the impertinent fellow. 
 All the while I was keeping my eye on him, ready to jump if he should 
 move, for I didn't like his looks, and thought he had no business there. 
 As a last inducement the Baby stretched out his chubby arms but 
 he stood as unmoved as before. Well, that was too much for me, so 
 I began to bark. Then my mistress came hurrying into the room, 
 followed by a tall man, who immediately took the one-eyed fellow in 
 hand. He jerked him back, threw a cloth over his staring eye and 
 did something to the back of his head. Then the tall man seemed to 
 relent, for, while my mistress held up the Baby in front, he took off 
 the cloth and let the poor fellow take one long look before he doubled 
 him up and carried him out of the room. 1 couldn't understand what 
 it all meant, and I barked so furiously that my mistress put me out 
 of doors. When my master came home I heard her tell him that Mr. 
 
 X had been ther e with his camera, and that he had taken the 
 
 baby's picture.— Alma S. Carlson. 
 
 WHAT THE ROBIN SAID. 
 
 Listen now, and I will tell you 
 What the Robin said to me, 
 
 When I heard him singing, calling, 
 On the blossom-laden tree. 
 
 As he swung, and as he warbled 
 Forth his song of pure delight, 
 
 "Life," he said, "is filled with beauty, 
 Clear, the summer sky, and bright. 
 
 "Sorrows often come unbidden, 
 Flee from them while yet you may. 
 
 Live and love amid the sunshine 
 Of this happy, golden day. 
 125 
 
"Blossoms do not last forever; 
 
 They will wither, they will fall. 
 Gather now the rosy cluster; 
 
 Here's enough for one and all. 
 
 "Take away a fragrant memory 
 
 Of this orchard old and dear, 
 Very soon you'll see before you 
 
 Only meadows brown and sear." 
 
 Then the Robin warbled softly 
 
 Of a nest so neat and trim, 
 And a dainty little madam 
 
 Who was waiting there for him. 
 
 — Hester E. Benn. 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 "Howdy, Mrs. Blake, howdy. I heerd you was sick, so I thought 
 I'd run in a spell. How are you to-day? Not feelin' so well? You 
 do look powerful bad, that's a fact. Isn't it awful how much deadly 
 disease there is about? Jim was complainin' of rheumatiz last night, 
 an' I just told him we oughter be mighty thankful nothin' serious was 
 the matter with us. There isn't a doctor in this town that I'd trust to' 
 tend a sick cat. You have Dr. Brown? In my opinion he's the wust 
 one of the hull lot. He hasn't been out of school long enough to know 
 anything, an' he thinks he knows it all. Now my cousin Sim is a 
 doctor that is a doctor. None of your old homothetic ones. But he's 
 in California now. That's where your daughter is, isn't it? Next 
 time you write tell her about Sim, so when she gets sick she can have 
 some one she can trust. I should think she'd hate to be so far from 
 home when you're not well, for fear something might happen. She 
 couldn't even git here in time for the fun'ral. You don't think you're 
 dyin' yet? I hope not, but one can never tell about sich things. My 
 sister Jane wasn't as sick as you be, and she went off in less than a 
 week. She had a good doctor, too. There's that hateful old Miss 
 Martin ^comin' up the walk. Don't she nearly drive you distracted? 
 She's such an old gossip. I never could endure her, so I guess I won't 
 stay no longer. Well, I'm glad I dropped in, for you look quite cherked 
 up now. I alius like company when I'm sick, 'cause I don't get so 
 down in the mouth then. I'll run in agin to-morrow. Good-day." — 
 Hester E. Benn. 
 
 WHAT THE -RAIN-DROPS SAY. 
 
 Listen to the rain-drops fall, 
 Pitter, patter, hear them call, 
 "Stay indoors and do not fret; 
 Come outside and brave the wet. 
 126 
 
"'Stay indoors and study hard. 
 Come outside with no regard 
 For the weather and the cold, 
 Twill not hurt a youth so bold. 
 
 "Do not think we'll do you harm; 
 Come outside with no alarm, 
 For we're not so very big, 
 And you need not 'care a fig.' 
 
 "That to class you now must go, 
 If your lesson well you know. 
 If you know it not at all, 
 Do not go to 'Varsity Hall, 
 
 "For your prof, will mark you down, 
 Look on you with many a frown. 
 Better far to stay at home, 
 Never more from there to roam." 
 
 Listen to the rain-drops fall, 
 
 Pitter, patter, hear them call, 
 
 "Stay indoors and do not fret; 
 
 Come outside and brave the wet." —Hester E. Benn. 
 
 "UNCLE BILLY." 
 
 Uncle Billy stepped back and gazed proudly at the monument. He 
 thought it a handsome affair, and only regretted that he would not be 
 able to see it completed, for now one date was lacking. Clearing his 
 throat, he read the inscription aloud, "William B. Porter. Born Feb 
 
 10th, 1830. Died " and then he stopped, thinking that before 
 
 many months this space, too, would be filled. The thought did not 
 make him sad, for he desired only one thing more, and, since Decora- 
 tion Day was so near at hand, that surely would be accomplished 
 The day came, and Billy marched with the other old soldiers, every 
 moment expecting them to turn aside and decorate his monument, but 
 the leader, who was Billy's next-door neighbor, declared that "it would 
 be foolish to decorate a live man's grave," and so had placed no flag 
 upon the spot. When Billy realized that they had really passed it by, 
 he left the ranks, wildly indignant. "Wasn't his monument there, and 
 hadn't he served his country as well as any one could have done? 
 Why, he had been crippled ever since the war, and now, now, to think 
 that they would put no flowers upon his monument! It was a shame, a 
 burning shame, to treat an old soldier like him in such a way! He 
 would never forgive them, no, never, and he would never march with 
 them again." Billy never did march with them again, but the next 
 
 127 
 
year the old soldiers decorated his grave far more handsomely than 
 that of any of the others. — Hester E. Benn. 
 
 TO THE ORIOLE. 
 
 You saucy little bird, 
 
 You're ever on the wing; 
 1 wonder where you came from, 
 
 And how you learned to sing. 
 
 You tilt there on the branches, 
 
 And seem now sad, now gay; 
 You trill a dainty litle song, 
 
 Then nod and fly away. 
 
 The golden gleams of gladness, 
 
 Found in the buttercup; 
 The pathos of the violet, 
 
 You truly often sup. 
 
 The tinkling of the drops 
 
 Of silvery sounding rain: 
 The mystic music of the brook, 
 
 That runs to meet the main; 
 
 The sorrows of the heart; 
 
 The yearnings of the soul — 
 All cadence find in thy sweet song, 
 
 Thou pretty oriole. 
 
 Art thou a pilgrim spirit, 
 
 Sent here on earth to roam, 
 To sing to us the angels' songs, 
 
 Heard in thy native home? 
 
 Night stealeth on apace, 
 
 And I must leave the knoll, 
 But thou sing on amid the leaves, 
 
 Thou spirit oriole. — M. A. Hinkel. 
 
 UNCLE ABNER'S HAT. 
 
 It happened this way. The two sons, attending an Eastern col- 
 lege, having decided that it would add considerable to their dignity if 
 their farmer father would "put on just a bit more style," purchased 
 and sent to the old man a shining new silk hat. When the box con- 
 taining the gift appeared, old Abner took off his steel-bowed spectacles, 
 wiped them, and then mopped his sunburned face with his turkey red 
 
 128 
 
handkerchief. After looking at the strange object first with one eye 
 and then with the other, just as a chicken examines a worm, he ex- 
 claimed, "Wal, what's the thing fer, anyway?" "Why, father," cried 
 his wife, "that's a stove-pipe hat, just the kind the dead deacon wore." 
 With a shrug the old man picked up the curious object in his horny 
 hands, and then, upon being urged by his wife, consented to let the 
 "thing" be perched upon his head. For a moment he sat looking very 
 guilty, then with a jerk he snatched off the offending object, thrust it 
 into its box. and went out to attend to the calf. This was Saturday. 
 Sunday he was to drive to town, and after church, was to meet his two 
 sons, who were coming home, and expected him to wear his shining 
 silk hat. Sad and solemn did old Abner look as he slowly walked to- 
 wards the great red barn Sunday morning. He seemed absent-minded; 
 he did not pat Sal on the neck, nor stroke Mol's glossy coat, as was his 
 custom. He led the horses slowly up to the house, and then thought- 
 fully pumped a basin full of water from the wheezy well. As he delib- 
 erately and seriously wiped his hands on the long towel hanging on a 
 huge nail by the door, "new courage arose in his soul" and he spake to 
 his beaming wife, saying, "Cynthia, I can't wear that hat." "Why, 
 Abner, of course you can; why, what 'ud the dear boys say, now that 
 they went and got it for you? Of course you'll wear it." And hasten- 
 ing to bring the unwelcome object, she placed it upon her crestfallen 
 spouse's head with the words, "There now, you do look for all the world 
 like the poor dead deacon." Poor Abner, going sheepishly down the 
 gravel walk, followed by his beaming, portly wife, looked very much 
 like a naughty school-boy being driven out for a thrashing. His green- 
 ish coat hung dejectedly upon his stooping shoulders, his shining trous- 
 ers, to-day, seemed to shrink in horror from contact with the bare 
 earth. Only his great raw-hide boots looked full of contentment and 
 satisfaction. Approaching the team, Abner scudded around the back 
 of the carriage, hastily placed his new hat upon the seat, and then 
 walked boldly up to the horses to unhitch them. As he drove out of 
 the yard, the little bantam rooster flew upon a post and seemed to laugh 
 at him; as he dashed by the lower pasture the cows seemed to stare, 
 while the young colts seemed to prance about mocking him. They 
 reached the church. People whispered; the younger men giggled, the 
 religious old men looked sad. Even the little white meeting-house 
 with its open windows looked shocked. Abner crept sheepishly to his 
 pew, trying his best to hide the new hat. The pastor spoke on "Van- 
 ity" and seemed to address all his remarks to the trembling Abner. As 
 the words, "Yea, brethren, vanity is worse than deceit, worse than 
 theft," fell upon the ears of the congregation, a bright gleam of hope 
 shot across the guilty man's face. Abner clutched his hat, thrust it 
 as far as possible under his coat, whispered to his wife that he thought 
 he had forgotten to tie the horses, and then tip-toed as quietly as pos- 
 sible out of church. He crept to the old well at the side of the meet- 
 
 L29 
 
ing-house, looked cautiously about, seemed at first to search for some- 
 thing he could not find, then went to his team, took out the weight, 
 returned to the well, pulled up a board very carefully, and suddenly 
 there was heard a heavy thump and splash. Then all was silence. 
 
 Abner's two sons and all the people of the neighborhood are still 
 wondering who stole the old man's hat. The worthy parson spoke the 
 next Sunday about a sheep that was going_astray, led by the glittering 
 shams of the world, telling how the weak one had been brought back to 
 the fold before he had wandered far, and closing with the solemn 
 words, "God works in a mysterious way his wonders to perform."— 
 M. E. Hinkel. 
 
 A STORY OF THE CLOUDS. 
 
 For many days all the earth seemed sullen. The little leaves clung 
 dejectedly to the outstretched arms of their mother-tree. The clouds, 
 hanging about the heavens, grew pale in idleness. The indifferent sun 
 went to sleep under the fleecy gray coverlets during the day, and at 
 night the young moon had not courage enough to try to come out. 
 Dame Nature was, indeed, in a pessimistic mood when the storm-king 
 dashed by on the back of the north-east wind, driving the languid clouds 
 before him, causing the trees to whisper excitedly, and leaving the very 
 heavens staring at him in blue-eyed amazement. Whence he or his 
 furious charger came, or whither they were bound, no one ever knew. 
 But in a few moments they had swept the sky clear of all discontent, 
 leaving just one cloud, black with passion, in angry pursuit of a tiny, 
 fragile cloudlet. For a long time this great cloud had been very ugly, 
 growling at everything that passed his way. Now, in his fury, he had 
 hurled a lightning spear at the trembling cloudlet by his side. At 
 first the wounded, weeping cloudlet stood meekly still, and then she 
 moved slowly away. Now the cloud's brow grew dark when he saw 
 that she was going to leave him. Enraged, he hurled another shaft, and 
 then pursued her fleeing form. Seeing that all her friends had fol- 
 lowed the storm-king, and that she had no one to whom she could cling 
 for protection, the trembling cloudlet was beginning to grow very pale, 
 when she suddenly caught a glimpse of the departing god of light. 
 
 She had often heard of the divine beauty of the god of morn and 
 sunset, but had never yet beheld him in all his glory. Gathering her 
 flying robes about her, and speeding towards him, she soon overtook 
 his flaming chariot, and then stood awed in the presence of her pro- 
 tector, the beautiful Phoebus-Apollo, who looked upon her with such a 
 kindly, radiant smile that she forgot her fears and flight, and in glow- 
 ing loveliness reflecting his every change of feature she waited on his 
 will. Then the cloud drew nigh; he seemed repentant now, now sad, 
 but as he gently crept nearer to the beautiful cloudlet he appeared to 
 grow happier and more and more like the god he looked upon. At last 
 the cloud and cloudlet stood side by side; no longer in anger or strife, 
 
 i;;o 
 
but in divine harmony, and beholding glories of tin other world they 
 "trembling, passed in beauty out of sight." 
 
 Then the dainty leaves, who had been watching the pursuit in 
 
 breathless wonder, seeing that the pretty cloudlet and the glorified 
 cloud were reunited and happy, trembled, and shed little joyous tear- 
 drops which fell upon the earth below, while the tiny streams, be- 
 neath the trees, began to dimple with satisfaction and merriment. 
 Then, after a gentle zephyr had crept among the trees and told them 
 all about the quarrel of the clouds and their meeting with the beau- 
 tiful sun-god, and after all the leaves had whispered and wondered, a 
 •'holy calm.*' a '"deep hush" fell over all, and nature closed her eyes in 
 sweetest sleep. — M. E. Hinkel. 
 
 FOR PEARL IS A GIRL. 
 
 To climb a tree, oh, great delight. 
 When no dread dragon is in sight! 
 To scale the wooden wind-mill high, 
 Then give a jump and try to fly; 
 To leap across a purling stream. 
 Sometimes falling with a scream; — 
 I tell thee true, she dares not do. 
 For Pearl is a girl. 
 
 To load the hay upon the rack; 
 To ride a prancing horse bare-back; 
 To w r histle like a whip-poor-will; 
 To laugh and shout and sing until 
 The very woods take up the note 
 Thus falling from her merry throat; 
 I tell thee true, she dares not do. 
 For Pearl is a girl. 
 
 A fleecy, patted ball of snow 
 At any passing man to throw; 
 Tops and marbles oft to "swipe"; 
 To make a great, big, ugly pipe; 
 To make a pet of a slippery snake; 
 To steal the company's jelly-cake; — 
 I tell thee true, she dares not do, 
 For Pearl is a girl. 
 
 To practice lessons with such care; 
 To play with dolls with curly hair; 
 To never say one angry word; 
 To speak so low and yet be heard; 
 To sacrifice herself when grown; 
 131 
 
Be always cheerful, never moan; — ■ 
 I tell thee true., she must so do, 
 
 For Pearl is a girl. — M. E. Hinkel. 
 
 COLONEL. 
 
 The young people always enjoyed attending the first revival meet : 
 ings of the season, for Colonel and his dog were sure to be there. 
 Colonel was a queer old man, with his coarse, red wig suspended over 
 his left ear by a greasy black shoe-string knotted beneath his fat and 
 flabby chin. As a Southern soldier, he had lost his right leg, and had 
 received, after the war, the title of "Colonel." The commanding old 
 fellow had a special mania for being converted. In these days of 
 peace, it supplied for him the excitement and the happiness that a safe 
 escape from a Yankee regiment afforded him during the war. As he 
 appears, followed by his skulking dog, with its tail between its legs and 
 its ears drooping in a cowardly manner, and then, as he thumps 
 proudly up the narrow aisle of the little white church, that set of ever- 
 expectant, giggling, wriggling urchins, always perched on the front row 
 of seats, bounce about, and almost lose their balance in hopeful joy. 
 The parson's face grows pale when he sees his imposing rival approach. 
 A look of unsaintly determination settles upon his features. Either 
 the Colonel must be thwarted in his purpose, or else the meeting must 
 be given up to his thirtieth conversion. The poor, lean minister does 
 bravely, bobbing, like a shuttle, from one side of the platform to the 
 other, frantically imploring the people not to let things "lag." But 
 Colonel has come prepared to speak, and speak he must. For is he not 
 like the Ancient Mariner upon whom, 
 
 "At an uncertain hour 
 
 That agony returns; 
 And till his ghastly tale is told 
 
 His heart within him burns"? 
 
 After clearing his throat, "hem, hum," dropping his hickory stick, 
 stretching his left leg, and describing a huge semi-circle with his right, 
 he impressively arises and bides his time. Expectant giggles now 
 burst from the almost disappointed children. Eliza Philips regards, 
 the Colonel with an old-maid glare; the portly matron in the side aisle 
 grabs right and left after her bobbing tow-headed sons; the prim 
 young miss looks disgusted, while the young men prepare for fun. 
 With his tiny, pig-like eyes tightly shut, his uplifted face shining like 
 the full red moon, Colonel refights the Civil War; charges against the 
 enemies' camp with his wooden leg; eloquently resuffers the pangs 
 of unrequited love; reattends the wedding of the son of a friend, tell- 
 ing how he had thought to please the bride and groom by appearing 
 on the scene clad in his military uniform, with his gun upon his 
 
 132 
 
shoulder; laughs again at the remembrance of their dismay and ter 
 ror, till he slightly loses his balance and treads upon the matted tail of 
 his scraggly-looking dog, and then he closes with a touching account 
 of the history of this faithful canine. Occasionally, the limp parson, 
 who had helplessly subsided into a chair, gasps and tries to stem the 
 flood of recollections. The Colonel only increases the volume of his 
 voice. The dog, as if reminded of the old call of the war trumpet, 
 slowly rises, stretches his lean self, fixes his one good eye upon the 
 trembling curate, and gives a dismal howl, at the end of which, with a 
 shiver, he falls into a ragged heap. Now Colonel is happy. His heart 
 has been laid bare, and so has his bald head. His very cranium, re- 
 flecting the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, seems to sparkle from 
 pure joy, while his three gray hairs stand rigidly erect like sentinels 
 surveying the vanquished foe, the deserted field, and the departing 
 wig, which is now huddled about the Colonel's fat neck. The parson 
 and his good people have fled. — M. E. Hinkel. 
 
 THE JEWELS OF THE BRIDE. 
 
 Silas was going to his wedding. There was no doubt but that 
 something extraordinary was about to happen, judging by his fat, 
 glowing face, and his flurried manner. As he puffed and waddled 
 up the gravel walk to the little white church with its green shutters, 
 the little church whose tiny black door had been thrown wide open to 
 receive him, Silas reminded one of a grizzly bear walking upon its 
 hind legs. A huge, good-natured, easy-going fellow never believing in 
 doing to-day what could be put off till to-morrow, he had never before 
 been guilty of hurry, not even in his proposal, postponing it from year 
 to year until, at last, Tabitha, fearing that this too was going to be a 
 case of what she termed that "new-fangled platonic friendship," sim- 
 ply commanded him to meet her before the parson within a week's 
 time. Silas, looking calmly about and coming to the conclusion that 
 there were at present no other fair fields in which he could exercise 
 his grizzly charms, agreed to her proposition, went to the city a few 
 days later to purchase the ring, and returned the same evening with a 
 long, narrow box and a fat, mysterious smile. 
 
 Tabitha had a fondness for jewelry, perhaps because she never 
 possessed any but the large round brooch, which, with its many-col- 
 ored and strangely-set stones, made one think that he was looking 
 into a kaleidoscope, and Silas, who liked to have everybody about him 
 mirror his own contented nature, felt very happy as he now and then 
 pressed his fat left hand upon his breast pocket to see if the box were 
 safe, for* he knew that he was about to delight the heart of his lean 
 lady not alone in her love of man, but in her more passionate love of 
 jewelry, and, in his eagerness to lay at the feet or rather in the hands 
 of her who was to be no longer an old-maid, his dozen of dazzling red, 
 
blue, and green stoned rings purchased in the city, Silas forgot his 
 
 habitual slowness The parson, whose puckered lips and 
 
 up-drawn eyes always made him look as if he were about to swallow a 
 mouthful of vinegar, stood holding the black leather, gilt-edged book, 
 questioning the tall pole-like Tabitha as to whether she would have 
 the fat swain "for better or for worse." She seemed to give her entire 
 attention to the imposing ceremony, while Silas, occasionally forget- 
 ting the well-drilled answers, appeared, by his uneasy twisting and 
 by his look of eager expectation, to have something of more importance 
 than his wedding upon his mind. His eyes, ordinarily looking like the 
 green pulp of squeezed grapes, almost seemed to grow bright, as the mo- 
 ment for the presentation of the ring drew near. Then, at last, when 
 the momentous pause occurred, he gave a true grizzly grunt of satisfac- 
 tion and glee, drawing from his pocket the long, mysterious box. The 
 people in the back of the little church stood upon tiptoe to see what 
 was the cause of the excitement; the woman who always looked as if 
 she were just recovering from a violent fit of coughing, forgot to wipe 
 her eyes, while the freckled-faced lad, whose large mouth was invari- 
 ably wide open, in the anxiety to see what the box contained, snapped 
 his rows of sharp teeth together, forgetting that his tongue was in the 
 way. The proud moment of Silas's life had come. The little speech, 
 "With these rings I take thee for my wedded wife" had been forgotten. 
 He could think of nothing but the happy surprise he had in the box 
 for his bride. Thrusting the long case into her hands, and feeling that 
 she would rejoice in his bargain, he cried triumphantly, "There, Ta- 
 bitha, I got you a whole dozen for a dollar." Tabitha did not faint. 
 For a moment she stood debating the question to be a bride or not to 
 be. But as she never believed in doing anything by halves, she quickly 
 decided not to renounce Silas and all his rings, "dazzling stones, disal- 
 lowed indeed of men," but chosen of Silas and gaudy. She had agreed 
 to take him for worse if need be, and here was her first opportunity. 
 Many rings there were, but one was chosen. The ceremony continued, 
 Silas rejoicing in the jewels of his bride. — Martha B. Hinkel. 
 
 QUAINT AUBURN. 
 
 The most important part of Auburn is the court-yard. Oil the 
 south, east, and west sides of this public square are the prim white 
 houses, with their vine-clad porches and their neat picket fences, all 
 reminding one of trim little maidens in starched Sunday dresses. 
 These little cottages with their two front windows really seem to stare 
 in child-like simplicity and surprise at the ugly, red court-house, 
 perched in the middle of the yard. On Main street, which is^north of 
 this public square, one finds the largest building in town, — that of 
 blind Sam Butler, who will sell anything from a new '95 model bicycle 
 down to a dish-pan, or from a half-yard of green cotton ribbon to a 
 
 134 
 
quart of molasses. Next to Sam's store, with its one fly-specked win- 
 dow, is Brown's place, where one can order cither thrashing-machines 
 or coffins. Beside that frame structure, and leaning against it for sup- 
 port, is the next and last place of business in the hamlet, — the a 
 village smithy. In front of this and near the town pump is al^ 
 seen a tall, lanky person, clad in blue-jeans. This man either lies upon 
 the sidewalk, with his head against a half-chewed hitching-post and 
 his body kinked, so that it looks like a crooked letter Z, or else he shs 
 dangling his long, lean legs over the edge of the walk. Do not censure 
 him. He has nothing else to do. He is the Mayor. Near him. and 
 usually tilted back in a weather-beaten chair, is a little, "dried-up," 
 lame edd fellow, the one policeman of the town. Just now a woman, 
 who has lately moved into this village, complains to this guardian of 
 the peace that some mischievous urchins have been throwing stones, 
 trying to kill her cat. The policeman drawls, as he jerks forward in 
 his chair and pokes with his hickory stick at the shaggy black dog, 
 dozing at his side, "Wall, you bring the fellers up here to me, and find 
 out their names, and I'll arrest them for you." With this comforting 
 answer he rises with a yawn, hobbles over to the Mayor, lying on his 
 back, and after exchanging a few words about the "proverbial rein- 
 sterm" he shuffles in to watch the smith shoe the doctor's "new horse." 
 
 The inhabitants of Auburn are firmly convinced of the value and 
 justice of the division of labor, and they never believe in humoring 
 the whims or indisposition of any person or thing. At each of the four 
 corners of the public square is suspended a kerosene lamp. In the 
 court-house is hung a huge calendar on which the days, or rather 
 nights, are marked when the moon shines. Never, not even when the 
 wind howls furiously and the trees bend low. nor when the blinding 
 lightning flashes over the pale white houses, or the roaring thunder 
 shakes the rickety smithy, nor when the rain and snow beat madly 
 against the lonely court-house, "never, oh, never," will the inhabitants 
 agree to let these kerosene Tamps be lighted, if it is the duty of the 
 moon to illuminate the town that night. 
 
 The most advantageous time to visit this little hamlet is on a 
 summer's evening, about seven o'clock, for then everybody from the 
 trembling grandma, whose wrinkled face smiles gently from her tiny 
 black bonnet with its bunch of violets, down to the wee infant in long 
 dresses, trimmed deeply Avith home-made lace, everybody — the bashful, 
 sun-burned youths and the giggling maidens — issues from his re- 
 spective home, and parades round and round the public square, until 
 the very stars seem to grow dizzy and begin to blink, 
 
 Then "they homeward all take off their several way, 
 And the youngling cottagers return to rest." 
 Thus "these people, free from care, serene and gay, 
 Pass all their mild, untroubled hours away." 
 
 — M. E. Hinkel. 
 
 135 
 
WHO KNOWS? WHO CARES? 
 
 The tall trees with their thin coats of ice shivered as the mad- 
 dened wind in wanton fury hurled the helpless snow-flakes round and 
 round their heads or dashed them against the cold tombstones at their 
 feet. The weird and sullen silence in the graveyard was broken only 
 by the howling of the frustrated gale. Night had come. To the lone 
 black figure tottering away from a newly-made mound, a mound not 
 yet covered by the cold white shroud, night had indeed come. Nobody 
 seemed to think that the poor woman who entered the car mid a 
 gust of snow, the trembling woman with a thin, faded shawl drawn 
 tightly about her bent shoulders, and with a coarse black veil hiding 
 her tear-stained face, the humble little woman, who shrank timidly 
 into the farthest corner of the seat, as if to take up as little space as 
 possible, — nobody seemed to think that she had a heart, and nobody 
 seemed to care. Just for a moment two wee, curly-haired lassies 
 turned about, and with hands primly folded in their tiny laps, sat star- 
 ing at the shrinking figure opposite them, and then, puckering their 
 rosy mouths and trying to frown, they twisted around again with the 
 whispered exclamation, "What a funny old lady!" and immediately 
 resumed their interesting occupation of scraping the sparkling frost 
 from the whitened window-panes. Nobody cared. Who saw the red, 
 rough hand with the stunted nails and swollen veins? Who saw this 
 toil-stained hand hastily dash away the obstinate tears? Who cared? 
 Who knew that she had left the graveyard, and that she was mourn- 
 ing for — was it parent, husband, or child? Who could know? Who 
 saw the thin blue lips move as if in prayer? Who heard the stifled, 
 agonized cry, "Is there a God? And does he care?" — M. E. Hinkel. 
 
 THE MOON SHOULD NOT GET FULL. 
 
 It is indeed a sad state of affairs when one whose "virgin mod- 
 esty" has been lauded by the seers of all climes — the poets, "who see 
 through life and death," — when such a one weakly yields to the fiery 
 influence of the sun and gets full. Men undoubtedly thought, when 
 they praised her in past ages, that she was young, and would soon 
 change her fickle ways, and that a little encouragement would help 
 her, but this has not proved to be the case. We might be persuaded 
 to forgive her did she dissipate but once or twice in a life time, but 
 when she regularly indulges twelve or thirteen times a year we despair 
 of reform. By her unmaidenly act she will eventually ruin her repu- 
 tation. When full, she is bold and rude, forgetting her proper sphere, 
 throwing back the mysterious, dark veil which, like that of Orient 
 women, was meant to enhance her beauty and to hide her full virgin 
 loveliness from the midnight world, in unmaidenly reserve throwing 
 her veil aside, she discloses her face, now either blowzed and red or 
 wan and thin, and then rudely stares down upon lonely lake-side stroll- 
 
 136 
 
ers. In her full state, she also gives way to pride and selfishness, 
 coldly glaring about her, seeking to outshine and dazzle her humble, 
 blinking brothers and sisters, while it is her Christian duty, as a heav- 
 enly body •'in honor to prefer" her brother. Other results Of this mis- 
 erable habit of hers arc her growing indolence and recklessness. She 
 never arises tube from the same place, thus showing her increasing 
 vagrant tendencies. Getting up at all hours, like man in a similar 
 state she is never able exactly to retrace her path of the night before. 
 It may be said that "all things human change," that man therefore likes 
 variety, and that the moon pleases him by her varying moods. This is 
 not the case. Man admires the moon for her loveliness, he enjoys 
 looking at her. for it is indeed true that "a thing of beauty is a joy 
 forever." but nevertheless he softly sighs as he slowly shakes his head 
 and murmurs, "Ah, she is divine but fickle." Lastly, as a member of 
 the celestial sphere, the moon, by her action, sets a very bad example 
 for her "poor, earth-born companions," for, seeing a heavenly body 
 which ought to be a paragon of perfection, seeing such a heavenly body 
 "full." will not man conclude that he, too, has a right to be in a similar 
 state? Therefore since it encourages her in her indolence and in her 
 vagaries; since it is not maidenly; since it will eventually ruin her 
 reputation as a modest virgin; since it does not coincide with man's 
 idea of womanly perfection; and above all, since, as a dweller in the 
 heavenly realms, she ought to be a model for mortals, I maintain that 
 the moon should not get full.— M. E. Hinkel. 
 
 WILL. 
 
 The most striking feature of Will is his enormous shock of yellow 
 hair, which looks like a wheat field struck by a tornado. Underneath 
 this tangled mass dance two very dark blue eyes full of fun and mis- 
 chief. Will's mouth is huge, and when opened to its fullest extent, dis- 
 closes twenty-eight large, white teeth. His queer, box-shaped nose, 
 with its swarm of freckles, reminds one of a hive with hovering bees. 
 Will, a well developed lad of seventeen, is a city boy transplanted into a 
 tiny country village. He is of a genial nature, patting and praising 
 the horses of the various farmers, tossing the little children up into 
 the air, and setting them clown with a "huge smack," while the beam- 
 ing mammas stand and watch him in shining enjoyment; eulogizing 
 the "wonderful butter" and "ambrosial angels' food" of certain 
 old maids and leading prayer meeting for the pious parson, who tot- 
 ters about in rusty lankiness. Everybody likes him, and when he 
 approaches a crowd of people, all smile and give him a hearty welcome. 
 Will has perfect control over the muscles of his face, and, when about 
 to play some huge joke, wears the solemn expression of a pall-bearer. 
 His well-brushed clothes and neatly kept though large hands tell that 
 he is rather careful. Naturally Will dislikes work, but for this very 
 
 137 
 
reason believes in "doing things up in a hurry and doing them well S3 
 that father won't make me do them over again." When through with 
 the day's labor, he enjoys sitting under a large persimmon-tree with 
 three or four "pickaninnies" dangling from the branches overhead, 
 several smaller boys gamboling upon the grass, innumerable wide-eyed 
 and wide-mouthed black and white lassies, with rag dolls and a dog 
 or two, listening to his marvelous stories about the wonderful city, 
 where the cars run over people every day, where policemen keep par- 
 ents from punishing their' children, and where candy and ice-cream 
 may be obtained on any street. In the eyes of the new maidens, 
 especially, King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table fade into 
 insignificance when compared with Will and his followers. As this 
 mischievous, fun-loving lad finishes his astonishing stories, the amazed 
 children leave him with puzzled faces, and in whispers wonder how the 
 great city can possibly exist without their hero, Will. — M. E. Hinkel. 
 
 SKETCHES AT "THE ELMS." NO. 1. 
 
 With a welcoming squeak the door swings open, and we are re- 
 ceived with good old New York cordiality by "Aunt Mollie," — every 
 one calls her "aunt" — who by this time is somewhat flustrated at the 
 thought of entertaining company. A maiden lady of seventy, she is 
 short of stature, with her once black hair now besprinkled with gray, 
 with deep-set, dreamy blue eyes, and with cheeks and mouth hollowed 
 by loss of teeth. But any lines of ugliness in features are erased by a 
 homely benignity of countenance, which, together with the deep lines 
 of care traced in her forehead, bespeaks a life of patient and loving 
 service in the household. Yes, Aunt Mollie had been a faithful daugh- 
 ter. All of her sisters had left "the Elms" for homes of their own, but 
 it had fallen to her lot to keep the old nest in order. Putting away 
 every treasured ambition of her girlhood, without complaint she had 
 become the only support of the declining years of an aged mother. 
 Forgotten by the world, for she seldom left the home, she had minis- 
 tered to the many childish whims of her charge night and day, year 
 in and year out. Finally, one bleak November day, that mother of 
 ninety-six had left her alone. With sighs of relief the neighbors had 
 said, "At last her great burden is removed." But, after the funeral 
 Aunt Mollie had returned to an empty house and to a life left vacant. 
 Yes, vacant, for had she not finished her task of love? Beyond this 
 could there be any pleasure in staying? Yet she lives on, and this 
 balmy May morning she unconsciously is teaching us a lesson. Leav- 
 ing us to our own enjoyment on the porch, she soon appears in the 
 front yard, tottering along with a pail of water and a dipper. Now 
 with scrupulous care she pours a little here and there on the "posy 
 beds," just as her mother used to do in former years, and a gingham 
 sun-bonnet hides from the world the silent devotion of her face. — 
 H. H. Frost. 
 
 138 
 
SKETCHES AT "THE ELMS." NO. 2. 
 
 We cannot be contented to sit upon the porch very long with such 
 surroundings. A spacious yard lies before us, whose green coat shows 
 the curved, weary cutting of the scythe. No lawn-mower or roller 
 Every hummock and hollow is left just as nature pleased; and, 
 as sve start down across the grass, we are nearly tripped by these 
 irregularities, as they playfully remind us that we are no longer in the 
 city with its monotonous conventionalities. Here and there the green 
 is mottled with spreading patches of violets, and awfully we hesitate 
 to step upon their royal purple carpet. But, if nature has been lavish 
 in her gifts at our feet, even more she fills us with reverent delight at 
 what she has placed above us. Six great elms tower nearly one hun- 
 dred feet above us, like valiant sentinels keeping watch over the little 
 farm-house beneath them. Their huge trunks challenge the might of 
 the "'Northwester," and with knotted muscles their great roots reach 
 every way far into the soil to obtain a sure hold. In graceful curves 
 they extend their branches to the dizzy heights and seem never to tire 
 of holding mottled shade over you. But whence comes that joyful 
 note? Ah! far up yonder, suspended from the little finger of a great 
 limb, swaying gracefully with the fragrant breezes, is the hanging nest 
 of the oriole. No wonder his heart overflows with rapture, as, sitting 
 on a neighboring branch, he surveys the beauty and peaceful comfort 
 of his summer home! Now a passing breeze, catching up the fragrance 
 of violet, grass, and orchard, and mixing it with the sweet strains of 
 the oriole and robin, flaunts the happy combination in our faces with 
 hoydenish glee. — H. H. Frost. 
 
 SKETCHES AT "THE ELMS." NO. 3. 
 
 But if the front yard with its rolling lawn and its lofty elms is 
 attractive, the space back of the house is no less interesting. The 
 square plot, bounded on the north and east by the wiiigs of the house, 
 has for its center-piece a large "flower-bed," so called, which, however, 
 is composed almost entirely of shrubs and trees. At one side a large 
 pear tree in full bloom vies in fragrance with the peonies and daffodils. 
 From near the center of the bed a tall, pole-like tree arises with no 
 branches except its long, palm-like leaves near the top. This is a 
 peculiar specimen of nature with as strange a name, "the Devil's Walk- 
 ing-Stick." A few feet from the back wing of the house stands an old 
 shed, weather-beaten and sinking into the ground with its heavy con- 
 tents, being filled with the summer's wood, which wafts toward you 
 the fragrance of beech and maple forests. Nearly in the corner, 
 formed by the ell of the house, stands the old pump. We work its 
 handle up and down until our faces are red, when, with a mixture of 
 squeaks, groans, and much w r heezing, it finally repays our exertion with 
 
 139 
 
a refreshing drink. Near by is the cool, inviting cellar-door, sending 
 forth the savory odors of a well-supplied larder and of a neatly-kept 
 creamery. Hanging from a low limb of a near apple tree is a clean 
 white cloth containing a cottage cheese in process of preparation for 
 the evening meal. Beneath a large bush at the edge of the flower bed 
 a haughty "Plymouth Rock" with enthusiastic ado is reproving the 
 feminine members of his flock for their timidity in robbing the cats' 
 dish, while pussy lies in the sun near by in sleepy indifference. But 
 farther from the house is possibly the most attractive spot at "the 
 Elms." Several large evergreen trees, planted in the form of a cres- 
 cent, make a screen to the south and west, while to the east stands one 
 of the large graceful elms. In this cool arbor, lying in a hammock, 
 with the song of birds in the branches above — now and then seconded 
 by the contented, jerky song of some happy old hen, with the hum of 
 bees filling the air, and enveloped in the fragrance of orchards and 
 forests, you look up into the blue shimmering through the tree tops, 
 and for the time being utterly forget that earth is anything but peace 
 and happiness. — H. H. Frost. 
 
 SKETCHES AT "THE ELMS." NO. 4. 
 
 The cupola is a room ten feet square with two windows in each 
 side. After opening the windows it is hard for one to say which is 
 the more enjoyable, the refreshing breezes redolent of apple-blossoms 
 or the bird's-eye view of the surrounding country spread like a map 
 about us. The first to attract our attention are the vast stretches of 
 old Ontario, visible through cuts in the forest to the northeast, north, 
 and northwest. Her blue waters lie quietly sunning themselves, as if 
 resting from the surging storms of spring. Several miles out a large 
 propeller with heavy puff is moving slowly along with several schoon- 
 ers in tow. Just above the watery horizon we notice a dark blue strip 
 of haze. With the aid of a field-glass we find that we are viewing the 
 Highlands of Canada some sixty miles away. Now to the north-north- 
 west we plainly see Scarbrow Heights, perpendicular crags on the Can- 
 adian shore rising some three hundred feet above the waves. To the 
 west blooming orchards reach as far as eye can see on either side of 
 the beautiful "Lake Road," and checkered in with these are fields of 
 wheat, oats and barley, with here and there small fields of corn. To 
 the southwest stately forests of beech, maple and elm stand as in 
 marshal array with their bright new spring uniforms. To the south 
 the first thing to catch the eye about two miles away is a neat brick 
 church with lofty spire. Beyond this the attention is drawn some 
 twelve miles distant to the purple forest-crowned "Mountain Ridge." 
 Near at hand we have the farm itself, mapped out before us. A lane 
 of generous width and well lined with cattle paths cuts the one hun- 
 dred and fifty acres into two equal parts by passing from the barn- 
 
 140 
 
yard to the woods at the back end of the place. The two parts are 
 checked off into fields of about fifteen acres each, with hedges of locust, 
 evergreen, and osage-orange. To the southeast extensive forests again 
 shut off the more distant view. Looking east the Lake Road may be 
 followed about three miles by its line of farm-houses, barns, and 
 orchards, until the eye rests upon the little old country village of 
 Somerset, or rather upon its clump of shade trees crowned by two loi ? 
 church spires. Over all the surroundings a peaceful country cal 1 
 holds Bway. No clatter of hoofs, wheels and paving-stones. No rail- 
 roads with their noisy nuisances. No deafening steamer-whistles com- 
 mingled with ringing bells and the excitement of swinging bridges. 
 No. here is rest.— H. H. Frost. 
 
 SKETCHES AT "THE ELMS."' NO. 5. 
 
 The sun i; =lowly sinking below the horizon, tracing a fiery patt 
 across the heavirg bosom of old Ontario. The elms and maples have 
 cea-ed struggl Eg with the parching southwester. and now their weary 
 leaves hang ir Ump festoons of green mingled with the golden sunset. 
 The wind-mill wheel, which has kept up a dizzy whirl all day, has 
 ceased its rhv hmlc clicking and its monotonous squeaking, and now 
 shares in the evening quiet. The cows with long expirations lie down 
 in the barn-yard and sleepily chew their cuds. The horses, dusty and 
 tired with the dav's labor, having been turned into the pasture, have 
 taken their evening roll and are now peacefully feeding. The song 
 and cackle of "Chickendom" have ceased and its quiet is disturbed only 
 by the occasional lullaby croonings of its mayor. The evening milking 
 being done the two hired men have stretched their weary bodies at full 
 length upon the lawn and, looking up into the tinted heavens above, 
 have forgotten their prosaic routine of labor. From under the front 
 stone steps has come the weather prophet of "the Elms," a king of 
 the toad tribe. Quietly hopping along the stone walk, now and then 
 he stops to survey with bulging eyes the prospects for rain. On the 
 topmost limb of the tallest elm robin redbreast sits pouring forth his 
 evening song of praise. Uncle Jim and Aunt Mollie sit quietly upon 
 the porch watching the shifting scenery of the sunset, while the deep 
 wrinkles in their faces disappear before its magic, golden light. Labor 
 is over and forgotten. The promised rest has come. The quiet is per- 
 fect, for it is broken only by the song of contentment and peace.— 
 
 H. H. Frost. 
 
 "SANDY" CARMICHAEL. 
 
 "Sandy" Carmichel always had the breath of the heathen about 
 
 bim, excepting after he had fallen in with an old acquaintance, when 
 
 more than likely to be perfumed with the best "auld Scotch 
 
 wills' cy that the market afforded. At such a time he was apt to be- 
 
 141 
 
come m&re jovial than usual, and forgetting that he was Scotch, he 
 would loose his tongue. "Sandy'.' was proud of his race, and, although 
 his early education had been neglected, he could talk quite intelligently 
 upon any phase of Scottish history. In the town in which I first met 
 "Sandy" is a small library, upon whose dusty shelves are less than a 
 thousand well-worn books. "Sandy's" thumb has marked many of 
 them, and the librarian told me that, after a prolonged spree, he would 
 come to the library, secure an armful of books, and then be lost to the 
 world for days at a time. 
 
 "Sandy's" wife was a large woman and the terror of his drinking 
 hours. Every time the saloon door opened "Sandy" involuntarily 
 trembled, firmly convinced that the terror had come. After several 
 false alarms, she would come, and as soon as he could control his quak- 
 ing limbs, "Sandy" would accompany her lamblike to the slaughter, 
 his piteous bleats always being the signal for a goodly amount of gos- 
 sip among the neighbors, some of whom favored the wife, while others 
 upheld the husband, who, they said, had been driven to drink by the 
 "old hen." 
 
 "Sandy" had been drinking several years, and all hooe of 
 reform had vanished. However, one New Year's morning, with a com- 
 pany of friends, he kept the old Scotch custom of "first-footing." They 
 had wandered from one house to another, giving the greetings of the 
 New Year and receiving in return a liberal reward of whiskey. They 
 had begun the carousal soon after midnight with the tear-compelling 
 strain, "Should auld acquaintance be forgot," and after completing 
 their tour they staggered into their old habitat, the saloon, singing the 
 flagrant prevarication, "We areni foo." "Sandy" was now thoroughly 
 roused. His ancestors had been heroic in battle; so would he be if 
 only opportunity offered. His companions jostled him. He deemed 
 this an insult that no one boasting the blood of a Wallace would tol- 
 erate, and, throwing off his coat, he challenged any one of his weight 
 to fight him. Although angry, "Sandy" was still sensible, and he was 
 politic enough to announce his weight a full stone under what it really 
 was. One of his comrades, more sober than the others, stripped off 
 his coat, and advanced to meet "Sandy" in the improvised ring. There 
 was the sound of crunching snow on the door-step. The latch clicked, 
 and the terror blew in. "Sandy's" nerve failed him. He was com- 
 pletely cowed, and the only answer he could give his deriding mates as 
 he passed out to the slaughter was, "She's no in ma class." — A. W. 
 Campbell. 
 
 "GRANDMA" TENNY. 
 
 In her home town Mrs. Tenny exercises a sovereignty not hers by 
 hereditary right nor by formal election. If she were a man, she would 
 be the village patriarch, but since she is a woman, she is known only 
 
 142 
 
as "Grandma" Tenny. She assumed her pres d po Ition of authorit/ 
 
 years ago when the town was small, and she has retained a firm grasp 
 upon the scepter until the present time. "Grandma" has pronounced 
 Flews regarding the sphere of woman, and resolutely maintains that 
 the gentle sex is as needful to the state as to the home. She herself 
 has occupied the highest office in the gift of her fellow-citizens, an 1 
 there are people still living who will tell you of the exciting timss 
 when she was a member of the board of education. She soon recog- 
 nized her limitations in the realm of politics, but, still yearning for a 
 life of activity, she became a member of the church. Here she found 
 the men few and silent, and she ruled with a rod of iron. First, the 
 choir disbanded, then the Epworth League revolted, and finally the 
 minister, realizing that his lines had not fallen in pleasant places, left 
 for other pastures where he could tend his flock without fear of cen- 
 sorship. "Grandma" continues to wield the scepter over a long-suf- 
 fering, superannuated minister, too weak to rebel, who longs for the 
 return of the days when men, in church as in state, were in the ma- 
 jority. — A. W. Campbell. 
 
 "NO MORE." 
 
 No more the craven critic roasts 
 
 Our coach and football team; 
 No more the glaring headline speaks 
 
 Or' Stagg's men as "the cream." 
 
 No more our color hides its head, 
 
 Nor peeps behind its fringe, 
 For now upon Chicago's field. 
 
 The purple's left its tinge. 
 
 Nr» more the small boy on the street 
 
 Looks up in joyous glee, 
 And lifts his voice to pipe the words, 
 
 "Northwestern is N. G." 
 
 No more our gallant football men, 
 
 With visage grim and set, 
 Sit down to eat their common fare, 
 
 Since Kelly lost his bet. 
 
 No more the co-ed. 's gentle voice 
 
 Is heard our woes to tell; 
 No mora she claps her dainty hands; 
 
 She. too, has learned to yell. 
 
 No more proud Speed his warriors praise. 
 
 And Henry, too, is still; 
 No more Stagg speaks of "practice games", 
 
 For he has drunk his fill. — A. W. Campbell. 
 
 143; ; 
 
A "BUFFALO." 
 
 I started out the other morn 
 
 To walk to college hall, 
 When some one darted up behind, 
 
 And then began to bawl, ** 
 
 "Are you a Buffalo?" 
 
 Though startled by the suddenness 
 
 With which the question came, 
 I plucked up courage to reply 
 
 That I was surely tame. 
 
 "No jesting matter this," quoth he, 
 
 And savage was his mien, 
 "As you'll find out without a doubt 
 
 Before to-night, I ween." 
 
 Then arm in arm, we strode along, 
 
 And he told all the plan 
 By which the noble order grew 
 
 To ever widening span. 
 
 "Signals and grips and passwords, too, 
 
 We have them all," said he, 
 "And they will cost you but a mite 
 
 If you trust yourself to me." 
 
 I gave myself into his hands, 
 
 And also the small fee, 
 But I will not to any tell 
 
 How much he got from me. — A. W. Campbell. 
 
 "TEDDY.' 
 
 Brave "Teddy" took his gun and went 
 
 A-hunting in the West, 
 And every weary soul grew glad; 
 
 We thought we'd have a rest. 
 Our tired eyes once more were bright, 
 
 And each one thanked his Maker; 
 But, oh, hard luck, "Ted" also took 
 
 Five reams of essay paper. 
 
 From break of dawn till darkness comes, 
 
 The forest's in a bustle; 
 The mountain lion's rapid gait 
 
 Betokens "Teddy's" hustle. 
 And now in Colorado's woods, 
 144 
 
The dead game proves the fighter; 
 While high ahove the gun's report 
 Is heard the dread typewriter. 
 
 In Colorado's sunny clime, 
 
 On Cuba's blood-red soil, 
 Our "Teddy" placed his ideal high, 
 
 A life of strenuous toil. 
 And whether the game be boodler bold 
 
 Or the wily mountain sheep; 
 His quarry "on the jump," we pray 
 
 That "Ted" may ever keep. — A. W. Campbell. 
 
 THE LAST CHANCE. 
 
 We had wandered far from the crowded thoroughfare of the city, 
 and we were now on its very edge. We had passed the tenement dis- 
 trict and the suburbs nearer town, and the unsettled prairie lay before 
 us. Behind us, the platform of the elevated railway rose like a spectre 
 in the dusk of the fading day, while farther out was the electric road, 
 along which sped the trolley car. Here and there were rude bleach- 
 ers, dried and warped by the heat of the previous summer, and near 
 them parts of the prairie from which the grass had been worn by the 
 tramp of many feet. There was no sound save that made by the 
 occasional trolley car. At first we could see no sign of any habitation, 
 but a closer survey revealed smoke, issuing from a chimney, almost a 
 mile away. This smoke became our goal. Over muddy roads, and 
 through pastures thick with cockle-burrs that stuck wherever their 
 prickly fingers touched, we trudged, and finally reached the hovel from 
 which the smoke issued. It was a peculiar building, a combination 
 dwelling-house, hotel and saloon. In the muddy yard surrounding the 
 house were dwarfed chickens and scrawny, peevish pigs, while nosing 
 among the musty oats in the barn was a horse that would outpoint 
 Rosinante. The building was a two-story structure, and had long since 
 ceased to show signs of paint. A gilded beer-sign, the only bright spot 
 about the place, hung from one corner, while on a board across the 
 front of the building, we read the significant words, "The Last Chance." 
 —A. W. Campbell. 
 
 A REMEDY. 
 
 I shouldn't be surprised, should you? 
 
 If some cold morning soon, 
 When the town is deep in silence, 
 
 And a cloud is o'er the moon. 
 
 I say I shouldn't be surprised, 
 If some day when we wake, 
 145 
 
We find the gay reporter 
 Firm fastened to a stake. 
 
 And then I shouldn't be surprised, 
 
 If some bright moonlight night 
 We'd stretch him on some lamp-post tall; 
 
 'Twould only serve him right. 
 
 I don't believe you'd be surprised, 
 
 If some day wandering 'round, 
 You'd see a figure covered o'er 
 
 With feathers many a pound. 
 
 The days of whipping-posts have gone, 
 
 Of stocks we now have none, 
 But we can still the horse-whip wield, 
 
 Yea, every mother's son. 
 
 And if these efforts all should fail, 
 
 We'd lead him to the lake, 
 And dip him in, his pipe to choke, 
 
 For old Northwestern's sake. — A. W. Campbell. 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 A deep hush came over the worshipers assembled in the Willow- 
 ville church when the pastor announced that a duet would be sung 
 by the two strangers, sitting with the members of the choir. Looks 
 of curious expectation flitted across the faces of the audience; the 
 old tenor, whose cracked voice was the subject of much facetious 
 comment, screwed his face an octave higher, and, with true profes- 
 sional dignity, scowled upon the intruders; the prim soprano, decked 
 out in a wonderful creation of lace and ribbon, daintily drew her 
 skirts together and leaned back in critical repose; "Grandma" Tenny 
 hastily thrust a mint drop into her mouth and settled back in the 
 front pew, at the same time administering a smart cuff to her grand- 
 son "Johnny," who was fumbling the Bible and who resented the 
 attack, saying tearfully that he was trying to find Ezra. 
 
 There was much clearing of throats and blowing of noses before 
 the song was begun, old Deacon Cornhill making a noise that sounded 
 like the "last trump" on a quiet morning. Then the people settled 
 down: the choir to criticise and the others to enjoy. 
 
 The singers were college men, and as such they had an especial 
 claim upon Widow Brown, whose second cousin had attended an agri- 
 cultural school in Minnesota. The widow leaned expectantly forward, 
 an expansive smile beaming from her ruddy face. Near her sat Mrs. 
 Jones, whose only son had left home several years before, never to 
 return. The organist played the first stanza of "Where Is My Wan- 
 
 146 
 
dering Boy To-night." while the singers arranged their music. Mrs. 
 Jones's fingers convulsively gripped the seat. Then the song hegan. 
 It is safe to say that never before had such music been heard in Wil- 
 lowville. The voices were perfectly blended, and as they brought out 
 the pathetic beauty of the old hymn, every mind in that little church 
 was turned to some wanderer, now a stranger to the old home. Out 
 across the gap of years, gray-haired men were posted until they became 
 young again, and at the old home played, by the sides of their mothers. 
 Young men, who before the service had been gay, became thoughtful, 
 and as the last strains of the hymn died away, a sigh came from Mrs. 
 Jones's pew, a sigh that was almost smothered by the deep breathing 
 of the others. — A. W. Campbell. 
 
 "JOCKO." 
 
 "Jocko" was a Mexican burro that had lived the routine life of 
 his family until he was released from the chain-gang that toiled up 
 the long slopes of the Sierras, and was transferred to central Illinois. 
 He was very old, for the hair about his temples was gray, and the 
 rings on his hoofs were so many that they scarcely could be counted. 
 His teeth, however, were in a fair state of preservation when he 
 arrived from the West, but he was unused to the luxurious fare 
 of the East, and his molars soon decayed. He sadly missed the 
 garbage pile and the sage brush, while the tomato-can, with which 
 in former days he had been accustomed to conclude his repast, was 
 erased from the menu. 
 
 He did not take graciously to the ways of civilized life. When he 
 was first led into his stall, he tried to turn around in it, instead of 
 burying his nose in the oat-box. Oats were nauseating to him. He 
 preferred leather, and the first time that he was released from the 
 halter, he consumed the top of a brand new buggy. Buffalo robes 
 were his delight. They reminded him of his native heath, and they 
 soon became a part of his regular diet. In the course of time, he 
 substituted nails and the sheet iron straps that lined his feed-box 
 for the prohibited tomato-can. 
 
 "Jocko" had carried many a burden during his previous existence 
 among the mountains, and he was easily broken to the saddle. But 
 he never became perfectly tractable in a cart, for he was accustomed 
 to follow and could not be forced to lead. Then, again, he had the evil 
 habit of running through every opening large enough to admit him, 
 entirely forgetful of the cart that followed, so that he was not a 
 success as a roadster. 
 
 "Jocko" lived many years in a little village in this State; now 
 beloved by the people with whose children he played, now hated by 
 these same people, whose slumbers he disturbed with his unearthly 
 bray. No doubt he would have lived on and on indefinitely had he 
 not while ruminating abstractedly stepped in front of an expr 
 
 147 
 
train. No stone marks the spot where he died, but he still lives 
 in the hearts of those who as children romped with him. — A. W. 
 Campbell. 
 
 AT EVENING. 
 
 The evening meal is finished in the comfortable New England 
 farm-house, and John, a fourteen-year-old lad, is started on his accus- 
 tomed path, winding over the little hill to the pasture where the 
 cows are feeding. He is weary with his day's work, and plods along 
 slowly, dreamily, humming some familiar tune, and feeling that the 
 sun sympathizes with him as it grows dimmer, dimmer, and finally 
 fades away behind the mountain. At last, John reaches the pasture 
 and finds the three cows waiting, ready for their homeward journey. 
 The bars of the old rickety rail-fence are lowered, and the cows pass 
 through on down the dusty road. Tall grass is growing on either 
 side, and occasionally wild roses, filling the air with sweetest perfume, 
 shyly peep through the weeds, or wind about the posts of the fence. 
 The air becomes cooler, and night with all of her accompaniments 
 is ushered into the quiet valley. The frogs begin their evening song, 
 and one by one the stars begin to quiver and blink in the heavens, 
 as if they were just awaking from a long peaceful sleep. Finally the 
 moon rises and casts its pale ghostly light over the lonely scene. 
 The cows move lazily onward, stopping now and then to get a last 
 bit of grass by the roadside and then plodding on in their path, 
 keeping time to the metallic ring of the cow-bell. John follows 
 slowly behind, now cracking a lash to urge on the cows, now stopping 
 to catch a fire-fly as it blazes past him. Soon the dim light in the 
 distance tells him that he is nearing home. He follows it uncon- 
 sciously, absorbed in all that is around him, — gives the cows a final 
 touch of the whip, and drags himself slowly and dreamily onward. — 
 Edith Richardson. 
 
 UNCLE AMOS. 
 
 Uncle Amos, as he is called by everyone, is a native of New York 
 and a typical "down-easterner." He is a very plain old man, but has 
 a big heart and makes friends wherever he goes. He owns a few 
 acres of land and a little house where he lives alone, supporting 
 himself by the few vegetables that he raises in his garden. In spite 
 of the fact that he is eighty-two years of age, one may find him 
 in his garden at five o'clock every morning in the summer. After 
 the weeding and watering is properly done, he fills his little two- 
 wheeled cart with vegetables and starts out to visit his usual cus- 
 tomers. It is an interesting sight to see Uncle Amos, followed by his 
 dog, pushing his cart and whistling merrily as he plods along. As the 
 old man has no one to care for him, his personal appearance is by 
 no means neat or attractive. He wears blue overalls, a blue Prince 
 
 148 
 
Albert coat, a red handkerchief around his neck, and an old straw 
 hal with the brim Dearly torn off. Although his face is full of 
 wrinkles, each line indicating hard work, his eye is still as keen 
 and bright as that of a roguish school-boy. When Amos was a young 
 lad, be detested books and never missed an opportunity to run away 
 from school to go hunting or fishing. While his education is very 
 meagre, there is not a subject upon which he will not argue so 
 long as he can find a listener. He is a political "crank" — the most 
 erratic democrat in the town. The old man is very deaf and you often 
 can hear him discussing politics for nearly a block. Uncle Amos 
 doe? not believe in religion, yet he can quote more scripture than 
 err a great many ministers. He reads the Bible through each year, 
 1 ut more to get material for his arguments than for any spiritual 
 purpose. It would be difficult to find a better checker-player than 
 Uncle Amos. Often when he is distributing his vegetables, he finds 
 E«»me one who plays checkers; Immediately his business ceases, and 
 the old man laughingly says, "You'll have ter get up purty arly 
 in the mornin' to beat an old feller like me." Uncle Amos has this 
 happy-go-lucky spirit, never knowing ore day where he will get 
 food for the next, yet beneath this exterior he is very sensitive. If 
 he imagines that anyone is tired of his company, he will feel deeply 
 hurt and walk sadly away. We laugh at his arguments and his old- 
 fashioned ways, yet we cannot help sympathizing with him, for he 
 is a very old man, and a time will ccme when he will be too old to 
 sell his garden "truck" and then he will be left homeless and penniless. 
 — Edith Richardson. 
 
 JANEY. 
 
 Jarey, as she is called by everyone, is a native of Vermont and a 
 typical old maid. She lives alone in a small house, but in spite 
 of its plain furnishings, her visitors always feel that they are 
 welcome. Her personal appearance is certainly not pleasing, for her 
 eyes are a little crossed, and her long wrinkled face keenly portrays 
 the suffering that she has endured all her life. She is nearly six 
 feet tall and very angular, so that every movement is extremely 
 awkward. Janey's education has been sadly neglected. Her homely 
 language often affords great amusement to her friends. One day, 
 when introduced to a lady, Janey said, "How-dy-do, how long do you 
 cacalate bein' in these parts?" Another day when returning from 
 church she remarked "that she only organized one woman in the 
 hull aggregation." Kindness and sympathy are her marked char- 
 acteristics. If a friend is ill or in trouble, she will do everything 
 in her power to help him. She will even starve herself to feed 
 some worthless tramp. Inquisitiveness is Janey's worst fault. She 
 is never happier than when, with her knitting in her hand, she 
 gossips about all the doings of the people in the neighborhood. It 
 
 149 
 
is not her fault if she does not kow how much Sarah Jones's black 
 dress cost, and how much coloring Mollie Brown puts into her butter. 
 Janey's life is made nearly miserable by her marked sensitiveness. 
 Because she is poor, she is always imagining that people are trying 
 to snub her. Very often she is heard to remark, "I am a homely old 
 creature, and nobody wants me a-botherin' them." The Bible is Janey's 
 constant companion, and, in her lonely hours, she gains from it 
 inspiration and happiness. She has lived alone in her little home 
 for many years, but it cannot be long before a morning will come 
 when the neighbors will miss the accustomed signs of life about 
 the house, and will find that her sad life is ended. — Edith Richardson. 
 
 A VAIN SECRET. 
 
 There comes to me oft in silence, 
 
 When my lamp is burning low, 
 And the black uncertain shadow 
 
 Forms pictures of long ago; 
 Then, with those pangs of conscience, 
 
 That drive me nearly daft, 
 Comes the old insistent longing 
 
 After words for a paragraph. 
 
 Outside, in the world about me, 
 
 There lie in each little space, 
 Subjects enough to busy 
 
 The whole of the human race; 
 The forest with birds and flowers, 
 
 The ocean with surging tide, 
 The endless flow of the rivers 
 
 That through the meadows glide. 
 
 The city with shop and office, 
 
 Where all is tumult and din, 
 The country with grand old farm-house 
 
 All peace and comfort within; 
 Why, the world is full of stories, 
 
 That beat upon my brain, 
 But when I want words for English 
 
 I search, and search — in vain. — Edith Richardson. 
 
 A LONELY SENTINEL. 
 
 Out on the lonely prairie, almost destitute of any signs of life, 
 except the chirping of a bird now and then and the occasional 
 rumble of an approaching wagon, there stands a sentinel who never 
 
 150 
 
 
shirks his duty. He is tall and very slender, almost ungainly in 
 appearance, and yet like other friends, his defects vanish when you 
 know him. There he stands with his head erect, his arms out- 
 stretched, garbed in red, with black and white trimmings, serving 
 as an admonition to every passer-by. Spring comes with her show 
 ers. dampening his clothing, perhaps chapping his hands, but summer 
 heals the wounds with her warm breath and even causes him to 
 throw back his shoulders in pride. The sand-storms beat against him 
 with mad fury, but he does not surrender to their incessant attacks. 
 Neither the chilly blasts of November nor the rag'ng blizzards are 
 abls to shake him from his foundation. F.res and tornadoes are his 
 foes, for they alone can destroy him. He can neither see nor hear 
 nor spesk, but the message that our mute sentinel bears to the world 
 is as powerful as if sung by a chorus of hundreds. When old age 
 creeps over him and forces him to lay down his burden, he may 
 do it cheerfully, for his mission has been a successful one, and 
 his silent message "Look out for the cars" has been the salvation of 
 many a wandering traveler. — Edith Richardson. 
 
 A VISION OF NIGHT-FALL. 
 
 The air is still. The sheltered spots among the lowlands are 
 white and ghostly with the gathering fog. Even in the dimness we 
 can see it floating and creeping among the willows. How still and 
 motionless the leaves! The gnats are dancing in the quiet air. We 
 can not see them, but we can hear their singing wings. The rising min 
 has stolen close about us; we feel its chill, and it has become filierl 
 with the damp odors of the brooks and marshes, while now and then 
 there steals upon our senses that delicate dew-born perfume, the 
 pure faint breath from some awakening primrose. The nymphs of 
 the pond, enshrouded in their veil of mist, have long since gone 
 to rest, and could our eyes but penetrate the dim shadows around 
 us, we might discover the drowsy leaves losing themselves in sleep. 
 You may hear, perhaps, amid the silence, the plaintive wail of some 
 whip-poor-will or a slight rustling of the leaves overhead; but it 
 is not the breeze that rustles. It is some soft-winged owl that 
 has left his perch for his dark mission. How strange and weird is 
 this mysterious commotion as it draws nearer and nearer to you 
 in the darkness! Now a harsh grating note of the first katydid sounds 
 high above in the tree-top. Another and another seems waiting to 
 take up the challenge, causing the air to vibrate with a continuous 
 discord. Finally our senses become numbed, the last glimmer of lighi 
 is gone, and there is nothing left but this black curtain of all-conceal- 
 ing night. — Edith Richardson. 
 
 151 
 
A COLORED PICTURE. 
 
 While riding on the street-car the other day, I began, as usual, 
 to observe my fellow passengers. However, none of them particularly 
 interested me except two little colored boys about five and seven 
 years of age. They were in one corner of the car, and as I first 
 glanced at them, they reminded me of two enormous toads, for they 
 were kneeling side by side on the seat and sitting on their heels, 
 while their elbows rested on the window-sill and their chins on their 
 hands; thus they were in a good position to view the scenery as 
 we passed. From this back-view which I had of them, they looked 
 to be about the same size; one wore a red and black plaid cap, a dull 
 gray suit, and shoes that evidently were not made to match; the 
 neck of his coat was covered by the ruffled collar of his shirt-waist, 
 which gave just a hint that it had once been white. The other child 
 wore a blue cap, evidently his father's, judging from its size, a 
 faded brown suit, a blue shirt-waist with a torn but ruffled collar, 
 and brown stockings which peeped out boldly from the soles of the 
 ragged shoes. 
 
 When the boys had tired of looking out of the window, they both 
 turned around and sat on the seat, and this time they reminded 
 me of the Gold Dust advertisement which one so often sees. This 
 front view proved more interesting than the back one had been, but 
 it showed off their ragged clothes to about the same advantage; 
 for there was not a button to be seen on either shirt-waist, pins 
 being used instead, while there were large holes in the knees of 
 all four stockings, and the four shoestrings hung down as though 
 they had never known what it was to be tied. 
 
 However, a glance at the faces of the children showed them to 
 be so homely that they were attractive, the most conspicuous features 
 being their shiny black eyes and the rows of white, even teeth. — Mabel 
 H. Siller. 
 
 MY CLOCK. 
 
 She is a pretty blonde, if I may so call her; for, while you 
 could not say that she has golden hair, she is all golden except her 
 face, which is as white as snow, and her hands, which, alas! are as 
 black as jet. But although her complexion is pale, she has a bright 
 little countenance and a musical voice. She is a cheerful companion, 
 too, for she is a great talker; it is true that some people might say 
 that her voice is monotonous, but it is not so to me. Besides, she 
 has much sympathy, for if I feel tired and sad, she looks at me in 
 a pitying manner, and her voice seems softer as she tells me to 
 cheer up, for all will be well. On the other hand, if I am in good 
 spirits, she shares my feelings, and babbles away as though she 
 could not talk enough in a minute to express her vivacity. She is. 
 
 J 52 
 
very punctual, too, and has a good influence over me, for she 
 reminds me when it is time to go to recitations; and if, upon retiring, 
 I tell her that I must rise early in order to study, in the morning 
 she awakens me at just the proper time with a sharp little trill, 
 which she continues until she is sure that 1 am wide awake. Then 
 sometimes she plays the role of chaperon and if I come home late 
 from some party, she holds up both her little hands in utter surprise, 
 and, telling me the hour, bids me hasten to retire; then she sings 
 me to sleep with a soft monotonous lullaby. — Mabel H. Siller. 
 
 OLD KAPERS. 
 
 It was Sunday morning, and from the little white meeting-house 
 at the end of the village street came the sound of the old cracked 
 bell, mournfully tolling, what seemed a death-knell to the small 
 boy, who stood in the doorway of his home, his face shining with 
 cleanliness, and his brown hair smooth as brush and w r ater could 
 make it. He looked very miserable indeed, and seemed afraid to 
 move for fear some speck of dust flying aimlessly about might fall 
 upon his burnished countenance. Would his mother ever be ready? 
 But at last she appeared, attired in her best black silk, with its jet 
 trimmings, and wearing on her face the beatified expression, which 
 was as inseparable from her Sunday costume as was the small 
 black creation with the straggling growth of purple pansies, which 
 she perched on the top of her well-proportioned head. 
 
 Mrs. Jones was what her "poor, dear, departed husband" had 
 called "a capable woman," though just why the late Mr. Jones had 
 always sighed when he spoke of her was an unsolved riddle. She did 
 look capable, as she marched along the street, dragging the unwilling 
 Johnnie towards the sound of the tolling bell. She was a painfully 
 neat woman, and it grieved her to notice that neighbor Brown's front 
 yard needed raking, and that the Thompson's gate was off its hinges. 
 As she drew nearer their destination, her face became sterner, for 
 there, huddled almost in the shadow of the church walls, was a 
 tumble-down little house, beaten by the storms of many years; 
 and now in last night's rainstorm, the bricks from the totter- 
 ing chimney had fallen, and were scattered over the steep roof and 
 down below in the moss-grown path before the door. It was a 
 picturesque old place, with the woodbine climbing in bewildering con- 
 fusion over the dark walls and ragged roof. But to Mrs. Jones the 
 sight was far from pleasing. She saw only a tumble-down old house 
 huddled close to their beautiful little church, which, in its fresh 
 coat of white paint, seemed, like a little girl dressed for Sunday 
 school, fairly to glow with importance and say, "See how sweet and 
 clean I am!" 
 
 "Why can't the old miser let us buy the tumble-down old shanty 
 
 153 
 
and move it away?" demanded Mrs. Jones, glaring fiercely a. Johnnie, 
 who, feeling called upon to say something, looked through the broken 
 pickets and screamed, 
 
 " Kapers, Kapers, dressed in rags, 
 Where do you hide your money-bags?" 
 
 Of course Johnnie was reproved for this, but after all wasn't old 
 Kapers a miser? He never spent a cent, and everyone said he had 
 bags and bags of gold hidden away somewhere. 
 
 While the minister was preaching Mrs. Jones was planning a 
 campaign. Immediately after church she would call upon the old 
 man, and she would succeed where others had failed. She would 
 buy the house. 
 
 She did not linger to gossip after church, but with determined 
 step picked her way through the bricks in the path that led up to 
 old Kaper's door. There was no answer to her knock, so after an 
 apprehensive glance at the dingy windows, she lifted the latch and 
 entered. It was a dismal room that she saw, dingy with dust and 
 smoke. She seemed to have left the present behind, and was now 
 alone with the past, not alone though, for in the far corner of the 
 room was an old painting of a beautiful lady, and sitting before it, 
 with head bowed like a humble worshiper before a shrine, was Old 
 Kapers. He did not answer when Mrs. Jones spoke, so she crossed 
 the room, and touched him on the shoulder, but he remained motion- 
 less. He no longer needed the old house; the church people might 
 have it now to take away or tear down, just as they wished. The 
 eyes of the beautiful lady in the picture seemed to flash in scornful 
 judgment of the woman who stood before her, dumbly confessing her 
 mistake. A few minutes later as Mrs. Jones walked down the long 
 street towards her home, the tall elms nodded mysteriously, and seemed 
 to whisper softly to one another, "We knew it all the time." — Lilian 
 Bayne. 
 
 THE RACE OF THE WAVES. 
 
 I. 
 
 W hen the wind blows over the lake so keen, 
 
 And whistles and calls to the rocky shore. 
 It rouses a spirit of terrible mien, 
 Shameless and treacherous, too, I ween, 
 Like a demon wakened to sleep no more. 
 
 II. 
 With an angry roar and a passionate cry, 
 
 From the deepest deep he comes with a spring, 
 He lashes the waves till they dash on high, 
 And the foam flies light to meet the sky, 
 
 As light and as white as a gull on the wing. 
 154 
 
III. 
 
 Then the clouds grow dark, and the sunbeams hide, 
 
 And the waves obey the terrible hand 
 Of the demon dire, who stands at their side, 
 Urging them on as they kiss and roar. 
 
 In that madd'ning race to the beach of sand. 
 
 IV. 
 So they rise and fall as they dash along, 
 
 Now sad and weary, with hopeless soul ; 
 Now noisy and boisterous with jubilant song, 
 
 But each one hurrying, hurrying on, 
 Till kissing, and swishing, they reach the goal. 
 
 — Lilian Bayne. 
 
 THE CLOUDED MIRROR. 
 
 The sun was shining, but I did not see it; the birds were singing, 
 but their songs were not for me. The world seemed to be enveloped 
 in a dull, smoky cloud, through whose blanket-like folds there pene- 
 trated no gleam of sunlight. All was dark, smoky, dismal. The 
 beggar on the street corner held out a miserable hand for alms; on his 
 face were written despair, vice, crime. No, he was not worth the 
 pittance that he begged. Let him die, I thought, it is better so; he 
 is capable of no good deed; no, not even of a good thought. 
 
 1 closed my eyes to shut out the dismal view, arid leaned back in 
 my chair. Perhaps I slept, for I seemed to stand on the mossy 
 bank of a little brook, looking down into the clear water, while beside 
 me a clump of white birches stretched their slender forms toward 
 the blue sky, and every tender leaf was lovingly uplifted to meet 
 the chance kisses of the sunbeams, which danced in and out of the 
 leafy bower, playing hide and seek with the water-drops. From the 
 crystal surface of the water, Nature smiled back at me; for every 
 delicate tint of color in foliage, flowers, and sky mirrored there in 
 its perfect loveliness. Suddenly a heavy stone rolled down the 
 bank, gathering the black, sticky mud as it went. Splash! Into the 
 clear deep pool it fell. In an instant all was changed. The water 
 no longer glistened with crystalline splendor; Nature's mirror seemed 
 shattered; nothing remained but a dull, muddy pool, sending back 
 only imperfect reflections of the smiling scene above. All the subtle 
 tints of coloring, all the delicate lines and curves were lost in a con- 
 fused and grotesque caricature. Then, as I watched, the water grew 
 gradually clearer, until at last it became once more Nature's truest 
 mirror. 
 
 Yes, it must have been a dream, for when I opened my eyes the 
 woodland scene had vanished, and I looked out once more upon the 
 street. But how changed it was! The sun was shining; the birds were 
 
 155 
 
singing their songs to me; the beggar was still at his post, and near 
 him a little child was playing, and, as the hardened eyes met those 
 of the innocent child, there came over that beggar's face something 
 that I had not seen there before, something noble. Had it been therd 
 all the time? Why had I not been able to find it and to draw it from 
 its hiding-place? — Lilian Bayne. 
 
 THE SOLUTION OF A WEIGHTY PROBLEM. 
 
 "Well, I guess I must be goin', Miss W T heeler; I jist drapped in to 
 say how-dye-do," and Elder Judson slowly and deliberately rose. Miss 
 Wheeler rose also; "You ain't goin' so quick, be you?" she asked, smil- 
 ing. Miss Wheeler had ore of those genial, winning smile: that we 
 read about so of. en and so seldom see. That sm'le ha I almost ca^ 
 tured the elder more than orce in his younger days, but he had always 
 oeen rather slow and deliberate, and he never acted except a iter long 
 and prayerful consideration. As time wore on the elder grew more 
 cautious, until now even the village gossips,- after wasting ten years in 
 chattering of tongues and fruitless craning of necks, had a L lis L . given 
 up in despair, and did not even glance out of their windows to see the 
 elder go by on his way to call on Betty Wheeler. As for the elder, he 
 was still meditating, for it was a difficult problem that he had to 
 settle; the trouble lay here: the elder was a religious man, but Betty, 
 alas, in spite of his efforts, in spite of the efforts of the whole com- 
 munity, could not be induced to enter the church door. She had even 
 declared that sermons were stupid, and that it was a bore to go to 
 church. All this had horrified the good elder, who was seen as regu- 
 larly in his pew as the minister was in the pulpit. It is true the elder 
 often closed his eyes during the service, but no doubt he could think 
 bet'er with them closed. And now as the elder looked up and met 
 Betty's smile, he felt again the awfulness of her heathen state. If 
 only she would go to church like other folks! 
 
 Suddenly Betty started and gazed intently at a corner of the room; 
 the smile fled, like an April sunbeam, and her face assumed an expres- 
 sion of horror. The elder clutched his hat nervously. What was the 
 matter? Did Betty see an evil spirit? Just then, tearing off her blue 
 gingham apron, she waved it wildly about her head like a sword of 
 victory, and started on a mad race around the room; now stopping to 
 brandish her weapon, now dashing on faster than before. "This is no 
 time for thought," said the elder to himself, as he started after her. 
 No doubt Betty had gone mad, and thought herself pursued by evil 
 spirits; still it looked as though she were the pursuer. Yet, she must 
 be stopped at any cost; that was evident. But suddenly she stopped 
 of her own accord. One triumphant swing of the blue apron; one 
 quick downward swoop of her hand; then she turned around to the 
 elder, whose red face glowed like a round, bewildered moon. "This 
 
 156 
 
ain't no game of tag, I'll hvx' ye know, Elder Judson," she aaid scom 
 fully, "but." she added In tones of triumph, "l caught him, the pesky 
 little cretur," and she held up a small fly, feebly buzzing in her power- 
 ful grasp. As the elder drove homeward, a thought came to him, and 
 he whispered softly, "Cleanliness is next to godliness," and he chuckled 
 so gleefully that the old horse looked around in sheer amazement, and 
 blinked at him solemnly. — Lilian Bayne. 
 
 MIS.^ ELIZA. 
 
 Tick-tock, tick-tock. There was not a sound in the room save the 
 business-like tones of the spry little clock on the mantel-shelf, mingled 
 with the occasional click of Miss Eliza's knitting-needles. The dim 
 light from the little lamp on the table shone down on Miss Eliza's head 
 as she bent over her work. Her faded flaxen hair was curled in little 
 even waves and neatly parted in the middle. Dressed in her best 
 black silk gown, with the lace in the neck and sleeves, the stiff white 
 apron tied around her waist, and the prim little dressed-up-for-com- 
 pany air, Eliza looked exactly as she had every Saturday night for 
 twenty years; except that now the thin hair was becoming more faded 
 and uncertain in color, and her little anxious face showed more wrink- 
 les every day; then the silk gown, that twenty years ago had stood out 
 so proudly, and had rustled with such a self-contented air, had now 
 grown somewhat rusty, and shrunk close to her little figure, as though 
 by long companionship it had become a part of Miss Eliza's own 
 shrinking nature. Every now and then she glanced around the room; 
 once she went to the mantel-shelf to blow an imaginary speck of dust 
 from a brass candle-stick; once she stooped quickly, and picked up a 
 thread from the faded rag-carpet. How careless of her to have allowed 
 it to fall! What if one of the neighbors had seen it! She hurried 
 with the offending thread to throw it into the fireplace. There was- a 
 modest little fire burning in the grate, a very modest fire that burned 
 neatly and primly, as though afraid of throwing out a spark and there- 
 by offending Miss Eliza. 
 
 Before the fireplace, warming and toasting themselves, with a com- 
 fortable and very-much-at-home sort of air, were two enormous slip 
 pers. And no wonder they felt at home, for had they not stood there 
 for twenty years, waiting? And they would stand there for twenty 
 years more, if need be, and would never complain. Eliza looked with 
 pride at the slippers. Yes, those red roses on the toes were certainly 
 the most artistic pieces that she had ever worked. "He never was 
 overneat about his boots," she murmured to herself, "and these slip- 
 pers were just the thing. When he came to call Saturday nights, he 
 cud jest slip off his boots on the back porch, and put these slippers on. 
 and then there warn't no fear of his ever tracking in a lot of mud. I 
 s'pose, though, he warn't no more careless than most men-folks." 
 
 157 
 
Just then the spry little clock struck nine, and Miss Eliza carefully 
 folded her knitting-work. "Twenty years ago since he went to Cali- 
 fornia," she sighed, then she added hopefully, "But maybe next Satur- 
 day he'll come and surprise me." — Lilian Bayne. 
 
 THE MYSTERY NEXT DOOR. 
 
 The tongues were unusually busy that day, and an air of suppressed 
 excitement hung about the little groups of women who had met in 
 Mrs. Bidden's sitting-room to sew for the poor and, incidentally, to 
 discuss matters of more vital importance than poverty-stricken people 
 in lack of necessary garments. Who wouldn't have been excited? For 
 new neighbors were moving in next door, and Mrs. Bidden's windows 
 afforded an excellent view of the interesting proceedings. "Land, but 
 they've got a lot of furniture!" said Mrs. Bidden. "What do you s'pose 
 they're goin' to do with all them chairs? Looks as though they were 
 goin' to keep a boardin' house." "That's a kind of rickety old book- 
 case, ain't it?" asked another member of the sewing circle. "Or, ain't 
 it a bookcase?" she added, squinting her near-sighted eyes to see better. 
 "Well, I do believe it's a foldin' bed," answered Mrs. Bidden. "And I 
 guess they'll hev to fold up other things besides beds, if they think 
 they're goin' to get all that furniture into that little house. Such a 
 misfit lot of old sticks of furniture I never did see!" Suddenly the 
 little short-sighted woman by the window started, took off one pair of 
 glasses, and put on another pair that she used for long distance pros- 
 pecting; then she gasped, "Land o' Goshen! I do believe I'm goin' 
 blind! But if that don't look like a coffin, it beats all the optical illu- 
 sions I ever heard tell on!" At this, every member of the circle, 
 according to her own method of locomotion, rushed, scrambled, wab- 
 bled to the window. "It is a coffin, there ain't no mistakin' them silver 
 handles," said Mrs. Jones, who, in spite of weight and a weak heart, 
 had arrived first at the window. "What do you s'pose is in it?" asked 
 another horrified member. "I dunno," said Mrs. Bidden, and her voice 
 sounded dry and hollow. "But I ain't goin' to stand it to live close to 
 people who harbor coffins in their houses. Like enough they're spirit- 
 ualists, and will have seances every night, and ghosts walking over 
 my flower-beds! It's more than I can bear!" It was useless to try to 
 comfort her, and the sewing circle broke up soon afterward. 
 
 Several days went by, and the coffin mystery, in spite of the valiant 
 efforts of the sewing circle, still-remained unsolved. Mrs. Bidden grew 
 gloomier every day, and fancied that she heard ghostly rappings and 
 that she felt spirit hands clutching her whenever she went through 
 dark rooms. Finally, Mr. Bidden resolved to solve the mystery. Meet- 
 ing the new neighbor in the postoffice, he assailed him with three ques- 
 tions: Why he kept a coffin in his house; what was in the coffin; and 
 whether they were Spiritualists. The new neighbor gasped for a 
 
 158 
 
moment; then studying his boots sheepishly, he said, "Well, my wife's 
 
 pretty fond of a good bargain, and she got that coffin knocked down 
 to her real cheap one time, because one of the hand 1 1 little 
 
 bent. There ain't likely to be any immediate occasion to use It, aa 
 we're both in good health, but you can't always tell; it might come in 
 real handy some day."' — Lilian Bayne. 
 
 THE DAISY. THE FOUR O'CLOCK. AND THE MAIDEN. 
 
 I. 
 "The world is all wrong," the four o'clock said, 
 As he woke with a start in his little brown bed, 
 But the daisy smiled when she opened her eyes, 
 And saw in his glory the old sun rise. 
 •'Oh, this world is a beautiful world," she said, 
 And she gently nodded her dainty head. 
 
 II. 
 The four o'clock trembled with anger and scorn, 
 "You w T ill wish some day you never were born, 
 When the rain beats fierce, and the sun shines hot, 
 And you wither and dry, or else you rot; 
 Or, clutched by a greedy child, you are torn, 
 And left on the ground to die forlorn." 
 
 III. 
 Then a maiden came with step so light, 
 And she saw the daisy so pure and white, 
 She plucked it gently, and whispered low, 
 "Now, Daisy, tell me, if it is so. 
 He loves me, Daisy?" the first petal fell, 
 "He loves me not. Is it truth you tell?" 
 
 IV. 
 
 And slowly the petals, one by one. 
 
 Were plucked by the maiden, whose hair in the sun, 
 
 Glistened and shone like fibres of gold. 
 
 But at last the daisy her tale had told, 
 
 And the maiden kissed the daisy's head. 
 
 "Oh, this world is a beautiful world," she said. 
 
 — Lilian Bayne. 
 
 STUDENTS SHOULD NOT WORK FOR PHI BETA KAPPA. 
 
 Every student would like the honor of Phi Beta Kappa, indeed, 
 some desire it so much that they not only "dig" by day but toil by 
 night against that day when their keys may come. Social functions 
 are shunned; musical entertainments and lectures are considered 
 
 159 
 
secondary. Nothing is of any moment to them except as it increases 
 their store of knowledge and their A's. We have even known health 
 and the rest of the Sabbath to be sacrificed to this absorbing ambition. 
 All this, however, might be pardonable if the student were sure of his 
 goal. But he is not sure. Even after all his labor and longing, it may 
 yet be in vain. Perhaps he makes a C in some subject. Perhaps there 
 are so many brilliant students in his class that his scholarship is not 
 quite high enough to lift him into the list of the favored ones. Per- 
 haps his health fails. What, then, avails all this expenditure of energy 
 and physical comfort to the neglect of health, morals, and social devel- 
 opment? The wise student, keeping in mind the need of a broad culture 
 and realizing the possibility of disappointment, will not spend the days 
 of his college course in working for Phi Beta Kappa. — Grace D. Mercer. 
 
 THE COW IS NOT A NECESSITY IN A LANDSCAPE. 
 
 Since the time of some of the greatest and earliest landscape paint- 
 ers, the cow, so much used by them, has been considered almost a 
 necessity in a picture. No landscape has been complete without one 
 of these stupid animals chewing her cud in the foreground. To be 
 sure, in a green scene, a bit of complimentary color brought about by a 
 brilliant red cow is not unpleasing; but, when that same cow makes 
 her appearance time after time, generation after generation, she 
 becomes somewhat monotonous. And, when the peaceful and natural 
 red or black creature of the past degenerates into the popular purple 
 cow with that surprised look in her eyes at finding herself brought 
 forward into such gorgeous prominence, it is time for the cow in our 
 pictures to be discarded. Probably .the gentle cow was first introduced 
 into landscapes to suggest lazy, rural tranquillity, but now she has 
 become an animal daubed with patches of paint of as many colors as 
 Joseph's coat, and her general purple tinge suggests merely that she is 
 a cow from the noisy and confused city, for no one, even though he 
 were ready to respect the purple in any form, could expect rich, yellow 
 country cream from a royal purple cow. So, as long as the cow in land- 
 scapes has lost her primal beauty, is greatly over-worked as a portrait 
 model, and no longer brings to our minds the quiet peace of the coun- 
 try, let us hope that, henceforth, she will not be considered a necessity, 
 and that a good proportion of landscapes will appear, in the future, 
 without the inevitable cow. — Katharine Mac Harg. 
 
 SENIORS SHOULD ADOPT THE MORTAR-BOARD. 
 
 Instead of their present Grand Army of the Republic capital pun- 
 ishment, the seniors should adopt the mortar-board cap. The senior 
 hat so overshadows and obscures the senior head that the existence of 
 the latter cavity often, especially in the case of the men, becomes a 
 
 160 
 
matter for speculation. Thus we are obliged to tell our senior friend 
 thai his hat sets well on his shoulders, or that his coat-collar Bts 
 
 snugly around his hat This impression of the non-existence of a bead 
 is especially undesirable since the senior has felt it Incumbent upon 
 him to get him not only an heart but also an head of wisdom and has 
 been so manipulating jaw. ears, ami neck as to increase the dimensions 
 of his brain-holder. He has no sooner accomplished his stupendous 
 task than he pulls a large white hat down over his ears, and all is lost' 
 The mortar-board cap. however, is small and unassuming. The head 
 which wears it looms out in its proper proportions. Furthermore its 
 flat top. besides giving a finished appearance to the individual has a 
 look of assured expectancy of the pat of approbation which will dis- 
 miss the senior when the end shall have come. Since the mortar-board 
 not only does not hinder the senior's progress but furthers it and has 
 a peculiar appropriateness, it should be adopted as the class hat - 
 Grace E. Shuman. 
 
 SWEARING IS JUSTIFIABLE IN WOMEN. 
 
 In a convincing and "blue-mark-worthy" article, it has recently 
 been shown that swearing is justifiable-in men. Now, there is a limit 
 to the exercise of the masculine prerogative. Man may have a corner 
 on hirsute facial adornment, and may have the right at election-time 
 to distinguish himself unquestionably from the common rabble of 
 women children, criminals and imbeciles by his ability to make a 
 cross But no law of nature or of man's framing has restricted the 
 right to swear. Furthermore, the arguments which held in the former 
 case hold also in this. Thus it was urged that man must have a vent 
 for his emotions. Now, it is the boast of men that they are not so 
 emotional as women. The greater the need, then, the more justifiable 
 the means of relief. Again, the argument was clinched by biblical 
 
 ZTT J** ^ find " MaUheW 4:35 inStead of "— not at hus 
 band, brother, sweetheart, inconstant skirt-binding, or unruly locks" 
 
 self sTrT /T"! t0 ""^ DOt at alL " W ° man ' accustomed to 
 self-sacrifice, gladly obeys and swears at only a few. The fact that 
 
 shown'r 11116 !' 8 ^" 6 C ° nVincing in the c ase of man, and have been 
 shown to apply here also, would be sufficient proof that swearing is 
 justifiable in woman, but there is in addition the universal suffrage 
 granted by law to such as swear.-Grace E. Shuman. 
 
 DANDELIONS SHOULD BE EXTERMINATED. 
 Some time after the poets have announced to us that 
 
 "Sprig, sweet sprig, is comig 
 For I feel id in the air, 
 161 
 
Dow the snow is gedly thawig, 
 Bud and slush are ebery where," 
 
 the grass really does become green, and spring flowers do bloom. 
 Among the earliest of these "stars that in earth's firmament do shine," 
 "tender wishes blossoming at night," and "messengers of spring," are 
 the common dandelions, which, like Jonah's gourd, seem to spring up in 
 a single night. The praises of the dandelion have been sung by 
 poets innumerable and it is no wonder for they, being the earliest 
 flowers, delight the hearts of little children and of people who do not 
 possess conservatories. But this joy "endureth but a night," and sor- 
 row "cometh in the morning;" for in the warm summer days it is very 
 unpleasant to see the dark, dusty green of the dandelion usurp the 
 place of clover or blue-grass and exhaust the nourishment intended 
 for them. Moreover, if we allow them to live and flourish, the gardener 
 will become lazy, and his customary exercise will be lacking, for there 
 will be no need to sow any seed — the wind does that — and the rapid 
 spread of these un-beautiful plants renders all care useless. In addi- 
 tion, the cheerful whirr of the lawnmower will be forever hushed. 
 But if it is argued that, as an article of food, the dandelion should be 
 protected and encouraged, please plant it in the kitchen-garden, where 
 it belongs, with lettuce, radishes, asparagus, and beets. — Bertha White. 
 
 THE CHARTER OF NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY SHOULD BE 
 
 ABROGATED. 
 
 "Man is by nature a social animal," so the learned philosophers 
 of antiquity tell us, and our own wise men agree with them. If this 
 is so, Northwestern produces an abnormal species, because, as we were 
 told Tuesday, man in this college is a decidedly unsocial animal. The 
 youth here are notoriously snobbish and exclusive, a state deplorable 
 in a democratic country that aspires to the Christian ideal of the 
 brotherhood of man. Then, too, the students lack the college spirit 
 which is one of the most important features in university life. Thirdly, 
 this noble co-educational institution, as was said last Thursday, is 
 rapidly degenerating into a female seminary, and degeneration is best 
 stopped by annihilation. Fourthly, it has a reputation throughout the 
 country for ferocious hazing and rapidly consummated engagements, 
 which the deluded Philistines have the audacity to consider out of 
 place in an institution of learning. 
 
 Lastly, though it is a richly endowed university, no one can be 
 induced to accept the Presidency. The easiest way to solve the prob- 
 lem is to send the students home and abrogate the charter. — Minnie 
 Sutter. 
 
 162 
 
THE CHARGE OF THE PENS 
 
 I With apologies to Tennyson.) 
 
 Twice a week, twice a week, 
 
 Twice a week onward, 
 
 All through the college year 
 
 Wrote the whole section. 
 "Forward, the paragraphs! 
 Thought out with care!" he said. 
 Into a valley drear 
 
 Plunged the whole section. 
 
 "Forward, the paragraphs!" 
 Was there a student dazed? 
 Not though he knew full well 
 
 Some could not write fiction: 
 Theirs not to make reply, 
 Theirs not to reason why, 
 Theirs but to write or try. 
 Into the valley of thought 
 
 Turned the whole section. 
 
 Paper to right of them, 
 Paper to left of them, 
 Paper in front of them, 
 
 Scribbled and crumpled, 
 Deluged with inky flow, 
 Bravely they wrote but slow: 
 Into the hours of night, 
 E'en to the morning's glow. 
 
 Wrote half the section. 
 
 Paper to right of them, 
 Paper to left of them, 
 Paper in front of them, 
 
 Scribbled and crumpled: 
 Muddled o'er "good" or "well," 
 Which one to use how tell, 
 Also o'er "will" or "shall," 
 They that had fought so well, 
 Came through the hours of night, 
 Back to the morning light, 
 All that was left of them, 
 
 Left of the section. 
 
 Shall e'er their memory fade? 
 At the strange plots some laid 
 103 
 
All the class wondered. 
 Honor the book they made! 
 Honor this English grade, 
 
 English "G" section! — Esther Stowe. 
 
 HER CURE. 
 
 Insomnia had me in its wakeful grasp, and the night had become 
 a terror. I had read, walked, smoked, — done everything that might divert 
 my mind from its sleepless course, but all in vain. It was in the early 
 morning when I finally gave up in despair, and, dressing, went out 
 upon the east balcony. The moon was just sinking below the horizon, 
 a great ball of phosphorescent fire, tingeing the landscape a tawny 
 blue as the pale rays percolated through the morning mist. The trees 
 stood in dusky profile against the distance-thickening atmosphere, 
 while the moisture dropped in rhythmic measure from the leaves upon 
 the grass, beneath. 
 
 Below me a great rosebush raised its flowered head and leaned 
 confidingly against the old house-wall. Little buds bursting into inno- 
 cent bloom nodded to me, waving their white censors filled with 
 heavenly incense. Like the neophytes of old, they stood there in their 
 white chasubles, with pure faces raised to heaven, singing the praises 
 of Him on high. A little twittering wren, with her nest beneath the 
 roofing, awoke and called her mate with sleepy chirpings. Slowly 
 Nature awoke. The landscape became a light gray; then lighter and 
 lighter as the King arose. Once tired birds started into happy, joyous 
 song. The clarion of the sunrise sounded his awakening note, and was 
 answered from the outlying cottages. The lowing of a cow for her 
 unweaned calf came floating down upon the wind from a distant farm. 
 That harbinger of old Sol, the milkman, drove slowly by, asleep upon 
 his hard, uncushioned seat. Suddenly a bright effulgence burst forth 
 and the day had come. Down at the end of the long, tortuous streak 
 of mist, which still hung above the winding river, the bright rays of 
 the morning sun shot high into the air, illuming all the cerulean vault 
 above me. 
 
 With sleepy step, I turned to my now inviting room, and, soothed 
 by my only mother, nature, fell asleep. — R. B. Dennis. 
 
 "THE RECORDING BARD." 
 
 No man's cup of experience is full till he has been the secretary 
 and "recording bard" of a county fair. I once occupied this exalted 
 position, and now consider myself quite ready for the presidential 
 chair or a padded cell at Kankakee. I really had no evil intentions. 
 for the office was thrust upon me by an admiring public. On the first 
 day of the fair I was seated at my desk, expectantly awaiting the mad 
 
 104 
 
throng with their multitudinous exhibits. I had fondly imagined my- 
 self bidding the people a cheery "Good morning" in my most unctious 
 tone. Then, after chatting a few moments, I had expected to register 
 their exhibits in one of the many books about me with neatness and 
 dispatch, as they read from a well prepared list. We must all dream 
 our dreams. Only one man had a list, and, as his wife had written 
 that, he could not read it. By the time I had deciphered this (I 
 learned more from this paper about jams, jellies, and preserves than 
 any ten men ought to know) there was a motley crowd in the little 
 office. A little, weazened old man, with a big pumpkin hugged tight 
 against his stomach, then stepped up and deposited the huge vegetable 
 on the ink bottle. 
 
 "Say, Mister, I want to enter this thing." It was duly entered, — 
 after I had rescued the ink. He asked me thirteen questions. 
 
 Then a woman, who had been indiscriminately crazy for years on 
 the subject of fancy embroidery, advanced and proceeded to arrange 
 upon my desk seventy-three articles of her own wonderful handiwork. 
 It was truly an imposing display. I lost four pounds during this ses 
 sion, and learned that her daughter had endocarditis. She pronounced 
 this "Indockerdeetis." I afterward gathered from the doctor that this 
 was his fancy name for a stitch in the side. The lace fiend asked me 
 thirty-three questions. 
 
 I finally disposed of the crowd, and had settled back in my chair, 
 when the village drunkard came in. He had a much bedraggled rooster 
 under one arm, and, as he leaned confidingly but unsteadily over the 
 desk, the fowl winked knowingly at me. 
 
 "Good morning, Parks, want to enter that bird?" 
 
 He hiccoughed an affirmative. Hiccoughs are always affirmative. 
 "What kind is it?" 
 
 "Rooster!" 
 
 I had noticed that myself, but I explained to him that I wanted to 
 know its "technical" name; whether it was a Shanghai or a Wyandotte. 
 Leaning dangerously close to me, he said with an effort, "Frizzier." 
 I looked up to see if the roof leaked. Then I wiped my face, and put up 
 an old umbrella that chanced to be lying near. Peering cautiously 
 around the edge of this I asked him to repeat. I forgot to remove my 
 inquiring eye, and two drops hit me there. The old rooster actually 
 chuckled as my eye disappeared. Then I yelled at Parks from behind 
 my barricade, and again got the same reply with the same hose accom- 
 paniment. So I wrote it "Frizzier," though why that bird should be 
 called "Frizzier" I could not see, unless it was because he had lost his 
 tail, and all his feathers pointed the wrong way. He looked as if he 
 had backed up against a strong wind, let all his tail feathers be blown 
 about his neck, and had then forgotten to turn around. 
 
 My downfall came when a farmer walked in and asked if he could 
 enter Toulouse geese. Now, I knew that we could not have loose geese 
 
 LtS5 
 
running around, even if there were but two, so, with all the dignity that 
 I could muster, I told him that, as we could not have them chasing 
 about the fair grounds, he would have to put them in a box. 
 
 All in all, it was a delightful day. At five o'clock I could not have 
 distinguished a Honiton hen from a Buff Cochin sofa-pillow, and that 
 night I dreamed that a drove of Shorthorn pigs and Berkshire cattle 
 had broken into the front yard. — R. B. Dennis. 
 
 "PEG." 
 
 "Peg" is a "dead-beat." He is a liar. He is a drunkard. He is a 
 gambler. He is all this, and more. His only claim to distinction lies 
 in the fact that he draws the highest pension paid to any private of the 
 Civil War. Again, "Peg" is a wreck. No wrecked and dismantled boat 
 ever presented a more dismal appearance than does "Peg." One leg is 
 missing; he other is bent and twisted. "Peg" says that he had the 
 fever, and the leg got so hot it "warped." One arm is entirely gone; 
 the other is shaky from carrying whiskey to a "sole-leather" throat. 
 One* eye is missing; the other faintly beams through the mists of 
 dissipation like a dim, red light. A Confederate shell did all this while 
 "Peg," a stalwart, six-foot youth, was riding with orders from his 
 general's side. 
 
 In the fall of '93 "Peg" received ten thousand dollars from the 
 government. Then began his meteoric dash into the society of our 
 summer-resort. The first time that I saw "Peg" he was sitting in a 
 gayly-colored trap beside a little, tired-looking woman, driving a newly 
 acquired trotter. "Peg's" new silk hat, Prince Albert coat, and blazing 
 shirt stud were dimmed only by the bright red jacket and "grape-arbor" 
 hat of his meek and timid wife. Thus attired, and insecurely ensconced 
 on the topmost limb of a cheaply acquired genealogical tree, "Peg" 
 attempted to drive his way into the ranks of the hoi aristoi. 
 
 But alas for worldly ambitions! In three months every cent was 
 gone, and he was left to the cold shade of his family tree. To-day he 
 is "Drunken Peg" again, but his eye still gleams in its spirited way 
 as he stumps unsteadily up the street. — R. B. Dennis. 
 
 AN UNCROWNED MARTYR. 
 
 The mother-in-law has received more than her share of popular 
 ridicule and derision. Let us look at her in the light of an uncrowned 
 martyr. Does not the sacrifice that she makes call for heroism of the 
 kind that brings forth martyrs? She gives up the object of her affec- 
 tions, the girl who has received the very essence of the best years of 
 her life, the daughter around whom she has drawn the net of love and 
 tenderness, her all, — to the uncertain care of another. As she stands 
 at the altar, outside the light of the new love, within the deepening 
 shadow of her loss, what agony must be hers! The little daughter 
 
 166 
 
whom Bhe used to fondle and caress in the evening twilight, the 'i! ; : i 
 she used to protect from the dangers and temptations of early youth, 
 the young woman of whom she was so proud, and whose confidences she 
 was happy to receive, — is gone.- In the shadow the mother stands. 
 bravely trying to conceal her tears. She sees her daughter starting on 
 the new life, that life so full of joy and cares and ruined homes, start- 
 ing bravely and lovingly, but without a thought of the long years of 
 maternal heartache and sacrifice behind. 
 
 Back to the empty nest called home the mother goes with her 
 breaking heart. As she steps into the old room so full of the thoughts 
 of long ago, now deprived of its jewel, she falls to her knees and prays, 
 clasping to her mother heart the memory of a little child. A drawer 
 is opened and she looks down the vista of twenty years. A long white 
 dress is picked up and pressed to trembling lips, a toy is laid reverently 
 to one side, a childish letter is read through a veil of tears; she 
 opens her arms as the image of her daughter grows clear in the hazy 
 light, and, with all a mother's infinite love, strains to her breast — 
 nothing. Of such sacrifices of love and strength and comfort is our 
 life composed. Of such stuff are martyrs made. — R. B. Dennis. 
 
 HIS FIRST APPEARANCE. 
 
 Little Bobbie Black was the Adonis of our alley. Bobbie had his 
 hair brushed three times a day, and wore fine linen. We all envied 
 him his good clothes, yet would not have worn them for anything less 
 than a king's ransom. How neat he used to look on "speaking-day"' at 
 the big red school-house! Bobbie felt his superiority, and every boy in 
 the block disliked him with an intense cordiality. 
 
 But there came a day in Bobbie's twelfth year that left us con- 
 querors. We all knew how to milk, and each of us drove a family cow 
 home at night, and, as we put it in our alley vernacular, "pailed" her. 
 Only Bobbie w^as exempt. It was in the latter part of July w r hen he 
 announced that his "papa" (a word we never used) had told him that- 
 he must begin to milk that evening. Of course we promised ourselves 
 a treat, and every boy on the street milked early that night that he 
 might be on hand. 
 
 At seven o'clock six of us were seated on the alley fence waiting for 
 the little dandy to appear. At last he came. A bright new pail gleamed 
 at his side as he stepped jauntily down the walk to the alley. Without 
 so much as giving us a look he sat down beside the cow. Just then 
 Tommy Green yelled in choking accents, "He's on the wrong side," 
 and straightway fell off the fence. With an injured look Bobbie made 
 a wide detour, and again sat down. Now Black's cow was a kicker. 
 We had milked her at odd times, and we knew what to expect. A 
 gentle nudge passed along the fence. With trembling hands Bobbie 
 began. To our great surprise "Old Reddy" did not kick, and as the 
 
 Ib7 
 
pail filled our hopes fell. We had given up in despair when "Reddy" 
 turned her head and looked at him. We knew the signal. Six pairs 
 of hands involuntarily gripped the fence. Six pairs of eyes riveted 
 themselves on that right hind-leg. . Whack! Bobbie lay with his feet 
 in the air vainly gasping for breath. Now "Reddy" had missed the 
 pail, and she knew it. Again she kicked. Four quarts of milk struck 
 Bobbie full in the face. The pail caught under his chin, and, as he rose 
 to his feet with the wrecked pail on his head, he looked like a knight 
 of old, — except that he was somewhat too pale to play the part. With 
 yells of joy we tumbled from the fence, and started home. Our revenge 
 was complete, for "Little Lord Fauntleroy" was thereafter at our 
 mercy. — R. B. Dennis. 
 
 J. T. 
 
 John T. Everts. With the name there comes the picture of a man 
 five feet in height, three feet in diameter, and two feet on the ground. 
 John was so fat that he had to turn sideways to reach a door-knob, and 
 his voice rasped and spluttered in his throat like the bubbling of half- 
 melted lard. A portentous double chin hung down over a number 
 eighteen collar, and gave a porcine dignity to his face. John was the 
 constable, and he had cultivated this gravity till you could see it hang- 
 ing about him in circumambient folds. It graced him much as the 
 mantle of Elijah would grace Billy Mason. For twenty-seven years 
 
 he had been the constable of C , and all had fallen and worshiped 
 
 before the shrine of his official dignity. At last he met his fate. Mrs. 
 S., strong of arm, red of hair, and virulent of tongue, had unlawfully 
 unpounded a neighbor's cow. John T., armed with a writ of replevin, 
 and swelling with pomp and circumstance, advanced upon the enemy, 
 expecting to read the writ in a dispassionate tone and then, still more 
 calmiy, to lead away in triumph the much disputed bovine. But he 
 reckoned without the cow, and without the fiery-headed Jezebel. In 
 his most ceremonial manner John advanced to the barn, and read the 
 writ to the cow and a small boy who chanced to be playing there. 
 Then, the formal business of the meeting being over, he grasped the 
 short rope that hung from the animal's horns, and started upon his 
 triumphant return. As he stepped outside he was met by Mrs. S., clad 
 in righteous indignation and a rich Irish brogue. In shrill tones she 
 cried, "May the vingeance of the Lord fall upon ye fer stalin' a poor 
 widder's cow." Thinking to pacify her, John raised two pudgy fingers, 
 and said in his most judicial voice, "So be it, madam, so be it." 
 
 But the oil upon the waters proved to be inflammable. Grasping a 
 pitchfork she lunged at him viciously. John, in his haste to retreat, 
 sat down on the placid countenance of the cow, who stood quietly 
 behind him, chewing her cud. There was a wild flirt of a cow's tail, 
 a wilder wave of a pitchfork, and all was over but the running. 
 Wounded, anatomically and judicially, the worthy official started for 
 
 168 
 
the fence with what leporine swiftness he could command. In vain! 
 As he reached the low fence there was a sudden rush of feet, and then 
 he rose in the air, and landed on his stomach among the pig-weeds. 
 Slowly he picked himself up, and wheezed away up the dusty road, 
 while the cow calmly waved her tail in token of an Irish victory. — R. B. 
 Dennis. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 Vocation, "broncho-buster." Salary, fifty dollars a month. Pros- 
 pects, none. Such is the present status of Jim Piervence, college-bred 
 and whiskey-ruined, the horse-breaker of the Three Time Winner ranch. 
 He is a conspicuous figure as he leans indolently against the adobe hut, 
 which three lonely men call home. Six feet in height, still slender and 
 supple, despite his forty years, with one arm strangely bent at the 
 elbow, his legs warped and bowed by fifteen years of savage work in 
 the saddle, he is a necessity of the western range. It took me several 
 weeks to break past the barrier of his reserve, but once in his confi- 
 dence I w r as richly repaid. 
 
 "Want to know how I got out here in this blanked hole? Whiskey! 
 That's all. Just that one thing. And I ain't touched it in five years 
 now. but it's too late to go back, so here I stick like a burr on a steer's 
 tail. How r 'd I get so everlastingly twisted? Had that arm broke four 
 times, and there wasn't a doctor in fifty miles. Had that leg broke three 
 times. Ponies fell on me, or else threw me. Oh, I like it all right. I 
 like to conquer the brutes; makes me think I've got something in me 
 yet. But I never trust 'em, though. Why, I wouldn't trust one of them 
 ornery, slab-sided bronchos as far as I could throw him by the tail. 
 All they like about a man is the feel of him, and if one of 'em gets a 
 good feel at you with his hind foot you might just as well be struck 
 by a pile-driver. I've had my siding caved in like the slats on a 
 chicken-coop. They just fairly leave a hole in you. Want to ride one 
 of 'em? See that glass-eyed, grasshopper fellow there with one ear 
 gone? He's a nice, gentle one; he wouldn't wiggle that other ear if 
 Gabriel blew his horn in it. Ride him. We'll all go to the funeral." 
 
 Gently but firmly I refused, and with a short laugh Jim started 
 for the corral, saying, "Come down to-morrow and I'll show you his 
 gait. He has a movement that will make you think that you're sitting 
 straddle of a sawbuck on a windmill, with a buzz-saw attachment too 
 derned close for comfort. So long!" — R. B. Dennis. 
 
 "OLD BLOOMY." 
 
 "Old Bloomy" is a college graduate. Years ago he was graduated 
 with honor from an Eastern university and sent out to carve his name 
 high above all others. This description will suffice to show how and 
 where he carved it. 
 
 169 
 
A tall, lank frame, sharp nose, and penetrating eyes proclaim him 
 a Yankee. His sodden clothes hang on his gaunt frame like a wet 
 sheet put out to dry by an angry and inexperienced youth. Baggy 
 trousers bulge in front, while a two-inch space above his shoes reveals 
 an utter lack of hose, and a crying need of soap and water. A twisted 
 hitching strap serves as a pair of suspenders, and over it a grimy shirt 
 hangs disconsolately. A greasy felt hat completes at one end an outfit 
 that a worn pair of brogans so inauspiciously starts at the other. His 
 voice is still more startling than his attire. It rattles up from his 
 whiskey-burned throat like the dying gasps of a consumptive bazoo. A 
 lean and hungry bottle protrudes from his hip pocket. 
 
 He has carved his name, but the waters of every ditch erase it. — 
 R. B. Dennis. 
 
 "BLISTER." 
 
 The ordinary man of the city likes a high-stepping, long-gaited, 
 slender-barreled horse. His country cousin cares nothing for speed or 
 breeding. His horse must be able to go to the "end of the road," and 
 back again. He must be able to do this day in and day out. As "Bill" 
 Williams, our village sage and, incidentally, livery-man, used to say, 
 "Them durned trotters can go so far in one day that they can't get 
 back in two. I'd rather have a wall-eyed switcher that could do her 
 ten miles an hour than a whole carload of blue-bloods." 
 
 "Blister" is the name of a bay mare in Williams's barn. But -few 
 men care to go near her. Those who have heard of her, approach with 
 an unspoken prayer on their lips, and retire with loud remarks of a 
 more pyrotechnic nature. "Blister" is not good to touch; neither is 
 she good to look upon. A massive bony head is set off with two large, 
 crown-set, beetle-like eyes, a dangerous gleam in their milky depths. 
 "Blister" never turns her head. She merely revolves one of these opal- 
 ine eyes, and tightens the muscles in the near leg. Place this head 
 with its pointed ears, always laid back, upon a thin, scrawny neck; 
 place this upon a long body, decorated with a violently switching tail; 
 place all this upon four slender legs with mule-like hoofs: do all this 
 in your imagination, and you have a mental picture of a horse that 
 always reaches her destination, no matter what the distance, the 
 weather, or the roads. She never falters. Hills are nothing: as long 
 as she can count the posts she sails down the steepest declivities ;' and, 
 as long as her driver does not sleep, she trots up them. Williams is 
 often heard to say to a prospective customer, "What, you don't like the 
 looks of her? Well, I don't wonder! Looks like a barn door that's 
 hangin' by one hinge, don't she? If you want to git any place, take her. 
 — Look out! Don't git so durned clost! You git in the buggy and I'll 
 hitch 'er up." — R. B. Dennis. 
 
 170 
 
THREE SCENES. 
 
 A little crowd stands on the dusty station platform, shaking hands 
 with a sturdy, red-cheeked country hoy. A whistle sounds far down 
 the road, and a mother's heart beats quickly to the roar of an oncoming 
 train. A mother's arms are thrown about a son's neck ; a mother's 
 tears are shed. Again the old platform stands vacant and deserted 
 through the long afternoon. The country has offered up another living 
 sacrifice to the great city. 
 
 * * ■■:■■ 
 
 A little crowd stands in the dusty court-room of the Harrison 
 Street police station, while a burly policeman unlocks the manacles 
 that bind the wrists of an unshaven, blear-eyed criminal. No heart 
 
 beats in agony as the judge pronounces sentence, no tears are shed, 
 
 no lamentations heard. With monotonous precision all is finished. 
 
 The prisoner is led away to his long punishment. The offering of the 
 
 country home is on the altar. 
 
 * * * 
 
 No little crowd stands in the potter's field at Dunning as the long 
 pine box is roughly pulled from the gaily-painted wagon. No tears are 
 shed, no sounds are heard, save the muttered curse of the driver as 
 the box falls heavily to the ground. With a dull thud the pine coffin, 
 marked with these words, "Floater. Found in Lake Michigan. Sup- 
 posed to be convict number 1121, Joliet," drops to its final resting-place 
 in the long trench. The sacrifice is complete. — R. B. Dennis. 
 
 A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES. 
 
 The June sun was reflected back from the earth in quivering waves 
 of heat that warped and bent familiar objects into trembling grotesque- 
 ness. From the trees in the pasture came the call of a thrush and the 
 regular, droning coo of a dove. A blue-jay seesawed his noisy, uncer- 
 tain plight across the green rows of corn to his nest in the orchard, 
 and from greater heights in the blue above, the cawing of a crow came 
 down, almost modulated into music by its filtering through the maze 
 of sunlight and breezes. But all was still and motionless to the boy 
 who sat on the beam of his plow r , with his sunburnt chin resting 
 on one brown hand, and his eyes looking away over the osage hedge 
 to the gray distant forest. Shutting out the familiar sights and 
 sounds, fancy was bringing before him a vision of distant, venerable 
 halls that were revered by throngs of men, who in them during four 
 happy years had learned the beauty of a broader life, had come to 
 know the real joy of living. For a moment the vision lingered, and 
 he saw himself as one of that happy company before whom life was 
 opening with new hope and brightness, for whom ideal manhood was 
 
 171 
 
being realized. Then the vision faded, and he saw again the fields with 
 their unceasing demand for work and their grudging promise of 
 meagre returns. The traces clinked chain-like as the horses started 
 forward, and across the fields toward him came the swift, black 
 shadow of a cloud that, like a curtain, shut out the light of the sun. — 
 J. E. Smiley. 
 
 WHERE ART AND CULTURE FAIL. 
 
 Slowly back and forth across the pillow of a plain bed in a poorly 
 furnished room was moving a gray, boyish face. Around him, half- 
 revealed by the light of the dim lamp, stood three people — a father, 
 silent, with set face, in the deep lines of which the shadows lay dark; 
 a mother, whose maternal love and sorrow outweighed the weariness 
 of the night's vigilant care; and a boy, perhaps a year younger than 
 the one whose eyes were beginning to fix themselves on scenes which 
 appear only to those from whom earth has faded forever. Not a word 
 was spoken. From somewhere near came the sound of a clock strik- 
 ing four. The gray light and the chill of early morning stole slowly 
 into the room. Outside, the wakening day noiselessly brushed away 
 the darkness, and every sleeping bird and resting flower woke to take 
 its place in nature's morning chorus, but the room was silent still. 
 The glow of the lamp faded slowly out as the east reddened, dying at 
 last into a blotch of flame that quivered like a broad reed of tarnished 
 brass. Finally, as the leaves on the trees rustled with the first stirring 
 of the morning breeze, there came a flutter as of invisible wings in the 
 window-curtains, and the face on the pillow stopped moving. The 
 father looked away across the fields to the little churchyard. From a 
 solitary headstone came a gleam of light, keen and arrow-like, but the 
 church itself glowed with the gilding of the morning sun like the walls 
 of the eternal city that came in apocalyptic vision before the lonely 
 dreamer in Patmos. The father turned back toward the awful quiet 
 of the bed. The mother had fallen on her knees, and, as if to drag 
 back her boy from his lonely journey, was holding a chilling hand with 
 maternal desperation, but her arm was about the other lad, who, in 
 boyish weariness and in ignorance of the meaning of it all, had fallen 
 asleep. — J. E. Smiley. 
 
 THE AUTUMN PARAGRAPH. 
 
 Autumn brings ripened fruit, falling nuts, gorgeously-colored 
 leaves, golden grain, and English G paragraphs. The three products 
 just mentioned are usually found in normal quantities, which are 
 adjusted to meet the law of supply and demand, but the present year 
 has witnessed a harvest of the last mentioned commodity such as the 
 most sanguine dared not hope for earlier in the season. Were it not for 
 one fortunate characteristic of the English G autumn paragraph, we 
 
 172 
 
would find ourselves embarrassed by an inability properly to care for 
 what the futile brain of the student has so prodigally bestowed upon us. 
 The fortunate circumstance is the limited number of topics discussed 
 in such a paragraph. Any one having heard fifteen or twenty such 
 productions knows as soon as the subject is announced that the follow- 
 ing topics will be considered: First, leaves; second, clouds; third, sun- 
 Bet; fourth, atmospheric movements, varying in kind from the rose- 
 scented zephyr to the hurricane black in the face with passion. Each 
 of these topics has a regular method of treatment. The leaves usually 
 start out with a rustling; somewhere in the paragraph they turn any 
 color but green as a result of causes varying from fairy kisses to the 
 chemical action of atmosphere of low degree of molecular activity; 
 later they cling fondly to the mother limb, which is likely to toss about 
 and moan at this stage, and then they either let go reluctantly and 
 flutter down, or fly giddily away, forgetting parental protection. All, 
 however, eventually hit the ground. An interesting controversy ap- 
 pears at this point, some authors preferring to have the leaves skurry 
 under the influence of a gentle breeze, others having them hurry with 
 a gale as the motor force. The advocates of the skurrying method had 
 a small majority at last accounts. 
 
 The clouds are dealt with under two general heads, big, black 
 clouds and gentle, little, fleecy clouds. The purpose of the former 
 seems very well defined, as but few cases have been reported in which 
 they did not shoot lightnings, lash the lake, knock the little leaves 
 down, and raise a general disturbance. The fleecy clouds, however, are 
 apt to turn out to be anything from a princess in disguise to a blanket 
 for a weary laborer, who is soothed to rest by beautiful moralizings 
 about autumn. The usual purpose of the sunset is to produce a calcium 
 light effect well along toward the close of the production. The peace 
 of mind and general happiness accompanying the appearance of the 
 sunset may be explained by the fact that the nearness of the para- 
 graph's closing sentence is thus foretold. The wind has three specific 
 purposes: to whisper to the trees, to be scene-shifter for the clouds, 
 and to move the leaves as previously mentioned. By observing these 
 characteristics and by waiting any one can obtain a real autumn para- 
 graph at a very low price, if the present rate of production is main- 
 tained. — J. E. Smiley. 
 
 THE MISFORTUNE OF AN INVENTOR. 
 
 One of my brother Will's daily duties was to feed several calves. 
 The work lacked poetry. There was nothing in it which gave an 
 aspiring youth an opportunity to rise. This Will felt keenly as he 
 daily carried to the calves their basket of chopped corn. Perhaps 
 Will read somewhere of a young man who, by using his head, had 
 lightened the labor of his hands. At any rate, a brilliant idea occurred 
 to him. Why not arrange a perpetual, automatic, self-adjusting calf- 
 
 173 
 
feeder by hooking the short bail of the basket over the head of the 
 developing bovine? A weekly replenishing of the food-supply would 
 be all that was necessary. Time for thought, reading, and fishing 
 expeditions to the creek would be gained. The plan was at least worth 
 a trial, and twenty minutes later a calf with a face as benevolent as 
 that of the president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to 
 Animals found on lifting its head that the basket from which it was 
 feeding was lifted, too. The bail had been firmly hooked over its head 
 back of the stubby horns. The look of mild surprise that filled the 
 great brown eyes was wasted on the inside of the basket, and speedily 
 gave place to horror. Up into the air rose a whirling, bawling mass, 
 as unlike the placid creature of a moment before as an avalanche is 
 unlike a snowflake. Will, who stood at one side intently noting the 
 success of his plan, was unexpectedly attacked on the right wing by a 
 combination of basket, corn, and calf's head, and suddenly retired 
 from the field in great disorder. One of the calves rushed up to extend 
 its sympathy to the vociferous victim of Will's labor-saving device, and 
 seemed considerably surprised to see its own heels describing a series 
 of circles against the sky. All the time the chief performer was keep- 
 ing up a bawling that would have made the shout of Gideon's army 
 sound like the chirping of a half-awakened bird. Suddenly a new idea 
 seized the sufferer. From the neighboring field came the lowing of 
 the cattle, which had heard his frantic appeals for help, and toward 
 them he ran. Blinded by the basket, he could not see the picket fence 
 ahead. One crash, and it was all over. The crushed basket fell off, and 
 through a wide breach in the fence the calf raced away to join the 
 other cattle, while Will stood mournfully by, contemplating the broken 
 basket and wondering what argument could clear the inventor of the 
 automatic calf-feeding machine when the trial occurred before the 
 parental court. — J. E. Smiley. 
 
 THE PRELIMINARIES OP A VISIT WITH AUNT ANN. 
 
 Aunt Ann was broad and beaming of face, as bountifully blessed 
 with avoirdupois as she was generous with her cookies and preserves. 
 The parental promise of a visit to the little brown house where Aunt 
 Ann lived was always sufficient to keep a small boy awake most of the 
 night preceding that glorious event. Anticipation was at its height 
 when the patient old gray horse started on his fifteen-mile journey 
 over the wavering country road that led into the mystical land where 
 Aunt Ann lived. The summer shadows waved back and forth across 
 the yellow dust, and the heated sand rose in puffs from under old Billy's 
 feet before Pigeon Creek was reached. That was the signal to Grand- 
 father than the day was so warm that we must go slowly. Time 
 dragged as half-familiar points were passed. Patience was partially 
 revived when we reached the place where the road wound up to the 
 
 174 
 
top of the hill that shut in the givat river, whose silent majesty- 
 quieted even boyish hearts. But all the time there was before us a 
 picture of a great cottonwood tree standing protector over the little 
 house in the patch of green lawn. At last the top of the tree appeared 
 over the windings of Bird Slough, then the roof of the house came 
 into view, and finally at the kitchen window we saw a luminous face, 
 whose warm glow was not in the least dimmed by the patch of flour on 
 one cheek. Aunt Ann did not pause for dainty preparation to receive 
 her visitors, and yet from the silken screen of courtly lady's veil never 
 appeared a fairer face than the one that came out red and glowing 
 from the burnishing of the g'ngham apron, and never did the recog- 
 nition of a queen afford the satisfaction that we derived from Aunt 
 Ann's "Well, now, bless my boys! And how are my little men?" 
 The preliminaries of the visit were completed. — J. E. Smiley. 
 
 THE EMOTIONS AROUSED BY THE BELL OF THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 CLOCK. 
 
 The emotions vary with the time and the person concerned. When 
 the clock strikes eight in the morning, the faces of the students in 
 the recitation room which the professor has not yet entered, tell a 
 very different story from that expressed by the countenance of the 
 professor himself, who is attempting to maintain an appearance of 
 self-possession and profundity of thought not exactly in keeping with 
 the speed w r ith which he mounts the st,airs. The students hope that 
 the professor will be tardy ten minutes; the professor that he can 
 look as if the tardiness had been caused by an unexpected interview 
 with the president. Wait near the library at chapel time. The group 
 of young women who are "rushing" a possible future sorority *ister, 
 express an admiration for the dear old bell, whose twelve strokes tell 
 them that for the twenty minutes of chapel time the candidate will 
 be safe from the horrid girls of the opposing forces, but the young 
 man who has run all the way from Maple Avenue to secure another 
 chapel credit, reaching the iron fence just in time to hear the same 
 twelve strokes, bestows upon the bell and everything else in sight 
 epithets that make you think that somehow he really ought to be 
 allowed to get into chapel even if he is late. But if you would 
 experience the whole range of emotion allowed to humanity, go to sleep 
 some night with the firm determination to rise when the clock strikes 
 six next morning in order to prepare the lesson due at eight o'clock. 
 It seems very dark when you wake, and you wonder what time it is. 
 All at once a deep note comes in from somewhere. You realize that 
 the sentinel in University Hall is calling the hour. The stroke seems 
 so solitary that you think, "One o'clock. Five more hours to sleep;" 
 just then another stroke comes. You try to imagine that there was 
 a suggestive falling infection about it, and just then the third stroke 
 
 175 
 
sounds. That is too close for comfort, and you raise yourself on one 
 elbow as if to stop the thing before it can go farther. With the 
 fourth stroke it all dawns on you. It is midnight, and the clock is 
 just one-third through its announcement. What a comfort! Let the 
 old thing ring till it is tired. With all your certainty, however, you 
 count two more strokes, and then wait for another in a wretched 
 silence. Your head goes back on the pillow. There is no use to hope. 
 It is just six o'clock, no more and no less. You feel mistreated, 
 wronged, oppressed. You recall the time when a friend deliberately 
 slighted you, and you wonder how he will feel when in a little while 
 you return home, a wreck from overwork, soon to be laid away in 
 the graveyard where so many good friends have preceded you. Will 
 he weep? No matter, though. Life is full of delusion, anyhow. It 
 doesn't pay. Why couldn't that clock have stopped at five, anyhow? 
 In a little while it strikes seven, and then there is no time for further 
 emotion. — J. E. Smiley. 
 
 ONE PHASE OF OUR CIVILIZATION. 
 
 It is a sad comment on our civilization that the appearance of a 
 drunken man is almost sure to be met with laughter on the part of 
 all spectators, and the meaningless babble of a fool crazed by drink is 
 considered extremely funny. It seem to be entirely forgotten that 
 the drunken man is the victim of a disease or appetite so strong as 
 to lead him deliberately to abdicate his reason, and that he is the 
 product of a system which ought to put to shame every honest man. 
 Not only to the evidently thoughtless does drunkenness appeal as a 
 jest, but men who declaim loudly against the general evil of intem- 
 perance, when brought face to face with the specific product of the 
 evil, ate more inclined to give way to laughter than to pity the unfor- 
 tunate and seek to aid him. Where is the man who does not tell a 
 story of the amusing antics of a drunkard, and where is the woman 
 who will not laugh at the story? When a near friend becomes the 
 object of laughter, men rise up tearfully to clamor for the prayers 
 and votes of other men to rescue him. But until the danger strikes 
 near home it is different. Let us not boast of refinement nor lay 
 claim to civilization until we quit considering our fools funny. — J. E. 
 Smiley. 
 
 WOMEN SHOULD HAVE POCKETS. 
 In this day and age, when such questions as equal suffrage and 
 "uniform wages for both sexes" are being agitated, when "equality" 
 is the watchword, and when woman is aping her brother, "mine eye 
 hath not yet beheld, nor mine ear e'er heard" anything on the subject 
 of pockets for the gentler sex. If, as was here maintained on Thurs- 
 day, women ought not to be wage earners, but should be indebted 
 to fathers and to brothers for every spool of thread and for every 
 
 176 
 
paper of pins, then, surely, pockets would be a "superfluity of naughti- 
 ness," and the "same old" purse would be sufficiently large for their 
 wealth. Yet women are wage earners; and, in order that they may 
 also become "wage savers" "as were their fathers before them," they 
 should have a number, say sixteen, capacious receptacles in which to 
 stow away bankbills, bonds, mortgages, and stocks, as well as smaller 
 change. What else can a woman do with her money than to spend 
 it for beautifying herself and her home? But even if she does save 
 for the proverbial "rainy day," her money goes for an umbrella, when 
 she is no better off than before. "All will surely agree in vot- 
 ing pockets for women so that they may both save their money and 
 be "like unto" man. — Marguerite J. Mayr. 
 
 THE WEATHER SHOULD NOT BE TABOOED AS A SUBJECT OF 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 
 When a man's conversation is supposed to have reached the climax 
 of insipidity and the acme of the common-place, it is an accepted fact 
 that the topic should be the weather. Anyone who dares to mention 
 this time-honored subject is pitied by the kind-hearted as a sort of 
 conversational imbecile, is shunned by the man who likes to talk only 
 on elevating matters, and is fined five cents at the Coffee Club. Yet 
 this attack upon the weather as a topic of conversation is not well 
 founded. Now it must be admitted that any subject of general interest 
 is a good one to talk about, and the weather, affecting the manners, the 
 customs, the lives, the attainments, the progress, the temper of every 
 human being, must certainly be a matter of the most universal interest. 
 Again, a topic of conversation should be one which allows of a 
 variety of opinion. Surely, the weather which is good for the corn 
 and bad for the potatoes, bright for a picnic but dry for a garden, 
 cold for an old man and warm for a young one, all at the same time 
 and in the same place, gives ample opportunity for a diversity of opin- 
 ion, and supplies a subject fertile in its possibilities for discussion 
 and argument. Besides being of a nature to admit discussion, a 
 subject to talk about should not be so new that no one knows any- 
 thing about it or so old that everybody knows all about it. The 
 subject of the weather is new, new as the morning sun and the last 
 quivering rain-drop, and yet is one which every man knows some- 
 thing about. Who is not fond of giving his opinion on the im- 
 portant question of whether it is most likely to rain and shine all 
 day, or whether a storm may blow up before morning? On the other 
 hand, the weather is as old as the rain and the sun, the ocean and 
 the hills, yet no one really knows anything about it. Who can tell 
 what made the west wind with July in its train blow last week, and 
 the east wind howl out from the lake this week trailing the skirts 
 of winter behind it? The weather is a universal subject and a subject 
 
 177 
 
which allows difference of opinion; it is an old topic and a new one; 
 some people know all about it, and most know nothing about it; surely, 
 it should not be tabooed in conversation.— Annie L. Dyar. 
 
 EVERY MAN SHOULD HAVE A GARDEN. 
 
 Now, when the grass is soon to fill in the ground-work of its 
 green carpet with a design done in dandelions, when the earth, fra- 
 grant with potential life, is ready to let him who wields a spade envy 
 the lusty angle-worm that burrows in its rich, brown bosom, the soul 
 of any man, not city born and bred, should thrill with the desire to 
 '.'make garden." Let him who scorns the hoe and the watering pot 
 reconsider his determination to allow the green-house and the grocery- 
 store the privilege of supplying the family with pansies and green- 
 corn and think of the advantages of having a garden of one's own to 
 enjoy and to weed. One of the most apparent of these advantages 
 is the garden's aesthetic value. It is a joy to see things grow, and 
 rows of brisk little corn-tops and saucy white pea-blossoms lend a 
 charm to a back-yard, which ash-piles and tin cans cannot give in 
 any artistic arrangement whatsoever. With a charming view from 
 the back-windows it becomes easier to be generous; and, with the 
 impulse of generosity, comes the means for indulging the good emo- 
 tion; for the garden always supplies summer-squashes and beets in 
 abundance, which satisfactorily fill a basket for a neighbor, even if 
 the green-peas and strawberries do not meet the great expectations 
 aroused by the perusal of the florist's catalogue. 
 
 While reducing his grocery bill and cultivating a spirit of unsel- 
 fishness, a man may also -spare himself the expense of a summer 
 outing. Hoeing is as good for the back as rowing; pulling pig-weed 
 is unsurpassed by golf in the play it gives to the arm muscles; and 
 the July sun will bestow the finishing touch of tan with equal readiness 
 in back-yard or mountain-valley. A garden cultivates the aesthetic 
 nature, feeds the family and encourages a spirit of generosity, lessens 
 the grocery-bill and does away with the necessity of a summer vaca- 
 tion; surely, every man should plant seed and pull weeds the coming 
 summer. — Annie L. Dyar. 
 
 A TRULY MODEST PERSON IS AN IMPOSSIBILITY. 
 
 In this age of independence and determined ambition a so-called 
 modest person is indeed rare, while a truly modest person is an im- 
 possibility. If by modesty we mean a characteristic of one who puts 
 his own views, talents, and deeds into the background and who places 
 the highest estimate upon the wishes and opinions of others, we shall 
 find that such a characteristic is never found in human life. More- 
 over, it will be seen that in many cases supposed modesty is merely 
 a mild form of unconscious egotism. 
 
 178 
 
For example, a person enters a room crowded with people, and, 
 taking no share in the conversation, he sits quietly in a corner. 01 
 course, this man will pass for a modest and timid person, and yet in all 
 likelihood he has been complimenting himself that he was the only 
 sensible one in the room; and as is clear, he has shown his egotism 
 by preferring to be alone rather than to share a friendly chat with 
 his neighbors. Again, a noted singer being requested to favor the 
 company with a song, under pretense of modesty, humbly declines. 
 Here, as in other cases, self has again pushed to the foreground, and 
 has domineered over the opinions of those present. Again, for the 
 sake of illustration, a poet, who, after receiving genuine applause 
 from his friends, whom he has favored by allowing them to read his 
 poems, still hesitates to bring his efforts before the world. Here 
 again, his conduct, though considered a case of extreme modesty, shows 
 rather that he values his own judgment far above that of his kind 
 and anxious friends. 
 
 Therefore, since in all cases of apparent modesty there is a conflict 
 between the appreciation of one's own talents and at the same time, 
 the opinion of others, the truly modest person is an impossibility. — 
 Lulu Melzer. 
 
 WOMEN ARE NOT LESS COURTEOUS THAN MEN. 
 
 At present, it is unusual rather than usual, for men to offer their 
 seats on the street-car to ladies. "For," they say, "we have to work 
 hard all day long, w r hile they shop and visit." Now, this is not 
 strictly true; for, often, the woman who is standing is the one who 
 has been working, and the man who is sitting is the one who has 
 been shopping and visiting. Besides, a woman needs the seat more; 
 for did not our great poet and dramatist say that the name of fraility 
 is woman? Again, men argue that they do not get thanked for giving 
 up their seats to women. Now, I have myself particularly noticed 
 that, when this occurred, it was because the men did not give the 
 women a chance to thank them, but immediately turned their backs 
 upon them. It certainly must be admitted that no one can smile 
 her sweetest at the unresponsive back of a man's coat. 
 
 Nevertheless, we women would gladly stand in the cars if the 
 men would give us half a chance to get a seat in the first place. But 
 no; at the end of the line, where all the passengers enter at once, 
 the men run to meet the car, and board it while it is still in motion. 
 When it stops, the women get on, and find all the seats occupied by 
 men. Something must be wrong, when you enter a car and find 
 nobody but men sitting and nobody but women standing. 
 
 Moreover, when cripples or old people enter a crow r ded car, nine 
 times out of ten the ones to offer them seats are ladies. As to crowd- 
 ing passages and blocking up sidewalks "I could to you a tale unfold" 
 
 IT.* 
 
concerning the men, but 1 have already written two hundred and 
 ninety-three words, and I think that I have said enough to show that 
 women are, at least, not less courteous than men. — Leonie T. Lyon. 
 
 VARIETY IS THE SPICE OF LIFE. 
 
 How dull and monotonous the work "down town" becomes, is 
 known to all who have ever met and talked with a man who spends 
 his life in one of the tall office buildings. Every one must acknowledge 
 that such a life is very unsatisfactory and that the woman who has 
 a household under her care has a much easier time. But it is very 
 soon seen why the woman does not lose her beauty, does not become 
 round-shouldered, and is not always cross and crabby, as her hus- 
 band is apt to be. She has a variety in her work: one day she 
 washes, the next day she irons, the next day she mends, and so 
 on through the week. This same wise woman goes calling, shopping, 
 belongs to a club, and does numerous other things outside the 
 routine of her daily work. But her husband has none of this variety. 
 Indeed, his business must, necessarily, be more or less the same every 
 day; but at night when he returns home, instead of tiring his brains 
 still more by reading the newspaper, if he were to help his wife with 
 the dinner, he would find himself much benefited. Besides, by getting 
 the salt, sugar, or perhaps the butter, or by setting the table, or by 
 doing anything which would give him bodily exercise, he would 
 "work up" a surprisingly good appetite. Then, after dinner, instead 
 of repeating history by sitting down to smoke, he might wash the 
 dishes, put the kitchen to rights, fix the furnace, and put out the 
 milk-bottle. After that, he could take an evening walk in company 
 with his wife or his cigar, and get the fresh air he needs so badly. 
 If, then, the irritable and "grouchy" man so well known to us, were 
 to act as wisely as does his cheerful and youthful wife, he would 
 find a variety in his every day work which would be a new spice in 
 life. — Bess Davis. 
 
 SHEPPARD FIELD SHOULD BE HEATED. 
 
 All of us have sat out on the "bleachers" at Sheppard Field, and 
 have shivered through a ball-game or a track-meet. In case of de- 
 feat, nothing could be more disconsolate and dismal than that de- 
 pressed, half-frozen sensation which impresses itself on one as he 
 stiffly rises from his seat, and stumbles toward the gate; and a bad 
 cold even takes some of the brilliant lustre from a victory. The 
 frigidity of the atmosphere causes a loss to the players, too, for prob- 
 ably innumerable well-meant cheers have been frozen, as the con- 
 versation was in "Baron Munchausen," and, during the warm days 
 of spring, these yells have thawed out, and have "wasted their sweet- 
 
 180 
 
ness on the desert air" when there was no team for them to cheer on 
 to victory. Now, if Sheppard Field were heated, those faithful few 
 who attend all the games would no longer suffer from colds, and such 
 enthusiastic crowds would be encouraged to come out with their ani- 
 mated, heated cheers that there would never be a chance of defeat 
 for Northwestern. Besides all these benefits, the brutality supposed 
 to be attendant upon a foot-ball game might be lessened, as the 
 gentle heat would subdue our animal natures, which certainly are 
 sadly in need of suppression when, the day after the "Syllabus" is 
 issued, the cartoonist of the book appears on crutches. Although there 
 may be some difficulty in bringing about this great improvement, 
 surely we have among us some inventive genius who wculd be willing 
 to spend much time and thought on a plan which wculd not only do 
 away with colds and brutality, but would cause Nor.hwestern always 
 to "reign victorious in the fight." — Katharine MacHarg. 
 
 PARAGRAPHS SHOULD NOT BE COMPULSORY. 
 
 The poor student who finds it his lot to write paragraphs is one 
 of the saddest sights on the campus. He is continually racking his 
 own brains and even encroaching upon those of his friends to furnish 
 subjects for his literary attempts. Just before paragraph day, his 
 state is pitiable; he even feels it within his heart to inquire pensively, 
 "'Death, where is thy sting,' for tomorrow a paragraph is due?" 
 No student should be forced into such a state of misery. If, on the 
 contrary, the student were asked to write only when the spirit moved 
 him, think of the poetic rhapsodies which inspiration would cause 
 to well up in his heart and flow in musical cadence from his "Water- 
 man's ideal fountain pen." And if, on the other hand, the spirit 
 should fail to incite him to action on some rare occasion, — for, were 
 the feeling of compulsion removed, such occasions would be very 
 rare, — the student would reply simply, when called on, "My lord, this 
 day I have not felt within me the sweet voice of the muse calling me 
 to wander in the fields of poetry," and he would be excused. So, with 
 this ideal arrangement, there would no longer be found tormented 
 students writing stupid and hackneyed themes but a joyful company 
 tuning their harps for inspired melodies. — Katharine MacHarg. 
 
 A "SMOKER" SHOULD BE ATTACHED TO THE "BLEACHERS" 
 ON SHEPPARD FIELD. 
 
 Much has been said about the discourtesy of women, and, although 
 it has been granted that they are superior beings, about their lack of 
 respect for men. But for an example of the consummate selfishness 
 of some men, one need go no farther than Sheppard Field on the day 
 of a ball-game. There, after the men have taken their places, the 
 
 181 
 
seats on the south end of the "bleachers" are left for the women— 
 and the wind is usually from the north. Now, the woman who is 
 discourteous is an exception, while the man who smokes at a ball- 
 game is almost the rule. Besides, a woman could not, did she never 
 acknowledge a courtesy, cause a man as much discomfort as he will 
 inflict upon her for three successive hours. Moreover, it cannot be 
 conducive to enthusiasm to have one's mouth filled with tobacco- 
 smoke whenever she opens it for a rousing cheer. Smoke is also- 
 quenching at a "losing" game. Besides, the muse of ball-games would 
 probably be more propitious, if she received more devotion and less 
 smoke. Since, then, such discomfort is caused by this selfish and 
 ungentlemanly practice, and since it would not be right to abolish 
 the men, a "smoker," where they may enjoy their pipes — and the 
 game — to their hearts' content, should be attached to the south end 
 of the "bleachers." — Marion Holmes. 
 
 • THE AMERICAN WOMAN'S WALK. 
 
 American women need to be taught how to walk. In getting over 
 much ground our women are a success, but their manner of locomotion 
 is neither graceful nor dignified. Too much physical energy is wasted 
 in a violent swinging of arms, and, from the peculiar and unnatural 
 direction of some of the swinging, one is led to believe that a great 
 deal of mental effort is also required lest they forget. This awkward- 
 ness of gait will not be remedied l^y club-swinging, basket-ball, or 
 other exercise of like sort. Athletics are not what is wanted. Sweep- 
 ing, scrubbing, or pitching in a harvest field are as likely to be pro- 
 ductive of grace in woman as are the athletic exercises of her brother. 
 We want athletic men but graceful women. The much-ridiculed Del- 
 sarte exercises have shown more good results in the improved bearing 
 of women than have the more violent exercises whose aim is the 
 development of muscular strength. Watch the women as they pass, 
 and count those who walk on their heels, head thrust forward, arms 
 swinging violently. What a pity you can't suspend them somewhere 
 long enough to discover what is that "fixed rate determined by their 
 length" which Holmes asserts is natural to the limbs! Then count 
 those whom, as an unprejudiced observer, you would call graceful. 
 You will find that the latter are not one-tenth of the whole number. 
 Poor things! It is not their fault. They try hard enough, as is 
 evident from the different gaits they cultivate — from the fads in 
 walking. But they "are copying vices rather than virtues. To avoid 
 this waste of energy, then, in making of walking too violent an exer- 
 cise, in having to bear constantly in mind the desired tilt of the 
 body and the scythe-swinging motion of the arms, every young woman 
 should be taught such exercises as will result in a dignified bearing 
 and a graceful gait. — M. J. Lombard. 
 
 182 
 
EXTRAVAGANCE IS THE RESULT OF WAGE-EARNING. 
 
 Girls who have always been dependent on others for everything, 
 who have not had the experience of even handling money, find them- 
 selves suddenly with from fifty to eighty dollars a month at their 
 disposal and a number of long cherished plans or ungratified desires. 
 Now, unless they start their professional career with a debt on their 
 hands, or with an unusual amount of determination and the resolu- 
 tion to lay by a definite amount every month, each pay-day will find 
 them penniless, if not in debt. All the little novelties in dress are 
 so attractive, and each costs so little! But alas! "Many a mickle 
 makes a muckle," and a desire for keeping up with the fashion is 
 developed at the expense of the habit of self-denial. No, it does not 
 all go for dress. The home is beautified, new furniture is bought, 
 the supply of books and magazines is increased; but the habit of 
 saving and the discipline of self denial have been lost. The woman 
 who would have sternly schooled herself, all her life, to stifle her 
 longings, dress plainly, live simply, and spend the greater part of 
 the day at home, is now independent of restriction, and finds her 
 desires increased and her horizon broadened to such an extent that 
 the alternative of staying at home and depending on father or brother 
 for support has become too humdrum for endurance. Study the mat- 
 ter in whatever country or in whatever condition of society you may, 
 and you will find that the woman who earns, a salary has more wants 
 than she who is dependent on another for every spool of cotton and 
 for every paper of pins. And for every wish that she gratifies, a 
 dozen others arise. Then will you bow your head sadly and agree that 
 to them who gratify many desires more shall be given. — Mary Joy 
 Lombard. 
 
 WOMEN SHOULD SAVE TWINE. 
 
 All young women can not become the wives of millionaires. In- 
 deed, the great majority must live contented in much humbler posi- 
 tions. To these, especially, the careful saving of ordinary wrapping 
 twine will prove an aid and a benefit. 
 
 Because, in the first place, always to have in a convenient drawer 
 or box a neat ball of string will save both time and temper. Then 
 the precious moments of Monday morning will not be lost in a vain 
 search for a cord with which to tie up the husband's laundry. The 
 children, too, knowing where they can find the twine necessary for 
 their many small enterprises, will not come running into the parlor 
 while the clergyman is calling, nor will they disturb their mother 
 when she is suffering from a head-ache. Thus many of those provok- 
 ing incidents that too often ruffle the family calm will be avoided. 
 
 But, besides these immediate gains, a ball of twine means future 
 good, for lessons of neatness will be learned. The clean home, how- 
 
 l :; 
 
ever small and mean, is inviting. Needless to say, the woman who 
 carefully picks up every piece of string will not allow bits of thread 
 and of cloth to litter the floor. A desire for cleanliness in all things 
 will prevail, and, to the joy of her husband, she will gain the enviable 
 reputation of a good house-keeper. 
 
 Economy, too, is a necessary result of this habit. How many a 
 man has been ruined by an extravagant wife! But she who watches 
 her string will also watch the nickels and the dimes, and will 
 deliberate carefully before gratifying some whim with the earnings of 
 her hard-working husband. Such a woman, instead of being a check 
 in the production of wealth, is a positive element. 
 
 Thus, by so simple a thing as winding our cheap, every-day twine 
 into a compact ball, many vexatious moments will be avoided; habits 
 of neatness and of economy will be acquired, the good results of which, 
 extending into all the branches of domestic administration, will tend 
 to make the home what it should be, a pleasant and inviting spot to 
 the work-worn husband. — Louis Clements. 
 
 THE WHALER. 
 
 Five months out of New Bedford, the whaler "Ann Burgess," under 
 a light spread of canvas, plows lazily through the boundless reaches 
 of tbe high seas. To north, to south, to east, to west, nothing visible 
 but restless waters, which come rolling up endlessly from nowhere 
 and roll on irresistibly to nowhere. The heavy ship, the only work of 
 man amid that vast solitude of sea and sky, meets the long ground 
 swell lightly as a water-fowl, now rising slowly to the crest, her flying 
 jib-boom pointing heavenward, poising for an instant, and then bow- 
 ing gracefully as she slides down to the next swell and buries her 
 nose in it far above the cable slots. Her decks, flooded with morning 
 sunlight and printed with the shadows of the huge canvas squares 
 overhead, are almost deserted. Against the forecastle bulwarks, in 
 various uncouth attitudes, with hats over their faces, lie a few men 
 dozing in the warm sunshine. Their garments are unique. Tattered 
 shirts so bepatched with odd pieces that the original color is lost, 
 greasy trousers strapped up with leathern belts or bits of cordage, 
 all manner of footwear from cowhide boots to the nude — one would 
 think them a crew of beggars. We look expectantly to the poop to 
 see what the officers may be. Only three men are in evidence there 
 besides the man at the wheel. A person in no respect differing in 
 appearance from those on the forecastle lies sprawled out asleep 
 against the grating, while the third individual, a short, heavy-faced 
 man in a sou'wester and a faded swallow-tail coat, paces slowly up 
 and down and shoots tobacco juice over the rail. Judging by these 
 lifeless decks, this sleeping crew, and the general air of negligent 
 repose, we might say that the ship, with her monotonous lifting and 
 
 184 
 
falling, like the blue surges upon which she floats, is hound tor 
 nowhere. And such is the truth, for she is an old-time whaler, a 
 roving hunter of the seas. But do not think that she is quite asleep, 
 for like a hunter she must have one eye open at all times. If you look 
 away up on the foretop gallant mast, almost to the truck, you will 
 see a man standing on a tiny crosspiece and lashed with a belt to the 
 spar. With the roll of the ship he sways in a wide arc against the blue 
 heavens. He is the eye. Suddenly he bends over, sets his hand to his 
 mouth, and his voice comes bawling down. "There she blo-o-o-o-ws!" 
 Instantly the decks are alive. Out of the hatchway the men swarm 
 like rats from a flooded cellar. They leap into the chains and up the 
 shrouds and scramble for places at the rail. The captain comes tum- 
 bling up with a telescope in his hand and calls, "Where away?" The 
 voice answers, "Sou'-sou'-east, off the port quarter." All hands, stare 
 in the direction indicated, and excited voices call "she blows"! when 
 dark spray columns are descried against the white sky-line. The big 
 sails are backed, and the ship swings up into the wind. Hoarse yells 
 proclaim the necessary orders, and the boat-crews vie with each other 
 in getting away. The motley throng work like madmen, but with 
 perfect precision. Canvases are whipped off, blocks rattle, lines creak, 
 the long whaleboats strike the water simultaneously with a loud 
 swash, and every man drops into his place. The oars are lifted and 
 fall into their sockets together, the rowers give way, the oars bend, 
 the spray flies, the boats forge ahead. We watch them receding, now 
 on the top of .a wave, now sunk in the trough, and now up again, the 
 rowers swaying rhythmically, the picturesque figures of the steerers 
 bending to their long sweeps, and their measured "ho, ho" ringing 
 back musically, fainter and ever fainter across the waters — A. G. 
 Terry. 
 
 ONE BOY'S VIEW OF LIFE. 
 
 Young Larry was a helpless cripple, and lay day and night in a 
 small upper room of the tenement. Being one of the dregs of human- 
 ity, books were to him nil, but pictures afforded him much amusement, 
 and whenever his mother could procure one of the gaudy comic sheets 
 of a Sunday newspaper he fingered and refingered it till it resembled 
 a newly-discovered manuscript from the Sinaitic Peninsula. Through 
 these eye-grasping pages he learned that certain races of men exist 
 whose lives are a continuous vaudeville, to wit, the Irishman, the 
 "hayseed," the "hoboe," the Jew, and the negro. This was the extent 
 of his book-learning, but he had another source of knowledge, and 
 that was observation. In the first place, he had seen a great 
 man whom they called the Doctor. This august personage had on 
 one or two occasions entered the room and examined the cripple care- 
 fully, yet with a face as expressionless as that of a tailor's dummy. 
 He wore a big warm overcoat, and had gloves and a watch-chain, and 
 
 185 
 
he moved about very quickly and silently, never speaking save in a 
 low, unmodulated voice. He had not called since the day, some three 
 weeks since, when he stepped into the hall and talked for a moment 
 with Larry's mother, who, when she reappeared some time after, 
 showed an unusual redness about the eyes. Then, too, Larry could 
 hear sounds about him. He used to hear loud concussions and 
 screams and horrid oaths rising from a room below. Once, after a 
 terrible uproar there, a gong was heard clanging on the street ou'; 
 side and then a passage of heavy feet upon the stairs. Larry asked 
 his mother about it. and she said that the Italians downstairs ha:l 
 been fighting, and that a man had been killed. The boy thought it 
 over for a long time, and wondered why they should ever want to kill 
 anybody. But Larry's broalest field of observation was the view from 
 his window. Through its tiny square he could see a piece o: slanting 
 roof, a gutter-pipe, a crumbling" chimney with an old lightning rod 
 leaning against it, and a narrow truncated patch of sky diagonally 
 'bisected by a telegraph wire. The artificial objects became somewhat 
 wearisome, but the bit of sky was a novel source of delight. The boy 
 never tired of watching its shifting colors, although a dirty gray pre 
 dominated and kept him waiting for weary days, and often weeks, for 
 the next change. Especially charming was the scene at n!ght when 
 the black was studded with stars. One morning Larry awoke and saw 
 the roof and chimney covered with a mantle of the purest snow tinged 
 a delicate pink by the rising sun, the whole intensified by a sky-back- 
 ground of deep blue. He gasped with surprise and rapture, and the 
 sight often afterward stood forth in his dreams like a bit of fairy- 
 land. His greatest joy came, however, when, one day, a white p'geon 
 appeared on the roof and strutted about with fantail spread. Here 
 was a live creature, and a beautiful one at that. Larry had been 
 much amused by the dingy little sparrows that sometimes gossiped 
 noisily around the gutter-pipe, but this new white thing was like an 
 angel among birds. It seemed to like the roof, and came there regu- 
 larly each day, waddling up and down, searching the gutter, craning 
 its neck over the eaves, or dozing in the sunshine upon the ridge-pole. 
 The little cripple watched it till his eyes swam, and when it had 
 flown, he would lie breathlessly expecting its return, amusing himself 
 by guessing what part of the roof it would alight upon. As time went 
 on the bird became a passion with Larry. He talked to it, dreamed 
 of it, imagined it could talk back to him, and that they two were old 
 friends. On nights when he could not sleep for pain, he was happy 
 in thinking of how soon his friend would appear in the old place when 
 daylight should creep over the sullen roofs of the city. One sunny 
 morning the pigeon sat en the ridge-pole while Larry was laughing 
 and calling to it. Suddenly there was a sharp snap, the bird rolled over 
 twice, and lay kicking wildly for a moment; then it became still. Its 
 body slid to the eaves and fell with a faint thump. Boyish voices 
 sounded gleefully in the alley and died away. The cripple's face was 
 
 186 
 
white with horror, and two big tears rolled down his wasted cheeks.— 
 A. G. Terry. 
 
 THE OLD MAN. 
 
 As the antics of children are amusing, no less are the ways 
 peculiar to man in his second childhood a source of interest. Let us 
 observe Grandfather as he sits in his armchair upon the little porch. 
 He is at ease in his old trousers, his check shirt, and his ungainly felt 
 slippers. The light breeze plays in his thin, white hair, and occa- 
 sionally shakes the woodbine above him in such manner as to let 
 through a crowd of dappling sunbeams, which dodge across his 
 wrinkled face and vanish. He leans upon his cane, an old hook- 
 handled favorite, yellow with service, which he cut from a hickory 
 sappling years ago. His eyes are fixed half vacantly upon the woods 
 and pastures that stretch away eastward. Perhaps he is thinking of 
 the time when he came into those woods with his young bride and 
 began the struggle with nature. He glances proudly at the big tim- 
 bers of the house, cleanly hewn with his axe, and at the long stone 
 walls neatly laid by his hands. Suddenly a large fly drops upon his 
 knee. Softly he raises one hand, and, with a deft sweep, captures the 
 trespasser, chuckling the while at his success. For five minutes he 
 continues this amusement, until the flies, becoming tired of the sport, 
 seek a less dangerous locality on the ears of old Towser, who lies 
 sprawled out asleep at Grandfather's feet. The old man looks around 
 and sees an empty saucer some feet away by the doorsill. He blinks 
 at it hard for several minutes; then turning slowly, he calls into 
 the house, "Sairy! hev you fed the cats yit?" An affirmative answer 
 is heard within. Again he stares long and hard at the bit of crockery. 
 Finally he rises slowly from the chair, hobbles over to the saucer, 
 painfully stoops, picks it up, turns, hobbles back to the screen door, 
 fumbles for the button, opens the door, and shuffles in. Then we hear 
 his voice, "Better put this away, hadn't ye, 'fore somebody steps onto 
 it an' breaks it?" Soon he returns to the porch carrying an old straw 
 hat. With both hands he adjusts it upon his head; then grasping his 
 cane tightly, he proceeds to descend the steps. He plants the cane 
 upon the first step below, then lowers one foot to the same level, and 
 brings the other foot after it. In this manner arrived at the bottom, 
 he gives a gentle grunt, and begins to shuffle down the walk, old 
 Towser limping along behind. On the way he sees a stick of wood 
 lying in the grass. He stops, picks it up, examines it, then turns and 
 retraces his steps to the woodshed, where he carefully deposits the 
 stick in the proper place upon a pile of kindlings. A group of hens 
 are foraging among the chips by the chopping block. Spreading his 
 arms, the old man goes after them, crying, "Shoo! Shoo!" He drives 
 them to the poultry-yard, sees them scamper through the gate, closes 
 it, and studiously shoves the plug through the eye of the staple. Then 
 
 1ST 
 
he resumes his way to the barn. By the wall at the foot of the garden 
 a small stone has rolled to the ground. Grandfather picks it up and 
 puts it back in its place. When he reaches the barn, the men have 
 just come in with a load of hay. Grandfather stands by and watches 
 them hoist it into the bays in great bunches by means of the horse- 
 fork and tackle. Soon he calls, "Silas, come here a minnit!" A young 
 fellow on the load jabs his pitchfork into the hay, slides to the floor, 
 and comes to the old man, who with his cane is pointing to the collar 
 of one of the horses. "Them harness ain't been buckled right, Silas, 
 better fix 'em this way." A long consultation ensues. Finally the 
 load is off and the men drive away. Grandfather inspects the barn, 
 hangs up a horseshoe here and a piece of strap there, and then turns 
 his face toward the house again. Half an hour later we find him 
 asleep in his chair, his hat and cane hung carefully upon a hook 
 behind him, his hands folded in his lap, the dog snoring at his feet, 
 and the flies buzzing undisturbed upon his knees. — A. G. Terry. 
 
 A BIT OF ICE. 
 
 Not far from my window, where the sidewalk slopes towarl tie 
 street-crossing, lies an innocent little pool of water collected from 
 the melting snows, and every morning, until Sol has reached a point 
 of vantage whence to direct his darts effectively, the said pool is 
 imprisoned beneath a plate of the glassiest ice. Like smooth-looking 
 individuals in general, the frozen pool is filled with trickery and 
 deceit. Unless one tested its surface with a spirit-level, he would be 
 unable to perceive that this ice-pond, owing to the circumstance that 
 water from a huge snow-bank glides over it during the day, slants at 
 an angle of some few degrees, yet such is the case, and many are the 
 undignified poses of pedestrians arising therefrom. As I sit in my 
 window I see the "eight o'clock" student, blue-nosed and hungry-eyed, 
 rushing frantically to his task. He skips gracefully down the slope, 
 and — well what he says when he gets upon his feet about four yards 
 away is not exactly polite literature. As he limps away, pretty Miss 
 Redcap, a little freshwoman, comes along, blithe as any snowbird. 
 She, too, skips down the slope; one dainty foot touches the ice, and 
 .with a cute little squeal she simply sits down, and turns as red as her 
 cap. But she jumps up so quickly you can't see how she does it, looks 
 all around furtively, picks her "March of the Ten Thousand" from 
 one snowbank, and her "Practical Rhetoric" — which, by the way, lies 
 open at Rule 254, "avoid confounding sit and set" — from another, and 
 passes on sedately, having lost some of the freshness of Eve before 
 the Fall. Now we see old Mr. and Mrs. Pudgworthy returning from 
 their boarding-house around the corner. These good people waddle 
 along with their two hundred and fifty pounds apiece, looking like two 
 sage hippopotami. Mr. P. is smoking his morning cigar and feeling 
 
 188 
 
his way with a cane, while .Mrs. p. clings with one arm to her husband 
 
 and with the other holds her skirt in order that it may not sweep the 
 walk. As tiny approach the hit of ice. Mr. 1'. prods it cautiously with 
 his stick, eyes it somewhat suspiciously, then confidently steps forth, 
 squeezing the arm of his timid spouse. Now the fatal declivity "gets 
 in its work." The old gentleman's heels speed forward and he lands 
 flat on his hack with an impact that strikes every ounce of breath 
 from his body, making a noise like the gasp of an airbrake and send- 
 ing his cigar scudding upward thro' a wide arc like a rocket. Mrs. 
 P.. of course, follows her lord, and rolls like a big pumpkin into the 
 snow. The process of re-establishing the ponderous couple upon a 
 solid footing is necessarily slow and painful. While for a moment 
 Mr. P. lies grunting for breath, Mrs. P. rises to a kneeling position 
 and screams, "Abram, are you hurt?" At this instant up comes Mr. 
 Skraggs, a long-legged person who tends the furnace next door, and, 
 like the gallant gentleman that he is, he rushes to aid the sufferers. 
 But in the warmth of zeal he o'ersteps the bounds of moderation and 
 touches the mischief-loving ice. "You've heard of touches just like 
 that before." Mr. Skragg's Apollo-like limbs describe parabolic curves 
 for an instant — then he falls on the windless bosom of Abraham! 
 Pen cannot picture the ensuing confusion. When at last Mr. Pudg- 
 worthy is righted, the frenzied rolling of his eye bodes no joy for the 
 street cleaning department. — A. G. Terry. 
 
 MIND AND MATTER. 
 
 About one hundred years ago two men shook the world to its 
 foundations. The one was a Frenchman, a man of small stature. He 
 traveled all over Europe, and thousands marched in his train. Prince 3 
 and kings bowed before him most humbly, and he made himself at 
 home in their capitals without stopping to ask of them permission. 
 He gave brief commands, and governments fell, nations were trans- 
 formed, and states sprang into being. The lives of thousands of men 
 were the dice with which he played. After twenty years all Europe 
 united to put him down. It was a terrible struggle, but at last they 
 succeeded. How r ever, they had to hold him down till he died. This 
 man was known as Napoleon. 
 
 The other man was a German, also one of slight figure and of 
 frail physique. He lived to be eighty years old. but never traveled 
 more than forty miles from the house in which he was born. His 
 retinue at the most consisted of a few students in one of the smallest 
 and least-famed universities. He probably never killed so much as 
 a sparrow in his lifetime. He was a simple man, very precise in his 
 habits. It is said that the neighbors set their clocks by watching him 
 start for his class-room. But this quiet little person wrote out some 
 of his thoughts, and the world read them. The mind of the race was 
 seized in a grip from which it has never since extricated itself, nor 
 
 18<J 
 
had it ever before been so profoundly disturbed. This man was 
 Immanuel Kant. — A. G. Terry. 
 
 SUNK IN THE HARBOR. 
 
 One evening, at sunset, a man stood on a hill overlooking the 
 Hudson. The rosy beams slanting across the placid stream gilded the 
 opposite shore with a tender light, and revealed, lying there amid 
 masses of heavy foliage, a little village, whose every feature — trim 
 cottage, shaded garden walk, and heaven-pointing spire — suggested 
 rest. The man on the hilltop eagerly drank in the scene, and tears 
 moistened his eyes. Every nook in the hamlet, every meadow and 
 pasture on the hillside beyond — nay, every tree in the darkling grove, 
 was associated in his mind with some fond memory. Thirty years 
 before this man had been an inhabitant of the quiet place on which 
 he was now gazing. There he had grown to young manhood. There 
 he had been tempted and had yielded. He robbed a friend and fled 
 with the spoil. Fortune had followed him. In the new land far to 
 the west he had accumulated riches. Now, with yearning heart, he 
 was coming back to find his old friend, to throw himself at his feet, 
 to trebly repay him, and humbly to beg forgiveness. On first coming 
 over the hill and beholding the familiar scene, his soul was so unstrung 
 with conflicting emotions that he stood long gazing, even until the 
 dark shadows began to thicken. Finally he descended to the edge of 
 the stream. He found two bum-boatmen, the drifting scum of every 
 navigable river, and engaged them to set him across. They noticed his 
 heavy satchel, and quickly agreed. The little skiff shot out into the 
 glistening tide, impelled by lusty strokes from two pairs of oars. 
 They passed the rushes on the flats, they crossed the broad swirling 
 channel. It was dark now and lights began to gleam in the village 
 windows. The wanderer's heart fluttered with joy. "Home at last," 
 he sighed. The next instant a crunching blow fell on his head, and 
 his body rolled under the murmuring waters. The skiff put about, 
 and faded into the surrounding gloom. A week later the villagers 
 found a man's body on the shore. No one identified it. It was buried 
 in the Potter's Field. — A. G. Terry. 
 
 THE NEGRO QUESTION. 
 
 As I sat enjoying a warm breakfast in the dining room of the 
 
 station at L , my attention was called to a gentleman whom the 
 
 head waiter was showing to a seat on the opposite side of the table. 
 The newcomer was a tall, spare man of perhaps sixty years of age, 
 with a cold gray eye, a sallow complexion, sunken cheeks, sharp nose, 
 and a droopfcig mustache. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat, a very 
 long frock coat, buttoned tightly (saving a space in the bosom wherein 
 
 190 
 
the woarei was accustomed to thrust his hand loosely as Into a pocket) 
 
 and a black string tie. On the lapel of his coat was a small badge of 
 the Confederate Veterans' Association. His hands wore long, sinewy, 
 and white. I at once recognized in my table companion a type of 
 "good American," and I could not help eyeing him narrowly through- 
 out the meal and wishing that in some way conversation might he 
 started hetween us. I knew he must he congenial by the mellifluous 
 "Good mawning" with which he greeted me as he took his seat. Dur- 
 ing a pause in the operation of satisfying appetite, I opened a news- 
 paper, and. glancing carelessly through the pages, my attention fell 
 upon the notice of a lynching in Alahama. Shocked by the revolting 
 details of the incident, I half unconsciously muttered aloud. "Hor- 
 rible, horrible!" A voice from across the table queried, "May I be 
 puhmitted to inquiah what bad noos yuh find, suh; no public calamity, 
 I trust?" For answer I read the more striking parts of the article 
 itself, and my new friend gravely listened, at the same time balancing 
 his salt-cellar on the blade of his knife. When I had finished he 
 looked at me quizzically, and, smiling, said, "You ah a No'thenuh, ain't 
 yuh, suh?" 
 
 "Yes," said I. 
 
 "An' yuh nevah been in the South, have yuh?" 
 
 "No," said I. 
 
 "Well, do you believe all these heah papahs have tuh tell about 
 the South, an' about Southuhnuhs, suh?" 
 
 I was somewhat put to it for an answer, but I replied: "That's 
 about all I have to go by in such matters." 
 
 "Well, now, let me tell yuh." Here he shook his finger at me 
 slowly, and his smile was sultry like the sun on a Carolina rice field. 
 "Don't yuh believe 'em, suh. Not foh a minute, don't yuh believe 'em! 
 
 They're d d liahs, suh! (here he smote the table till the glassware 
 
 jingled). They ah tryin' tuh slandah Southuhnuhs, an' it makes me 
 blood bile, suh! O-o-h!" 
 
 His anger was splendid. The gray eyes flashed, and the veins 
 swelled on the hand that had grasped the sword-hilt at Chancellors- 
 ville. But the next instant the storm had passed, and my friend was 
 as gentle as any child. He continued, stirring his coffee meditatively: 
 
 "It makes me sad tuh think how we Southuhnuhs ah misundah- 
 stood. Them poor cullud people — suh, they ain't no one loves 'em 
 like we do. Look at me. I had an ole mammy, suh, I loved most as 
 much as man own mothah. Suttinly I saw moah of huh. Why, I 
 owe mah life to that blessed old cullud woman. She was all that a 
 mothah could be to me, suh, an' she raised me from the time I 
 a little pink baby till I could shift foh mahself. The happiest memories 
 of the mawning of my existence ah associated with that deah ole 
 mammy. Do yuh think I could heah of any cruelty done to huh with- 
 out rushing to shed the last drop of my heaht's blood in huh defense? 
 
 Why, sur, I'd " 
 
 191 
 
The speaker stopped, and glared aghast toward the door, through 
 which had just entered a neatly-dressed negro, followed by his wife 
 and three bright-eyed, grinning "pickaninnies." The Southerner leaped 
 to his feet so suddenly as to careen the table dangerously in my direc- 
 tion. He fairly choked for utterance. "Waitah!" he cried, "what 
 d' you mean by admitting those — those black cattle into this room? 
 See them removed right smaht quickly, suh, or theah will be an awful 
 row in this caravansary!" 
 
 But the negro family took seats unmolested, and my ante-bellum 
 friend vanished in his wrath. — A. G. Terry. 
 
 DE MO'NIN' DOVE. 
 
 When de sky is all a-glimmah wiv de dawnin', 
 
 An' de mists is gittin' up above the crick; 
 When j r uh firs' blinks yo' peepahs en de mawnin,' 
 
 An' fin' yo' heaht is heavy lak, an' sick, 
 Wiv de cares o' dis weary life erroun' yuh 
 
 S' thick yo' t'ink dey's nuffin' mo' dat's good, 
 Dey's one kind o' balm '11 sholy cyoh yuh — 
 
 Hit comes f'om ovah yondeh en de wood; 
 "Tomorrow — coo — coo." 
 
 Oh, yuh des wantuh lie 'n let huh soak yuh 
 
 Twell you's all kind o' guzzlin' wif de soun', 
 Yo' soul so drunk ef someun come an' poke yuh 
 
 Yo'd nevah guess dey's anyone erroun'. 
 Den yuh gits up an' goes out en de sunshine, 
 
 An' yo' heaht feels sof an' happy lak de day; 
 Ev'y li'l while yuh draps yo' hoe ter listen 
 
 T' dat muhmah en de timbah far away, 
 
 "Tomor — row, coo — coo." 
 
 Dey's some folks dat says de soun' am 'gub'rous, 
 
 Dat hit moan so, an' meks yo' sperrit sad. 
 Yuh kin 'pend upon hit sech people's dubyous, 
 
 Dey's sumpin' on dey min' dat hu'ts 'em bad: 
 Kase ter me — why dat li'l note's ez soothin' 
 
 Ez er ole mammy singin' en de dahk; 
 Hit alius sayin' wait twell t'morrer, 
 
 Dey's bettah times comin' den — now hahk! 
 "Tomor — row, coo — coo." 
 
 But de days when I goes ter see m' Dinah, 
 An' we floats wiv de windin' ob de stream — 
 
 Sholy heaven ain' got anything much finah 
 'N dem joys, ovah which I daily dream! 
 
 192 
 
De breeze whispaha lub-worda to de branches, 
 
 An' de grasses bend to kiss de glassy tide, 
 'N me — h'm — well, I sits dan wif m" honey, 
 An de ole call er ringin' close beside; 
 
 "Tomor — row, coo — coo." 
 
 En de dahk time I los' man po' ole mothah, 
 
 An' de worl's a lonely desert all erroun": 
 When hit feel lak wiv sorrow I would smothah, 
 
 When m' heaht's theah wiv huh below de groun; 
 While I set heah alone befoh de cabin, 
 
 Come er sweet soun' a-floatin' cross de co'n, 
 Hit seem lak ole mammy's voice er callin'! 
 
 "Dar now, chile, I'll be wif yuh en de mo'n. 
 "Tomor — row, coo — coo." 
 
 — A. G. Terry. 
 
 THE PURITANS. 
 
 The wind sweeping clown from the pine woods to the north whines 
 hungrily about the corners of the log meeting-house. There is no 
 warmth within. Stolid, like frozen clods, everyone sitting bolt upright 
 upon his narrow bench, wrapped in their dark-hued cloaks, and bend- 
 ing their blue faces reverently toward the pulpit, the little congrega- 
 tion hearken to the exposition of God's word. Not a soul in the fron- 
 tier hamlet is missing, for to be so were a most heinous offense. All 
 ages are represented; stern-featured men with horny hands; patient 
 women, cold in their pious placidness; rigidly-schooled children, awed 
 at the very thought of twitching with pain from the frosty air or the 
 hard seats; and a few gray-haired elders, their seamed faces fixed in 
 profound solemnity. The minister in his rude box has turned his big 
 hourglass for the third time, and is entering upon the discussion of a 
 new phase of the text, "And Isaiah the prophet cried unto the Lord; 
 and he brought the shadow ten degrees backward, by which it had gone 
 down in the dial of Aliaz." His pale, sharp features seem turned con- 
 stantly upon each face in the audience, and no one dares, or even 
 thinks of nodding under the spell of his low-rumbling eloquence. 
 Meanwhile the wind whistles about the corners and at times comes 
 through the cracks between the logs. The breath of the people rises 
 in faint steam, and occasionally some sufferer moves a foot slightly or 
 draws his garment closer. Only a few of the oldest women presume 
 to bring soap-stones to meeting. Thus they sit in silence while the 
 minister drones, the wind hums, and at intervals a swirl of flying 
 snow tinkles on the window pane. Suddenly a new sound breaks the 
 stillness, a sound apparently at a distance and somewhere outside. 
 The minister has not noticed it in the warmth of his discourse, but 
 several in the congregation glance up startled. Who can be abroad at 
 
 193 
 
this hour? Surely everyone was in church when the preaching began. 
 Yet. certainly, there was a noise outside just now; it sounded like 
 some one hammering up at the other end of the village. There it 
 goes again! The tithing-man slides from his seat and tiptoes to the 
 window. All eyes follow him with a terrified expectancy. They watch 
 his face as he peers out. His face grows even a more ghastly white 
 than the cold had made it before! At the same instant a few wreaths 
 of dark smoke are seen to pass the window. Then down on the cut- 
 ting wind comes the dreaded sound. A shrill, quavering, yelping, 
 splitting howl; a shuddering, blood-congealing roar, like the snarling 
 of a pack of mad wolves, or still more like the jeering laugh of 
 demons. With the wind it rises and sinks, it whirls, it wheels, it leaps, 
 it beats against the walls, it falls back and dies, it moans, it swells, it 
 shrieks, it clamors, it subsides, and again bursts forth in deafening 
 chorus. The whole air throbs with it. Now the smell of burning pine 
 niters into the meeting house. The men are pulling in the heavy 
 shutters and barricading the door. A few have seized their guns and 
 have hurried out to cover the defenders. The shots begin to peal, and 
 they are driven back, one of their number missing. In through the 
 door they rush, a mad howl at their heels. The door is slammed shut, 
 and a dozen heavy forms lurch against it while the bar is dropped into 
 place, none too soon, for a storm of shots and axe-blows without 
 splinters the solid oak. There in the darkness stands the little com- 
 pany, the men breathing heavily and fingering their gun-locks, the 
 women silent, the children clutching their mothers' skirts and sob- 
 bing nervously. — A. G. Terry. 
 
 THE LAST FLY OF SUMMER. 
 
 Some peculiar nobility inevitably attaches to the last individual 
 of a vanishing race. In the leaden chill of a fall afternoon I sat at my 
 study table, endeavoring by various contortions to present as little of 
 my periphery as possible to the penetrating air. which crept into the 
 room untamed by artificial heat. The cold atmosphere, added to the 
 corpse-like chill of the dead language which I was dissecting, was 
 turning my thoughts very naturally into a lugubrious channel, when, 
 suddenly, there came a faint buzz, and a common housefly dropped 
 upon the page of my book. His appearance was calculated imme- 
 diately to arouse compassion. His features were pinched and sor- 
 rowful, his costume very seedy, and he limped painfully upon his left 
 hindmost leg, being, as I could see, afflicted with the gout. Tottering 
 feebly to the top of the page, he turned his large expressive eyes at 
 me. Could this be the swaggering, reckless young adventurer who 
 used to perform such exasperating gyrations upon my face as I lay 
 comfortably napping in the warm summer mornings? Yes, it was 
 he, for I recognized on his cheek a scar which I had administered 
 
 194 
 
once by a deft "uppercut." "Yet, prophetlike, that lone one stood," 
 and gazed at me with a mixture of Badness and defiance. The Inde- 
 scribable awe and pathos inspired hy his situation moved me to tears, 
 and I wept inconsiderately. At this his proud features curled in a 
 smile of mournful triumph, which proved to he his last, for a cold 
 gust, sweeping through a crevice of the window, smote his unprotected 
 sides, and I saw him shudder. Slowly he sank hack and closed his 
 eyes, disposing his limbs decently for the calm sleep of death. The 
 next instant, with a sigh, his spirit departed. A cry burst from the 
 depths of my soul — 
 
 "Oh whither, Oh whither, Oh whither so high?" 
 and a voice came back faintly — 
 
 "To spend the winter up in the sky; 
 And, faith. I'll be back again by and by." 
 
 —A. G. Terry. 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE SANCTUARY. 
 
 Service had just begun. The women had been long seated in 
 sacred silence on their side of the church, the file of sun-burned men 
 had passed in from the horse-sheds with a terrible din of creaking 
 boots and had subsided in the southeast corner; old Uncle "Brom" 
 Van Stienhooven had marched to his favorite post, hooked his cane 
 over the back of a bench, dropped into his seat, swung his legs up to 
 the horizontal, and, leaning his head against the grease-spot on the 
 post, had closed his eyes in solemn meditation. The organ wheezed 
 out one of Charles Wesley's hymns, which the choir and- the women 
 joined in singing; the ''dominie" offered a prayer accompanied by 
 fervent moans from Uncle Brom, and then the organ was seized once 
 more with colic. The sermon now began. For thirty minutes I 
 followed its windings through a dim, doctrinal labyrinth, scurried 
 with it down the historical perspective, and leaped with it over the 
 bounds of space and time; but at last I fell back exhausted, unable 
 to keep the pace. The windows were open. Outside could be heard 
 the drone of summer insects, the twitter of birds, the drowsy rustling 
 of maple leaves, and the splash of a waterfall in the "kill" hard by. 
 My eyelids were slowly closing, and the outer world had nearly faded 
 from my sight, when a vision of the benign face of Sol Schoonmacher 
 recalled me to consciousness. Sol sat wedged in the bone-breaking 
 embrace of the back and arm of his wooden pew, his interminable 
 nether limbs stowed away in uncouth angles before him, and his 
 arms folded tightly across his breast. Sol was evidently "drinking 
 in" the impassioned discourse of the pastor, for his head had tilted 
 back until his face was directed toward the ceiling, and his mouth — 
 of no mean dimensions — was gaping widely to receive the word, his 
 eyes (at the same time) being closed in blissful expectancy. From 
 
 1!T; 
 
time to time a faint snarl, like the purring of a cat, issued from the 
 cavity. Directly above Sol's uplifted countenance was the edge of the 
 gallery, and over the rail leaned a youth of some twelve summers, for 
 the lambs of the flock were sometimes allowed to occupy the gallery. 
 Now as the mind of Solomon was intent upon things above, even so 
 was the lamb's thought diverted to the things of earth, for he was 
 engaged in rolling a small strip of tinfoil into globular form. The 
 task finished, I saw him lean forward and deliberately poise the 
 missile. It fell — and ne\er did material body more faithfully obey 
 the Newtonian law, for the vile sphere unerringly entered the wide 
 orifice in honest Schoonmacher's face. There was a hollow impact, 
 Sol's head came up with a jerk, his teeth snapped together wildly, 
 and his hands clutched at the back of the seat in front, while his two 
 enormous cowhide boots smote the floor with a crash that made the 
 boards ring. A sputtering cough, a muffled "gol durn," the startled 
 screPims of a few women, and I saw the lamb disappear, while Uncle 
 Brom, thinking by the noise that the parson must have closed some 
 tremendous climax, groaned out "Amen!" — A. G. Terry. 
 
 MOONLIGHT ON THE WATER. 
 
 It is well known that the chief element of beauty is harmony. 
 What is a beautiful face? One which shows the greatest harmony 
 between its separate constituents — mould of feature and purity of 
 complexion, for instance; or. still more, one showing harmony between 
 the features and those stronger yet more elusive marks of beauty 
 found in the facial expression. Harmony is, of course, the essential 
 element of beauty in music. Likewise, the indefinable charm of moon- 
 light falling upon water is the result of harmony. Water is attractive 
 because it is liquid, and hence through its great susceptibility to out- 
 ward influences. Of course, it is also attractive by means of its 
 pellucidness, as, where it is motionless, the beauty rests in its soft- 
 ness and clarity. But the finest effects of water appear when it is 
 disturbed — the sparkling ripples, the rolling billows, the sheeted cas- 
 cade, the tortuous rapid, the smooth-gliding river. Moonlight is less 
 easily analyzed. It is pleasing to the visual sense, but in what way 
 is difficult to tell. We usually conceive it as something soft and 
 mellow, but on winter nights it seems hard, cold, and keen. This 
 appearance is probably the result of association with the atmospheric 
 condition. But, in general, Luna's ray is beautiful in being a delicate, 
 somewhat weird, and very ideal form of light. Now it would be 
 absurd to think of anything as beautiful, to the visual sense at least, 
 without some light. Blackness is horror. Utter darkness is the 
 antithesis of beauty. Water has no beauty save when light falls 
 upon it, and the degree of beauty depends upon the degree of light. 
 This latter statement holds true universally. Why does the stage 
 
 1% 
 
manager throw shifting lights upon t he scenes? Why is sunset, the 
 most beautiful time of day? In both cases a certain degree or quality 
 of light harmonizes most effectively with certain present conditions. 
 Here, thru, seems to be the secret of the charm of moonlight on the 
 water. The moon's radiance, with its weird delicacy and silver tone, 
 is tli* form of light most in harmony with the sensibility and mya 
 terious limpidity of water. The effect is to awaken the emotions 
 and the imaginative powers to their greatest activity. Music, as Poe 
 says, is more effective, perhaps, than any other form of art in produc- 
 ing that "exaltation of the soul" which is its nearest approach to 
 Divine Truth. Let the imagination be aroused by the sight of moon- 
 light falling over a beautiful expanse of water; then let exquisite 
 music be added, and it is an abnormally dull nature which is not 
 profoundly affected. If you would see strange and fantastic images, 
 go down to the lake shore on a cold, moonlight night and watch the 
 leaden surges come growling in through the broken ice. Directly 
 beneath the moon stretches a long path of light scattered into a 
 million fragments as by some mighty upheaval. Amid the ruins you 
 see wild forms writhing and twisting, horrible brazen scales glancing 
 back the pale beams, broad, sinewy, shiny backs of Titans, their mus- 
 cles all a-quiver, rolling and heaving in anguish. Where the broken 
 billows swash through the slush you see a vast caldron of molten 
 silver, and in it awful things squirming and hissing. Then a great 
 wave comes sweeping in, lifts its somber head, bends forward, and 
 for an instant its long crest flashes like the sword of St. Michael. 
 It crashes into ruin, and again the monsters writhe, the Titans heave, 
 and the serpents squirm amid a perfect Babel of sighs and moans and 
 hisses. — A. G. Terry. 
 
 THE WORLD'S TALENTED. 
 
 A mighty hand, from an exhaustless urn, pours forth the never- 
 ending flood of talent. Mrs. Algernon Fitz-Gedney informed us 
 recently that her daughter Jane, after a fourteen-year course at Pro- 
 fessor Crispelli's conservatory, would shortly make her debut in the 
 musical world. At the age of five, Jane once startled her fond mamma 
 by picking on the keyboard the strains of "Peter, Peter," whereupon 
 the worthy dame, clutching her husband's arm, screamed, "Thomas, 
 do you hear that? That child has remarkable talent! It must be 
 brought out!" Thomas agreed, and the talent has been brought out. 
 Some wretch has suggested that Thomas's pocketbook was brought out 
 somewhat more than Jane's talent, but of course we ignore the slander. 
 
 Away clown in "Egypt" James Skroggles, a youth of thirty-two 
 years, was following the plow one day, when lo! a light blazed before 
 him, just over the off-mule's back, and amid the light was written 
 a great letter P. The trembling James rushed home, pulled off his 
 overalls, packed his alternate shirt and two collars into a valise, and 
 
 197 
 
started for Evanston. Arrived there, he strode up to the registrar at 
 G. B. I. and said: "Brother, I've been called o' the Lord to preach! 
 Put my name on yer book, and gimme some larnin' quick, kaze the 
 fields air ripenin' to the harvest and the Lord hez chose me fer his 
 instrooment." Alas, that such an instrument should need repairs! 
 Two days later Brother S. was assigned to the sixth grade of a public 
 school. But he has nobly won his way, and now, at the age of forty- 
 five, finding himself a fourth-year "prep," he has concluded — disre- 
 garding the advice of a teacher who has suggested that the flaming 
 P possibly meant "plow" instead of "preach" — to omit the theological 
 course and at once enter the field which is crying for him. Talent 
 cannot be repressed. My friend Taylor Slappington recently handed 
 in the prize essay in a baking powder contest, and now, to be sure, 
 the great, hungering heart of humanity is faint for refreshment from 
 his pen. His numerous friends know it, and they slap him on the 
 back. "You're a genius, my deah fellah, you're a genius," they say, 
 and Taylor's poems and sketches are pounding the doors of a dozen 
 editorial sanctums at this hour. Likewise young Raphael De Bray 
 has a wonderful gift as an artist. At present he is making cuts for 
 the Dodd-Oppenheim Company's Patent Suspender advertisement, but 
 undoubtedly he will have a canvas in the Louvre very soon. These 
 are a few of my talented acquaintances. They are samples of what 
 the world is giving us every day by thousands. — A. G. Terry. 
 
 DINNER ON THE FARM. 
 
 Sairy Ann, gingham-clad and bare-armed, steps to the door and 
 winds a long, hollow blast on the old conch shell. Following her sum- 
 mons she hears a faint yell away down the narrow valley. A few 
 moments later a load of hay comes rattling down the hillside lane, 
 and passes with a swish and thunder of hoofs through the yawning 
 barn door. Soon the sunburned workers are splattering about the 
 hogshead and washpan out under the maple by the woodshed, and 
 there is much use of soft soap and of a single crash towel that hangs 
 on a sliver of bark. Then, one by one, with heavy-booted awkward- 
 ness they pass into the rag-carpeted living room, and sit down at the 
 table. When a farm hand sits down he merely spreads his legs apart, 
 tosses a chair between them, and drops on it, immediately tilting back 
 to the comfortable angle. The table, with its pink cloth, is nearly 
 smothered under columns of piled-up plates, stacks of wooden-handled 
 knives and forks, broad platters, innumerable mysterious dishes 
 shrouded beneath napkins to keep off flies, and tiers of cups and 
 saucers. All heads are bowed for an instant while "Paw" mumbles 
 a short grace. Then everybody passes down his plate and Paw, with 
 his sharp fork, spears and drops upon each a slice of salt pork and a 
 huge, steaming potato. This done, somebody starts the bread-plate 
 
 198 
 
and each person pulls therefrom a great, flaky, seven-by-nine 
 
 and deposits it beside his pork and potato. Next the butter — rich 
 yellow butter in a neat pad with three grooves across the top and 
 beads of water exuding from its sides — passes around and vanishes 
 under the knives of the assaulting party. After that the gravy runs 
 its lap about the oval, and the hired men. who usually prefer gravy 
 to butter, swamp their pork, potatoes, bread and all under its liquid 
 folds. Meanwhile the girls have been dishing the side relishes, or 
 re collectively termed, and every one finds clustered 
 about his main plate a group of satellite dishes .containing peas or 
 beans, canned pears, sliced cabbage, cucumbers, apple-sauce, rhubarb, 
 and the like. Lastly, the pickles make the circuit, and "Maw" dis- 
 tributes the cups of tea or coffee. Simultaneously the assault begins 
 and conversation ceases. Individual or local peculiarities of the eaters 
 are apparent. The men always hold their forks as they would a 
 dagger. The fork is jabbed into the meat, the knife severs a slice, 
 is inserted beneath it, and conveys it deftly to the mouth. About 
 four repetitions of this process serve to clean the plate, and it is sent 
 back to headquarters for replenishment. Only the women hold their 
 cups by the handles. The men invariably tilt the cup, allowing the 
 golden beverage to spill into the saucer; then they raise the latter 
 to their lips and "dreen" it in two or three gulps. The huge slices 
 of bread, one of which alone would make a meal for a city man, are 
 "sopped" in gravy and pushed down in a twinkling. Time after time 
 one of the girls rushes to the kitchen for additional supplies. 
 
 When the fury of the first onslaught is somewhat abated, con- 
 versation is resumed in brief snatches between bites. It goes some- 
 thing like this: 
 
 "Wa't the' a team went up the road 'bout an hour ago?" asks Paw. 
 
 "Yes," says Sairy Ann, "I was out to the hen-house then, an' 
 couldn't see who 't was. Maw was here, though." 
 
 "Why it looked to me like Abe Shultz," says Maw; "he had a sor'l 
 hoss an' a one-seated market wagon, an' looked like he was carryin' 
 a couple o' calves." 
 
 "Well then," Paw says, "it couldn't a been Abe, 'cause he sold 
 his sor'l last month, an' the last time I 's over he tole me he didn't have 
 no calves." 
 
 Then Jake, a hired hand, speaks over a mouthful of bread and 
 pickles. "I'll bet it was Si Ames. He tole me Sat'day that he's goin' 
 to take some calves over to Hi Runnolds this week, an' he's got a 
 sor'l mare, ye know? Did it limp in its front foot 'd ye notice?" 
 
 "Yes," answers Maw, "I recollect now, it did." 
 
 "Aha," says Paw, "then that's ben who it is." 
 
 A pause follows this momentous settlement. 
 
 "How many more loads ye got to fetch in yet, Paw?" asks Sairy 
 Ann. 
 
 " 'Bout three, countin' the rakin's an' the piece Levi's ben 'mowin' 
 
 I.e.) 
 
with the scythe down by the Toon Swamp. Think the's more'n half 
 
 a load in the swamp piece, Levi?" 
 
 The question is addressed in loud tones to a bent, weazen, deaf 
 
 old man, who, with his few remaining incisors, is nibbling a potato. 
 
 The old fellow rolls up his dim eye and waits till his feeble wits fully 
 
 grasp the purport of the question. Then he drawls, "On'y 'bout half 
 
 a load, I calklate." 
 
 Soon the pie is passed, and each one takes a slice upon his plate. 
 
 The man who receives the last slice eats it out of the tin. 
 
 Then the facetious Jake tries a side-shot at pretty Sairy Ann. 
 
 "Sairy," he says, "them two blacks an' the new buggy 't he tuck ye 
 
 to the picnic with ain't his'n. He borrered 'em of a man to Janes's 
 
 Corners." 
 
 The answer comes quick. "Borrered rig is better 'n a borrered 
 
 gal. You had to take yer cousin Bess, 'cause Steenie Voorst went off 
 
 'ith Jed Shear 'fore your lazy old plug fetched ye 'round t' ask fer 
 her!" 
 
 The loud laugh at his expense makes Jake choke on a piece of pie, 
 
 and he turns scarlet and sulky. "Shucks," he grunts, as he picks up 
 his hat, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and stamps out, slamming the 
 screen door behind him. 
 
 One by one the men follow him, wending their way toward barn or 
 stable. When Paw goes out he carries two pails, and he may be seen 
 entering the hog-pen, whence issues an agonized squealing. We hear 
 the milk swash into the trough, then a rush of feet; then we see Paw 
 come out and close the door, leaving a suggestive silence behind him. 
 Last of all, old Levi lights his pipe, shoulders his scythe, and hobbles 
 off up the lane like Father Time. But the women sigh and look 
 wearily at the table, now covered with naught but empty dishes. — A. G. 
 Terry. 
 
 A MASTERPIECE. 
 
 A masterpiece is a flaming torch which a man of genius sets in 
 the high road that he walks alone. It illumines all the way behind 
 and all before him. By its light he is seen, he is judged; and what he 
 would keep hidden is evermore revealed. 
 
 The flickering tapers of his past ever brighter shine in its splen- 
 did fire; but if he has burned his soul out in that pure flame he goes 
 sadly down the unknown vista setting dwindling tapers to the end. 
 — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 PIERROT. 
 
 My little friend meets me at the front door whenever I go out 
 or come in. I suppose it is the possession of liberty that he vaguely 
 recognizes in my goings and comings, and the wish to share my free- 
 dom is always with him; although, at a discouraging word, he docilely 
 
 200 
 
goes back to his particular window-scat to watch me out of sight. 
 Then I feel, somewhat contritely, that he will heave a lone-doggie 
 sigh and put his dear head on his curly paws to await my return. As 
 I ring the bell he leaps to the doorknob, on the inner side, testifying 
 by much barking and vigorous working of his short tail how gladly 
 he would open the heavy door. But six pounds of Yorkshire terrier, 
 plus all this fervid enthusiasm, equals one hundred pounds of solid 
 oak panelling; or, in other words, noise versus weight brings a new 
 factor (the maid), who eliminates the obdurate term and solves the 
 problem. One hundred minutes of absence warrant a score or so of 
 rapturous touches of his warm tongue on my hands and face, before 
 he quiets down utterly exhausted with emotion. Short tremors of 
 contentment prove that he is not asleep, and the glint of a bright eye, 
 through his soft thatch of hair, warns me of his watchfulness. For 
 a while I dare not move beyond his jealous care; and so, to rid myself 
 of an almost burdensome attention, I gently roll his ball across the 
 floor. R-r-r-ruff! The scamp is off, tumbling over the rugs, under the 
 -ables and chairs, resembling a badly shaken rug himself or an 
 nimated moth-eaten muff in a series of kinemetographic pictures. 
 
 My small friend has a long English pedigree, and bears the French 
 Lame for a clown. But he is equally as indifferent to ancestry as to a 
 libellous appellation, obviously preferring chicken-bones or after- 
 dinner coffee to either. Moreover, like the rose, there are reasons why 
 one name will do as well as another, so he appropriates all terms of 
 endearment to himself. Although soft-hearted, Pierrot is not suscepti- 
 ble to all advances, and his genuine attachments are few r . However, 
 he is partial to lady callers, a slight sneeze being tantamount to affable 
 interest in one's personality. If teased, his growling is really artistic, 
 for it is the very perfection of make-believe. 
 
 Next to his human friends he adores the family cat; but he has 
 two terrors — a thunder-storm *and our parrot, the latter having one 
 day ill-treated his shoe-button nose on one of its tours of investiga- 
 tion. Since then his point-of-view has been socially more elevated and 
 less inquisitive. 
 
 But to appreciate Pierrot thoroughly you should see those gentle 
 brown eyes, that might illumine the face of a child, looking wistfully 
 into yours. Then, indeed, you would be quite ready to believe in the 
 transmigration of souls. — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 THE CASE OF JANE EMMA. 
 
 Jane Emma was washing dishes. This was merely a pastime with 
 her between the preparation and the' serving of the three daily meals 
 for a family of seven younger brothers and sisters. Her memory could 
 not go back to the time when she was a petted baby, for her earliest 
 confused recollections were of others scarcely smaller than herself 
 
 201 
 
contending with her for the scant notice which a busy, fretted mother 
 could give to three or four "troublesome comforts," who were always 
 rolling about under foot. 
 
 It was therefore a proud but fateful moment for poor Jane Emma 
 when someone unwittingly hoisted her plump little person to the top 
 of a starch-box and, tucking a towel under her double-chin, intimated 
 that she might dabble in the rainbow-hued suds and souse the cups and 
 plates up and down in the foamy water as long as she liked. The 
 other children had not this privilege; and, although they crawled to 
 the base of her humble pedestal and lifted up beseeching hands and 
 voices, something gave Jane Emma the spirit to withstand their plead- 
 ing. From that moment her destiny was fixed; and metaphorically 
 she never descended from her enviable position. 
 
 Later on the dear, familiar advice of relatives and bosom-friends 
 persuaded the tired, weak mother to depend more and more upon her 
 little daughter; and often Jane Emma would overhear the pleased 
 comment to visitors that "her eldest child was decidedly domestic in 
 her tastes." Then poor Jane Emma would bravely gulp down a big 
 lump in her throat and plunge her little rough red hands deeper into 
 the dish-pan. Attending school regularly began to interfere with her 
 accumulating duties and household cares, and as work developed the 
 child into an awkward girl, large for her age, and with that rawness 
 of manner which seems engendered of kitchen service, it was not 
 surprising that Jane Emma gradually withdrew from her quondam 
 schoolmates, and that books became less and less seen in her hands. 
 Environment was moulding the character of the young woman, and 
 all her physical and mental endowments seemed to be expressed in 
 domestic activities. 
 
 In the course of nature, Jane Emma became the head of the 
 family; for when she was five-and-twenty years of age, her parents 
 died, leaving to her the responsibility of keeping her five brothers in 
 school or college. It was one of her unselfish compensations that 
 "the boys" were students of promise, as with frugality and rare com- 
 monsense she managed the meagre finances and the affairs of the home 
 so that no one clearly divined the priceless gift of her personality 
 offered for her family. She saw her sisters about to be married with- 
 out seriously thinking of their obligations to her or of waiting to 
 lighten her burdens. 
 
 These thoughts were passing in the mind of Mrs. Powell, the new 
 minister's wife, as she sat in Jane Emma's neat kitchen watching the 
 patient girl at her "eternal dish-washing." Jane Emma had uncon- 
 sciously given that lady a glimpse of her thwarted ambitions, and the 
 visitor was silently praying for wisdom to speak words of comfort 
 and hope. 
 
 A window, by the sink, opened upon a view of rich fields and 
 farmlands, checkered green and yellow, that stretched far and wide, 
 sloping to unseen valleys or to a broad, beautiful, sunny plain walled 
 
 202 
 
by azure mists, folded on each other like dissolving clouds grow- 
 ing ever fainter against a golden sky. 
 
 Jane Emma smiled and pointed southward with a soapy fore- 
 finger at Lhe wonderful vision of the distant "Blue Ridge." 
 
 "After all, ma'am. I have my duty, that, and God!" — Helen Clark 
 Balmer. 
 
 "BESSERHEART." 
 
 This is not the title of a recently-exhumed Egyptian mummy but 
 the pet name of a dear little four-year-old's favorite doll. 
 
 How well I recall the distinct visual shock when my eyes first 
 encountered the battered features of this modern idol! For, indeed, 
 Besserheart closely resembled a heathen war-god or a miniature totem- 
 pole. I made her acquaintance on the occasion of a "Doll Show," 
 which was given for charity, where her small mistress had innocently 
 and confidently presented her for honors; and certainly Besserheart, 
 as I remember her, was an object for charitable consideration. But 
 the unimaginative manager of that unique exhibition hesitated about 
 accepting so dubious a being among the becurled and, beribboned 
 beauties that were rapidly accumulating on her hands. However, a 
 quick-witted assistant with an eye to increasing the funds, solved the 
 difficulty by making a new class where competitors for ugliness might 
 be entered. Thus Besserheart had the distinction of creating a de- 
 mand for dilapidated and passe specimens of dollkind. Apparently 
 every nursery was ransacked for these queer "skeletons in closets," 
 and the result was a brave collection of "freaks" in every stage of 
 dolorous decline, their very unloveliness giving one that sensation of 
 cumulative surprise which makes an inward agony of laughter. But 
 none outdid Besserheart, who was, in herself, a complete crescendo of 
 hideousness. It required some moments before I could calmly study 
 her: and what I then saw was a dirty waxen face tattooed in an im- 
 pressionistic manner suggestive of small finger-nails, while a wisp 
 of hair stood upright in a style to delight a Comanche scalp-hunter; 
 the snubbed nose was clumsily pieced out with chewing-gum; and, in 
 lieu of an accommodating mouth, an empty eye-socket seemed to be 
 the opening through which such dainties as pins and buttons were 
 thrust for slow digestion. No wonder that her solitary eye had a 
 hard glint and, like Jack Bunsby's, saw something this side of Green- 
 land! 
 
 With shorter arms than the Venus de Milo; one leg gone at the 
 and the other hanging by a few threads to a body, limp from 
 loss of sawdust and airily attired in a single garment, whose condi- 
 tion was of "the earth, earthy" — Besserheart was photographed upon 
 my memory. 
 
 If she could be said to have expression, it ought to have been 
 called "tired," for the utter lack of atmosphere caused the outlines to 
 
 203 
 
be deepened into a blase homeliness. I began to pity her; and glanc- 
 ing across the room at a rainbow-tinted group of new dollies blandly- 
 smiling into an unknown future, other changes, not so obviously- 
 wrought by certain small fingers, came to mind; and Besserheart 
 assumed a softer aspect while a mist of happy yesterdays wrapped 
 her in friendly cloudiness. And then a tiny warm hand slipped into 
 mine, even as a contented little voice chattered about the many hand- 
 some dolls with their wonderful clothes! There was never a hint of 
 jealousy nor consciousness that her own darling was not so attractive 
 or desirable; because, no doubt, the spotlessly clean creatures were 
 objects not to be handled with all the loving familiarity of her old, 
 long-suffering favorite. 
 
 How glad I was when the awarding of prizes gave a medal to 
 Besserheart! although I almost resented the fact that she won it by 
 reason of being, in the minds of the astute judges, "positively the 
 ugliest doll they ever saw!" — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 A SAGE OF THE CAMPUS. 
 
 With a loud, splintering crash the old oak fell headlong to the 
 campus, where slow, shuddering motions, ever growing fainter, 
 thrilled through all its length of gaunt arms stretched out in impotent 
 pain; and the bare twigs, like fleshless fingers, could not so much as 
 clutch at or tear the cold, unfeeling earth, but continued to quiver 
 hideously long after the trunk was quite still. A spatter of yellowish 
 chips -strewed the wet mould ; and from the hacked and hollow stump 
 an odor of woody mustiness polluted the spring air; for the tree was 
 the victim of a hidden disease, and death had begun to creep upward 
 within the fine, stalwart body. And now the poor oak lay just 
 a measure of the conscious years since it first pushed up into the light 
 and felt the tender touch of sun and breeze. How eager it had been 
 to stretch up and grow tall enough to put out welcoming arms towards 
 the birds and the squirrels, that could not refuse the friendly shelter 
 of the thick glossy foliage! And as the seasons ever circled from green 
 to brown, what pride the oak took in its spreading verdure and in its 
 ability, each spring, to lift nearer to the soft, rainless blue its top- 
 most tuft of pale leaves! 
 
 As time passed, others of his family clustered around him, and 
 close arid loving was their companionship, with the same sun to warm 
 them and the wind to play wonderful fantasia in their branches. When 
 storms beat upon them, sometimes their bared arms would intertwine, 
 and whispers would pass from twig to twig, as if some sly jest 
 animated the grave trees with sudden laughter and suggested shak- 
 ing down a rattling shower of browned acorns upon the heads of two 
 students who had sought shelter beneath. How the old gossips 
 leaned and listened — hearing, in the course of years, such queer things 
 
 204 
 
about the endless throng that went about with hooks! and having 
 treasured the hits of wisdom thus wafted to them, on winter nights 
 they were apt to wail out a mysfc rioufl adagio to the solemn accom- 
 paniment of the lake. But now it was all over —the sage of the campus 
 had fallen! Let his grieving companions of the grove toss their naked 
 arms in wild, unutterable agony and the waves heat a funeral dirge 
 upon the shore! 
 
 The wood-chopper picked up his axe and, carelessly whistling, 
 counted the distinct rings in the fallen trunk. "Whew, two hundred 
 and ten! An auld feller he was." — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 A HUMBLE SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 It was only a stubby branch from one of a group of Christmas 
 trees, which stood outside a butcher's shop, but to little Jim it might 
 have been as stately a pine as any of them that w r ere destined to bear 
 such wonderful fruit! It rather added to the charm of possession that 
 he had secretly torn it from the parent-bough, for Jim was a gamin, 
 who habitually broke the tenth and the eight commandments together. 
 But this time there was an unselfish reason for risking detection and 
 probable punishment, because his baby sister would have no Christ- 
 mas-tree unless he provided one. Their mother could barely give 
 them bread and potatoes. 
 
 Jim's resources for making money were limited, but he always 
 had his wits and his hands. Besides, when he did earn a few cents 
 he was sure to lose them, for pockets full of holes are not safe depos- 
 itories, and a cap-lining is equally uncertain, since a cap can be easily 
 jerked into the mud, and have all its wealth of pennies pass into 
 other hands. Therefore Jim's way was to spend quickly all that he 
 earned; and on this late December afternoon he had not an available 
 copper. 
 
 At the Mission Sunday-school, on last Christmas, he had seen a 
 great tree trimmed with strings of pop-corn and cranberries, gilded 
 balls and dozens of colored candles. But little Mollie would never 
 learn to walk, and he now determined to bring Christmas home to 
 her. The spicy odor of the fresh evergreens was becoming to his sense 
 of holiday necessities as the smell of a well-cooked dinner to his long- 
 ing appetite, and it was merely a matter of w r ays and means how to 
 procure a real tree and something to put on it. No one saw the theft, 
 for the pine trembled and seemingly drooped its branches as if to 
 conceal the unsightly gash in its side. 
 
 When Jim had hidden the bit of green under an empty barrel, 
 he looked about for suitable trimmings. Through the frosted window 
 he caught glimpses of tempting fruits and vegetables. Jim did not 
 know the names or the flavors of many of them, but they all looked 
 "tasty" to the hungry boy; and his mouth began to water at sight of 
 
 21 5 
 
familiar oranges and bananas, so that his fingers groped absently 
 about his baggy pockets, which seemed somehow strangely accustomed 
 to those succulent dainties. 
 
 ' As I have intimated, Jim's wits were in partnership with two 
 nimble hands, and the next time the shop door opened he walked in 
 to get a better view of the Christmas market. For some time he stood 
 watching the stream of holiday purchasers ordering fowl, vegetables, 
 fruit and groceries in such quantities as almost to cause the old cap 
 to rise from his astonished brow. As no one noticed the small in- 
 truder, he cautiously moved nearer to the boxes and barrels which 
 contained the special objects of his covetous search. His face now 
 became quite expressionless, while his thin hands began a curious out- 
 ward motion, as if they were attached to the arms by rubber bands 
 that could be quickly lengthened or shortened in the region of his 
 trousers' pockets. He remembered that only the largest oranges and 
 apples could be safely secreted thus, (on account of the propensity 
 of smaller objects to slip through the holes) and it required care to 
 manipulate the fruit successfully. Some peppermint canes were hang- 
 ing among the holly wreathes across the big window, and chance 
 favored Jim, for a hurrying clerk carelessly knocked several upon the 
 floor, breaking the brittle candy into many pieces. No one cared that 
 he picked them out of the sawdust, nor were a few handfuls of cran- 
 berries or nuts missed from their respective boxes. By this time, the 
 bosom of Jim's dirty cotton shirt began to look alarmingly inflated. 
 
 In the street again to snatch his pine branch f .om its hiding- 
 place; but what a different boy it was, scudding over the snowy pave- 
 ment down an alley, up a back-street, around another turn into a 
 teeming thoroughfare, dodging cars, carts, and horses, along a dark 
 ill-lighted by-street of the slums! 
 
 Jim cautiously opened a door and peered into the darkened spaces 
 of a room. "It's me, Mollie. Sure, Oi's got somethin' fur ye." A soft, 
 sibilant breathing came from the direction of the bed. He felt his 
 way towards the stove, whose friendly eyes gleamed cheerily in the 
 gloom. 
 
 "Mollie!" He whispered. No answer. 
 
 "Sure, Oi'll trim me Christmas-tree and shurprise her." Then his 
 quick fingers began their labor of love. Propping the branch between 
 sticks of wood, he arranged the apples and oranges at its base. It took 
 but a moment to tie some of the largest bits of candy to the tiny tree, 
 but the cranberries puzzled him. Mother was not due for an hour, and 
 Mollie might awaken before her return. Across the hall lived Mrs. 
 Flinn, and Jim's necessity might appeal to her motherly heart. He 
 was gone scarcely ten minutes, bringing back a gorgeous necklace of 
 the ruddy berries to crown the green bough right royally. 
 
 A slow, tired step sounded on the stairs, and their mother came 
 in upon a scene to lighten a heavier heart than hers. Mollie sat with 
 
 206 
 
tightly clasped hands gazing at the poor little pretense of Christmas 
 joy. and Jim — Jim had forgotten that he was a thief. 
 
 U XT DINAH'S RECIPE FOR PLUM-CAKE. 
 
 Yo' wants men rule fo' meckin' Chris'mas plum-cake? Bless my soul, 
 If I kin membah jes w'at goes en dat dyah yaller bowl 
 Wha I done mix buttah. sugar, aigs. cur'nts, cit'on, raisins, spice, 
 Sence ole Miss brung hit f'om de chiny-sto', so smoove an' nice! 
 An' dat was 'bout de time dat loony Yankee, ole John Brown, 
 Come down so brash fo' tah g'.t us niggahs en dis hyah town 
 Tuh fight agin on' marsters dat we'd toted en ou' ahms. 
 Now. chile, don't meddle wid dem aigs, de cake '11 come tuh hahm, 
 'Cep' yo' cra< k 'em jes so on de aige o' dis hyah platter. 
 I ain' perticler so 'se dyahs 'nough; but mine how you spattah 
 Dem whites eroun', meh honey; swish 'em strong, but swish 'em slow 
 Twell dey piles up high'r an' high'r lak gret heaps of drifted snow 
 Dat falls en a wintah's night tuh fill de mountain gaps, 
 Wha onct I seed a movin' ribber ob Yankee blue-caps 
 Come stealin' on ole Harper's town. (Dat was befo' you'se bohn.) 
 Now I beats de buttah 'n sugar lak 1 wollops 111' Tawm. 
 Ncx' I sifts de flou'. — wha dai triflin' niggah Car'line? 
 Hyah! mine dem yelks, gai; — seem lak yo' ain' no kin ob mine! 
 Git dem stoned raisins; dredge dem cur'nts. Am dat cit'on sliced? 
 Keep astir'n. Hayah de brandy. ( Tink dat dough am proper spiced?) 
 X vah seed a bettah battah en dat ole yaller mouf! 
 Might aknowed "Aunt Dinah" mecks de bes' plum-cake en de Souf! 
 Well, now, meh honey, you-alls talkin' sense; w'en Chris'mas comin' 
 Kinder mecks meh ole bones younger, 's ef I heahs de banjo strummin'; 
 But jes mine dis po'tant rule, — spite ob good tings, sich an' sich, 
 Wen yo' gits 'em all tuhgedder, 'tis gumption mecks de plum-cake 
 rich! — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 A LEGEND. 
 
 A mountrrn-spring once came a long journey from the depths of 
 the dark old earth, and struggled through rough stones and sand to 
 reach the light, so that she could lay her firstborn in a cosy, mossy 
 hollow. For some time the little one slept in its fern-curtained cradle; 
 but one day a saucy zephyr parted the delicate green draperies, and 
 the prying sun peeped in. When he saw what a delicious drink the 
 cool water would be for his parched lips, he began to beckon with his 
 long fingers to the lazy, sleepy little pool to come outjaiil the zephyr, 
 being an idle fellow, whispered that he knew a fine game for the three 
 to play. At first the water wrinkled its placid face, being loth to leave 
 the cool gloom behind the beautiful, quivering ferns; but when its 
 
 2<>7 
 
mother said that it might go, very soon out came one tiny foot and 
 then the other, shyly displaying their crystal slippers. The poor, 
 innocent pool found itself at the top of a great hill, and it could see 
 nothing but a great blue wall before it and the burning face of the 
 sun. "Ha! ha!" laughed the merry fellow, "now I'll have my drink!" 
 And the sly zephyr, which had changed itself into a mighty wind by 
 this time, joined in with a whistle, "I'm thirsty too." (For a sad 
 pair of rogues are the sun and the wind when they play together.) 
 
 The little brook, for that was its name now, thought that it must 
 run for. its life; and gathering all its strength, it dashed bravely down- 
 hill until, gaining the level meadows, it paused for breath, while the 
 kind clouds muffled the scorching sun, and the fickle wind went off 
 to chase boys' hats and to disturb peaceful people generally. 
 
 The little brook began to feel swollen with pride, because it im- 
 agined that it had won the race; and meeting a few rough rocks 
 and knobby pebbles in its path, it fretted and murmured because they 
 were not covered with soft, comfortable moss. When the clovers and 
 pretty blue-eyed grasses wanted to bathe their faces in the clear water, 
 the brook became really uncivil, chattering and fuming, as if it were 
 made for better things than to be a posy's basin. But when the cold 
 night came and stared down with thousands of sharp, glittering eyes, 
 how the foolish brook wished for the broad smile of the jolly old sun 
 to warm its shivering waters! and how glad it w uld have been to 
 feel the gentle touch of the flowers in that lonely darkness! 
 
 By-and-by the morning dawned, as mornings will, and the brook 
 was humbled enough to be on better terms with the new day. Al- 
 though often finding fault with the big stones which came in its way, 
 the brook continued to travel far into a beautiful country during the 
 long summer and autumn. Used to moving along at its own pleasure, 
 it was much alarmed, one night, when a flock of tiny frost-elves flew 
 down from the far skies and touched its waters with shining wands 
 of ice. After that the poor stream lay as cold and still as a stone. 
 The big, warm-hearted sun really felt sorry, and tried to kiss it back 
 to life, while the wind whispered soft promises of better treatment, 
 if it would only run on once more. Then grim Winter came by and 
 muffled every object in his white furs, so that the earth seemed to 
 sleep in sympathy with the brook. Only the sun and the wind had life 
 and motion; until, one day, the brook felt a thousand sharp pricks 
 thrill through its cold, stiff body, while something inside seemed to 
 crack and shiver the hard bands tnat held its tender form. Suddenly 
 all the pent-up life leaped and rushed forward, tearing off the terrible 
 shroud of ice. At last it was free; and with a sound of unutterable 
 joy, it splashed and poured down, down a rocky steep, and so, ever- 
 more, was called "Laughing-Water." — Helen C. Balmer. 
 
 208 
 
A FABLE ABOUT GEMS. 
 
 An earnest youth once applied to the chief goldsmith in his town 
 to learn the art of making beautiful and ornamental things. 
 
 He had heard that the goldsmith was a particular workman, hav- 
 ing a refined sense of beauty and a regard to fitness in the selection 
 of every jewel to be used, besides a rare honor about duplicating 
 another man's pattern or design. And when he stood before this 
 serious craftsman, he hoped that his willingness to work hard would 
 gain for him the privilege of becoming an apprentice. The goldsmith 
 noticed the youth's clear eyes and slender hands, and at once took 
 him into the storeroom where all the most beautiful and choicest 
 articles for adornment were kept. 
 
 "Look at these carefully, my son; examine their workmanship; 
 enjoy what is best; and, by-and-by, you may come into my lapidary- 
 shop and learn the uses of the tools and the wheel which are only for 
 advanced workmen. I cannot trust you with them now; but try to 
 detect if there be any flaws in all these brilliant objects; and some- 
 time you will become adept in choosing the most appropriate jewels 
 for your purpose." 
 
 Then the master opened a ponderous chest, dark with age, con- 
 taining thousands of shining stones neatly arranged in twenty-six 
 trays. Lightly touching one here and there, he said, "These are the 
 real riches of Time, cut and polished by the hands of great craftsmen. 
 And when you understand their value, see to it that you make their 
 silver or golden setting absolutely your own, for a design is sacrecl 
 to its maker. You need not hope to improve upon these royal rubies, 
 emeralds, diamonds, or sapphires, for their facets already reflect 
 the mysterious colors of nature. Some have come to us from other 
 treasuries, exquisite in shape and full of lustre; others are the often- 
 neglected gems of our humbler forefathers, whose pearls, amethysts, 
 and garnets yet have graced the queen called Fame." 
 
 Then, pointing to the priceless tiaras, brooches, bracelets, and 
 rings that shone in their cases on the walls, the goldsmith went away 
 and left the youth in the midst of all that pure and radiant beauty. 
 
 Awhile he lingered, studying closely those unique or costly settings 
 until a light began to burn in his own soul. Somehow he found at 
 hand a bit of gold and melted it in the flame of his thought. Then 
 swiftly he wrought it into a form, and deftly set it with glowing stones 
 taken from the ancient chest near by. At last it lay in his palm — a 
 simple ring, but all his own; and, trembling with the wine of pride, 
 he went and gave it to his master. And thus, touching hand to hand, 
 all was changed. The apprenticed-youth saw himself a student; the 
 jewel-room a library; the chest of richest stories a dictionary; his 
 ring a poem; and the master, — who shall say? — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 209 
 
THE GYPSY'S GRAVE. 
 
 It was a little low mound, scarce three feet long, hidden in the 
 summer grasses which mantled the sloping shoulder of a village hill- 
 side. Although unmarked and sunken, that bit of heaped-up earth 
 had the unmistakable narrow rounded shape which ever denotes the 
 last resting-place of something that has once been alive and human. 
 Almost stumbling over it, I drew back with the instinctive awe that 
 holds us in the presence of the dead. And, as if it were an open 
 casket or a cradle, I saw the dreamless little form beneath, — the pretty- 
 hands shut like pale rosebuds, folded leaf on leaf; the pure face, a 
 mask of frozen beauty; the tiny, quiet feet pressed against the silken 
 nest; and the soft white dress strewn with blossoms and wet with 
 tears. 
 
 Not twenty rods away was the rough stone wall of a burial-ground, 
 where, in decorous order, were gathered the graves of the village 
 dead. Here and there, through the green gloom of cypress and cedar, 
 could be seen a few white fingers of stone pointing piteously to 
 Heaven; plots of roses giving all their sweetness to the still, warm 
 air and bright-plumaged birds piping sleepy vespers to the myrtle- 
 crowned mounds. Why was this little one ai my feet left outside to 
 the chance notice of passers-by, with never a stone nor a flower to 
 make the mound seem other than a hillock in the wild field-grass? 
 And then I divined the story — a mere clause in the great book of 
 human sorrow — that a band of gypsies coming to the peaceful village 
 left their dead baby as near to the Christian graves as they dared, 
 and then went on their aimless way, looking back, perhaps, through 
 tears as real as mine. — Helen Clark Balmer. 
 
 MY ROOMMATE. 
 
 When I first saw my present roommate, he was resting comfortably 
 in the apartment that he had been occupying by himself all summer. 
 He was of very attractive appearance, and although I had never seen 
 him before, I felt no hesitation in offering to room with him. I 
 at once discovered that he was of a quiet, uncommunicative dispo- 
 sition, and that he did not care to talk about himself. In fact, 
 as long as we have roomed together, he has never told me even a 
 single thing about his past life. I probably could not understand 
 him if he did attempt to give me the desired information, for the 
 reason that he is unable to speak a word of English. 
 
 At present he is not taking any studies in school or college, and for 
 many reasons I am led to believe that he has never even been inside 
 an educational institution or received instruction from a single 
 teacher. Nearly every evening, however, he helps me on some one 
 or more of my lessons, and to-night — must I confess it? — he is help- 
 
 210 
 
Ing me write this character sketch about himself. Although he is 
 entirely ignorant of the subject of this article, he has, nevertheless, 
 been giving me a great deal of light on doubtful points. He seems 
 to be equally as capable of helping in Calculus as in English, in Latin 
 as in German, in psychology as in physics. 
 
 He is very unselfish in all his enterprises, preferring rather to 
 lighten the burdens of others than to labor for himself. He is some- 
 what peculiar also in his habits of work, resting all day so as to 
 be in better shape for the evening, when he has the most to do. 
 I sometimes think that his health is poor, as he is sure to get the 
 spring fever every year, and does less arid less work every day of 
 the spring. He is very agreeable about it, however, and always 
 works when I want him, and never keeps on when I tell him to stop. 
 
 Although he has very few intimate friends, he never appears to 
 be lonesome. One of his friends, who calls regularly every day, 1 
 am especially glad to see on account of his good influence over my 
 roommate in getting the latter to work for me. The influence of this 
 visitor, however, is not entirely beneficial, as he nearly always leaves 
 my roommate "full," although he has never, so far as I know, "had 
 his skates on." 
 
 Bad as it is to be a slave to drink, I find that this daily practice 
 of "getting full" keeps my roommate at home evenings: at least 
 it prevents him from "going out nights." The few times when he 
 has succeeded in going out in the evening, I have become so lone- 
 some that I would not stay at home without him. His worst habit, 
 however, is that of smoking in the room. But he never does this 
 while I am watching him, and if I catch him at it, he always stops. 
 One evening I left him at work while I went out for a stroll, and 
 when I came back, I found that he had been sending out so much 
 smoke that the room was nearly full of it. It is very peculiar, 
 though, that when he smokes the most, he does the hardest work. 
 
 To offset these bad habits he has many good traits, which make 
 him a pleasant roommate. Although he is very "brassy," he never 
 asks favors of me; he never does any gossiping, nor tells any secrets; 
 he never whistles or hums while I am studying, never slams the 
 door or beats the floor with his feet; but, best of all, i*e never keeps 
 me awake at night by snoring. 
 
 We never have any disagreements or quarrels: he doesn't awake 
 me too early in the morning, and he always approves of my decisions 
 in regard to the heat and the ventilation of the room. In fact, during 
 the short time that we have been acquainted, we have become such 
 firm friends that I can hardly get along without him, for my room- 
 mate is none other than my kerosene lamp. — Robert J. Hamilton. 
 
 A MYSTERIOUS CALLER. 
 
 How quiet our hall was that night! How strange it seemed to pass 
 
 fill 
 
along the corridors without meeting half a dozen merry girls with 
 their pleasant greeting! The rooms, too, were no longer resonant 
 with the sound of voices repeating Clark's "thirty-nine articles." 
 Everything plainly told us that the holidays were here and that 
 most of the girls were at their homes. Only five of us were left 
 to enjoy, as best we could, the holiday season in our college home. 
 Several days had passed pleasantly, but we were tired of the cus- 
 tomary pleasures and were wishing for something unusual to happen. 
 Mae, one of our number, was in the city and was not expected to 
 return until late in the evening. We went into the parlor, and taking 
 our places before the open grate, decided to tell stories of personal 
 adventure until Mae, the leader of our sports, should return. Our 
 tales were interrupted by the ringing of the door bell. We knew 
 that it must be Mae. although we did not expect her so soon. Widen- 
 ing our circle, we drew up the easiest chair ready to receive her. 
 Imagine our surprise when we found that it was not Mae after all 
 but a gentleman. No one seemed to know him. He asked for a 
 Miss Smith, who had graduated two years before, saying that he was 
 her cousin, and that he had just arrived from Germany. He had not 
 heard from her recently, but understood that she was still in Evanston. 
 He spoke of the different members of her family and their town, 
 relating many facts well known to us. Although he was very much 
 disappointed in not finding her here, the suggestion of one of our 
 number that a journey of about six hours would take him to her 
 home seemed only to increase his agitation. At last, he arose. We 
 breathed easier, thinking that we were about to get rid of him; but 
 instead of leaving he walked the floor in thoughtful silence. He 
 manifested such grief that our sympathies were aroused. We no 
 longer feared him, but were ready and anxious to help him if we 
 only knew what to do. Finally, he decided to tell us the whole story, 
 hoping that we could show him some way out of the difficulty. 
 
 Stopping suddenly in his walk, he said, "Just before reaching 
 Chicago, I discovered that my purse containing my railroad ticket 
 and all the money "that I had with me, had been lost or stolen. I 
 immediately told my father, who was traveling with me, of my mis- 
 fortune, and much to my surprise, found that he had only fifty cents 
 in cash besides a check, which he expected to have cashed as soon 
 as he reached the end of his journey. He gave me the fifty cents, 
 and told me to go to Evanston and visit my cousin until he could 
 cash the check and send me the necessary money to finish my journey. 
 Now it is Saturday night, and I am a stranger without money or 
 friends in a strange city." 
 
 This story had the desired effect. One of our number, more tender- 
 hearted than the rest, offered to help him out of his difficulty by 
 lending him the required ten dollars. He gladly accepted the loan, 
 promising to return it as soon as he reached his cousin's. He was 
 soon gone, leaving us much relieved; but as we took our places about 
 
 212 
 
the fireside and talked over this new experience with Mae, who 
 had returned soon after the departure of the stranger, we lost all con- 
 fidence in him and his story. Our fears were not groundless, for 
 as the days passed and nothing was heard of the stranger or the 
 ten dollars, we wrote to Miss Smith and found that she had no 
 cousin, nor had she been visited by any such person as we described. 
 
 About two weeks had passed. The girls had returned from their 
 vacation and had talked over the many pleasures of the holiday 
 season; but the story of the mysterious caller was carefully guarded. 
 One girl especially seemed to have lost all relish for this particular 
 adventure. Indeed, she never mentioned it even to her roommate until 
 Mae, thinking that the joke had been carried far enough, came into 
 her room, and said, "Here is your ten dollars. Don't ever lend to 
 a stranger again. I was the mysterious caller." — Sarah V. Harden. 
 
 "THE SCARLET LETTER." 
 An Episode at Woman's Hall. 
 
 On the morning after the sleighride she came down to break- 
 fast with a pale and haggard face. The half-awake girls around the 
 table glanced up from their oranges, and smiling a sleepy "good- 
 morning," asked, "Did you have a good time last night, Jean?" "Oh, 
 yes; dandy! But to think of all the lessons for to-day!" and she 
 sighed wearily at this, cruelly reminded of the solemn duties of life; 
 the girls all sighed in a chorus, and then silently returned to their 
 oranges. 
 
 When the quiet little freshman came in, she cried to the tired girl, 
 "Why, Jean! what is the matter with your face?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Jean, innocently. "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, I only asked you," and smiling quietly the freshman began 
 her breakfast. But after a while she looked up with, "Jean, what 
 are the initials of the man whom you went with last night?" 
 
 "T. E. B." 
 
 "And you are sure that his name does not begin with H?" 
 
 "Yes, I am. But it seems to me that you are unduly inquisitive 
 this morning." 
 
 "Well, my dear, just you turn this cheek around to the other 
 girls." Jean turned, and there, standing boldly out upon the pale, 
 cheek was a bright scarlet H. Not a faint, sprawling letter but one 
 clearly and artistically formed. With wonder and amazement Jean 
 regarded the girls while they laughed at her "sign-board face." 
 
 "It isn't there! I know that it isn't there!" she declared. "No, 
 I didn't look in the mirror this morning, but I am perfectly sure 
 that no hieroglyphics have been carved on my face during the night." 
 
 "Oh, don't pretend to us that you can't explain it! What did 
 
 •l l :{ 
 
you do on that sleighride, anyway? Whom did you allow to brand 
 you for his own?" 
 
 "No one! And if that absurd thing is on my cheek I know noth- 
 ing about it," declared the now indignant girl. 
 
 "Don't you, truly?" her companions asked wonderingly. "Why, 
 what do you suppose it means? Where did it come from? Who could 
 have put it there?" and at once they began an attempt to explain the 
 scarlet letter. Jean declared that she had neither slept on marked 
 linen nor allowed anyone to paint her face. The humor of the 
 situation was soon lost; and to these sentimental young women, the 
 red brand on the pale cheek became nothing short of a mystery. The 
 two wise seniors attempted to explain it logically, but failed. Then 
 they protected themselves with Professor C — 's statement that there 
 are some things which cannot be explained. "Jean, Jean!" cried 
 the sophomore, "do you know that last night was St. Agnes' Eve, the 
 time when girls dream of their lovers and receive signs from their 
 future husbands? Did you dream of a man?" 
 Jean blushingly admitted that she did. 
 "And did his name begin with H?" 
 "No." 
 
 "Oh, bother! Why didn't it!" exclaimed the disappointed senti- 
 mentalist. 
 
 "Oh, the letter stands for Harvard, the university of her lover," 
 cried one of these knowing girls. "But how did it get there?" 
 " 'Aye, there's the rub,' " quoted Jean. 
 
 "It's the devil's work, that's what it is, — the devil's work!" cried 
 one of the waitresses in a frightened whisper. 
 
 "Go to Zan Zan, the fortune teller; he will explain it. Go pay 
 your fifty cents and hear the truth about the mystery," cried one 
 of the girls in a "side-show voice." 
 
 By this time the talk had grown loud and excited, and poor 
 Jean was compelled to spin around like a top so that all might 
 see the scarlet H. Attracted by the commotion, the dean and the 
 matron came up, and they, also, must needs hear the whole story. 
 Jean, excited beyond control, repeated again and again, "I know 
 nothing about it! I didn't put it there; — no one put it there! I know 
 nothing about it!" The dean, seeing at once that the girls were 
 innocent, set about in her quiet way to solve the mystery. At first 
 she satisfied herself that it was neither the result of a sorority 
 initiation nor of a practical joke. Next, she went down on the 
 ground floor, to Jean's room, in order to search for a clue. She 
 found the window partly raised, the iron grating removed, and foot- 
 prints in the snow outside. Was this a solution of the problem, or 
 was it not? What law-breaker would have entered the room only to 
 paint a letter on the cheek of a sleeping girl? The dean was puzzled; 
 yes, she was worried. Meanwhile the matron had come in', — the 
 
 214 
 
matron who for sixteen years had relieved the troubles and forgiven 
 the pranks of school-girls. "Let me look at that," she demanded, set- 
 ting down a bowl of warm water, and diving into her pocket for a cake 
 ■of soap. "Come here." And poor Jean came, submitting with all 
 possible grace to an unmerciful scrubbing. But in vain was all the 
 soap and water, in vain was all the scrubbing. Although somewhat 
 dimmer, there the letter still remained, red and bright and myste- 
 rious. 
 
 This- must be explained, — it must, it must!" cried the dean. 
 'I cannot have my girls tattooed while they are sleeping! I shall 
 send for the president of the university. I cannot understand it." 
 
 "Nor I." echoed the matron. 
 
 •Nor I," murmured the girls. 
 
 "I do." cried the hysterical waitress, "I do! It's the work o' the 
 divil. 1 tell ye!" Soon the president entered, and with his self- 
 satisfied air and his trembling ahem, he assured them that all would 
 be revealed in a few moments. But after he had examined the 
 window, the foot-prints, and the scarlet letter, he shook his head. 
 Even he could offer no explanation. The letter was there, — but how 
 came it there? Everyone looked at everyone else. There was now no 
 higher court. Would the mystery always remain unsolved? A noise 
 was heard at the window, and everyone turned, only to see the 
 janitor replacing the grating. "Some o' them wires was broke," he 
 explained, "and I took it out while ye was at breakfast to mend 'em." 
 and so the open window and the foot-prints were accounted for. 
 Every one breathed easier and turned back — only to behold Jean's 
 face branded with the still mysterious H. The dean paced the floor; 
 the president scratched his head. Every girl held her breath and 
 waited. "Oh." screamed Jean, and bounding across to her bed, she 
 drew out from beside her pillow the latest novel, and there on the 
 cover was — a scarlet H. — Hazel Shelton Reid. 
 
 MY BROTHER. 
 
 This brother of mine has just reached the interesting age of seven- 
 teen. He is tall, strong, and broad-shouldered; his skin is slightly 
 dark; his high forehead is crowned by a mass of wavy brown hair, 
 which has learned, by experience, to part in the middle; his eyes 
 are brown and expressive, so that one who knows him can tell at 
 a glance whether he is happy or downcast, mischievous or thought- 
 ful. He is generally considered handsome, and shares the popular 
 belief himself. Indeed, the sidelong glances which he bestows on 
 his pocket mirror would betoken vanity in a girl. 
 
 He has just reached that period wherein every young gentleman 
 begins to glory in faultless attire, and in which brilliant neckties, high 
 collars, and patent-leather shoes are a delight unto the soul, while 
 as yet these articles are not worn with the ease of his elders. 
 
 21.-) 
 
He has just completed his second year at the high-school, where his 
 lessons are prepared in a happy-go-lucky style. Each year he declares 
 to be his last in school, and he longs to begin civil engineering. He fills 
 his room — that apartment which reveals so clearly the characteristics 
 of the occupant — with tiny engines, photographic apparatus, and 
 various other scientific machines of his own invention. 
 
 He possesses all of a boy's love for out-door sports, and holds 
 his own in tennis, base-ball, and foot-ball; while wrestling and swim- 
 ming are his favorite pastimes. 
 
 Like most boys of his age, he has great admiration for the other 
 sex, and delights in those little attentions which are pleasing to 
 maidens, though perhaps I should add that he is a trifle more polite 
 to his sister in company than when unobserved. He always has a 
 favorite girl-friend; but let her enjoy her supremacy while she may, 
 for she will soon be supplanted by a rival, who will receive just as 
 many calls, just as many bon-bons. When summoned to meet his 
 sister's friends, this young gentleman storms and fumes, but after 
 much coaxing he appears in the parlor in the most becoming manner, 
 and goes through the presentation process as gracefully as if it were 
 his greatest joy to make new acquaintances. 
 
 As is often the case, I fear not much is to be said concerning 
 his religious life, although he has that warm affection for his mother 
 which keeps many a boy from going far astray. He goes to church 
 Sunday nights, and, once in a while, honors the Sunday-school with 
 his presence; but meanwhile he airs many lofty notions about the 
 uselessness of church attendance, the inconsistency of Christian peo- 
 ple, and kindred subjects on which he possesses not a single original 
 idea. He also inclines slightly to the silver rule, "Do unto others 
 as they do unto you," for he has inherited the hasty temper of an 
 English grandfather, and demands revenge to the last degree. 
 
 Of course he is a tease. He boasts to me, in language so inter- 
 spersed with slang as to be almost unintelligible to one unaccustomed 
 to the diction of a boy, of his attempts to smoke, his success in learning 
 to flirt, and other follies which he professes to consider a credit 
 to his manhood; but let him discover a pained expression on my 
 face and instantly, forgetting that he must sustain his reputation 
 as a "swell," he drops his lofty air and says penitently, "Oh, gee, 
 sis, I won't do it again! Let's shake on it." And so a hand-shake, 
 to him as binding as an oath, dispels one after another of his mis- 
 demeanors. 
 
 Thus he is a merry, careless boy with all a boy's pranks and 
 failings; but he possesses besides a certain manliness and a warm, 
 true heart, which awaits only the proper development to make of 
 him a man noble and useful. — Stella A. Chappell. 
 
 216 
 
THE OLD BLACK DEVIL. 
 
 We got him at Laramie. We had asked the man for a young, 
 spirited, and high-stepping beast. Moreover, we desired that there 
 should be compounded with these qualities as much gentleness as 
 might be logically consistent, so that an easy getting up and a safe 
 getting down could be predicted with reasonable certainty. When, 
 however, the good man spoke of an "old black devil," retired to 
 the field, we at once closed the deal, on general principles, and the 
 Devil became once more an active member of his race. 
 
 As a horse, he would have been considered exceptional in almost 
 any part of the world because of age, decrepitude, and general lack 
 of substance, but at Laramie he was classed as an average animal 
 only. In some respects, therefore, he was no beauty. Advanced age 
 and severe toil had destroyed alarmingly those graceful lines of neck 
 and shoulder found in well-groomed horses. His body was scarred 
 and seamed from many years of hardships. His coal black hair 
 showed the ravages of time, and moth patches played hide and seek 
 over his ribs. The creases down his sides spoke many pathetic vol- 
 umes of trouble long endured. 
 
 His forelegs were gnarled and knotted like the limbs of an ancient 
 but sturdy oak. Beneath the right fetlofck the inhuman barbed wire 
 had left a terrible scar, and an ugly mark upon the left shoulder 
 testified to the galling collar. Behind, his legs were crippled from 
 rheumatism, and the veins stood out like cords. The hips were high 
 and pointed, and there were cavernous hollows underneath. His teeth 
 were worn and broken; his eyes, hard and lusterless; his expression, 
 haggard; his bearing, stubborn. His backbone was like a rail, and 
 ended in a tail that was short and thin and no longer in active 
 service. He had long ceased to contend with his winged enemies. 
 The mosquitoes sucked his blood; the flies ate his flesh; his skin 
 was stretched as a parchment over his bones; and the sound of the 
 whip re-echoed within his body. 
 
 Once, we were told, he had delighted to place his iron-shod heel 
 on the stomach of his friend in token of good fellowship; to run as 
 the wind, no one pursuing; to jump fences upon no provocation. Now 
 he was stiff as a poker, and to lift his feet from the. ground was a 
 wearisome task. 
 
 But he was a sagacious old fellow; conservative; not given rashly 
 to reforms. To conserve his energies he traveled upon three legs — 
 no particular three — any three. His gait, consequently, was not 
 rhythmical. His periods of vibration were never predicted with exact- 
 ness, but were always recorded with a startling thoroughness. 
 
 We paid five dollars for him. He was worth many more merely 
 as a study in character. We obtained a saddle for six dollars. It 
 was worth a hundred merely as a relic. We picked up a club from 
 the roadside for a whip. It was worth what it cost — nothing. 
 
 217 
 
Ah, but he was a gay old fellow when harnessed for the fray, with 
 his smoking nostrils and flashing eye, a flag behind his ear, and the 
 brave and gallant rider on his back! Truly, a steed for young 
 Lochinvar! And yet how sad! God rest his bones!— F. J. Truby. 
 
 THE AMERICAN RHINE. 
 
 Man may claim to be above nature, but he cannot be iiidepandent of 
 her. A person having a mind susceptible to the beautiful can but 
 acknowledge that nature is full of beauty. 
 
 It is early morning on the Hudson. As the sun lifts its h2ad 
 above the eastern horizon, the clouds are tinged with gorreous colors. 
 Even the birds feel the charm of the rising sun and fill the fresh 
 morning air with their song. As we sail along, we think how, l» 
 former days, the grim savage used to paddle his bark and seal ... 
 the banks for game and foe. Even now we see him rise slowly in 
 his canoe and place his hands over his sharp dark eyes — scanning 
 the opposite bank — and then cautiously make his way to shore. 
 Pushing aside the dense growth and underbrush that skirts the water, 
 he quietly runs his bark upon the gravely beach and pitches his 
 tepee, — ever keeping up his vigil for the avowed enemy. 
 
 Little white fishermen's huts nestle at the feet of the great 
 bluffs, as if conscious of their protection, while the old palisades 
 tower above them in massive grandeur to a dizzy height. Directly 
 across the river is Yonkers, the city of mazy and wandering avenues, 
 and eighteen miles below is plainly seen the old obelisk in Central 
 Park. The famous old hills, the unassuming bluffs — everything ex- 
 cept the bleak, desolate sides of the palisades is. alive with the waving 
 sea of dark-green foliage. 
 
 To the eye, this dense canopy, "these forests primeval," seem 
 impenetrable. As night comes on, they fade away, and we see nothing 
 but the great massive forms emerging from the shadows. We imagine 
 that we see the camp-fires of the old savage, but instead we see 
 the lights glittering from the mansion of some money king. Nestled 
 -among tne hills, the lights dance and sparkle like gems and throw 
 their slender rays far out on the water. The old river is a thing of 
 1'fe — the unnumbered ripples vying with one another in catching and 
 reflecting the moonbeams. 
 
 The old-fashioned cozy farm-houses send forth one solitary beam. 
 A lamp burns in the kitchen window — it is early morning. The 
 farmer lads ride their horses far out into the river, where the 
 water is clear and sparkling; the faithful old "plugs" drink their fill— 
 another day of hard work awaits them. Away in the background 
 are the Adirondacks of New York, the Berkshire hills of Massachu- 
 setts, the Green Mountains of Vermont, and the White Mountains of 
 New Hampshire. In the beautiful valley at our feet are the little 
 
 21S 
 
homes of a liliputian race. The grand steamers look like miniature 
 toys. The Highlands all but shut the waters from our view, but 
 still we can see the famous waters as they wind in beautiful curves 
 among the palisades, carrying on their clear, smooth surface the 
 craft of pleasure and industry — the same old river of the Aborigine — 
 tii»- American Rhine. — C. L. A. Dickens. 
 
 MY SISTER'S PURSE. 
 
 As I sat in my office one winter afternoon, I was thinking of 
 the jolly time I had had with my friends at the club the previous 
 Saturday night, when suddenly the telephone bell rang. I arose 
 slowly, and went to answer the call. "Well?" I said, in that frosty 
 but inquiring tone in which one always answers a telephone call. "Is 
 that you, Ralph?" came a voice over the wires, which I recognized 
 to be that of my sister. "Yes," I replied, "what is it?" "Well, I 
 wish that you would find that sample of blue dimity in my pocket- 
 book marked ten cents per yard, and get one-half a yard of it at 
 Mandel's." "Which is marked ten cents a yard," I asked, "the pocket- 
 book or the dimity?" "You remember," she continued without noticing 
 my frivolous remark, "that you placed my pocket-book in your over- 
 coat last Tuesday night." She rang the bell in my ear, and left 
 the telephone without giving me a chance to say that I did not 
 remember any such thing. I went to my overcoat and found the 
 purse in one of the pockets. 
 
 I draw r it out. It is so well filled that it appears to me very 
 much like a half open oyster shell yet so light that it might be 
 thought to contain a large sum of paper currency. The purse, a fold- 
 ing one, is about three by four and a-half inches in size, and is 
 made of alligator leather. On each of the four outside corners is 
 a fancy trimming of German silver, while on one side is a small 
 round plate of the same material, on which my sisters initials are 
 engraved. 
 
 As I open it, I almost drop to the floor sister's four inches square 
 spider web, which she calls her handkerchief. I place this on my 
 desk, and continue the search. As I hold the purse before me, the 
 left half is composed of three open pockets and one for loose change, 
 while the right side contains two open pockets. I decide to search in 
 systematic order from left to right. The first pocket that I examine 
 contains some samples of dress goods. There is a small sample of 
 green silk, on which is pinned a slip of writing-paper, which bears 
 the mark, $1.25 per yard. Next I find a sample of muslin, 8c; then 
 one of near-silk at 20c per yard, and one of white lace marked 50c. 
 I replace all of these samples, and begin my search through the second 
 pocket. Here I find samples of baby ribbon, lc; gingham, 13c: 
 toweling, 24c; and two of canton flannel at 10c and 12M*c respectively, 
 
 219 
 
while away down at the bottom of the pocket are two cards, one 
 of which bears the name of Mr. M. J. Carpenter and the other that 
 of Mr. H. C. Corbin. Now I begin my search through the pockets on 
 the left side. In the first one I find samples of cambric, calico, and 
 gingham, together with advertisements clipped from the newspapers, 
 one of the great shoe-sale at Marshall Field's from the tenth to the 
 thirtieth of January and the special sale of handkerchiefs at Carson, 
 Pirie, Scott and Company's. 
 
 The second pocket contains notes and invitations but no samples 
 of blue dimity, while the next and last open pocket contains only some 
 postage stamps, that are badly stuck together, a dozen calling cards, 
 the addresses of a few friends living in the suburbs, and a tiny 
 photograph of sister's latest chum. My last resort is now the pocket. 
 Upon opening it I find only two small black pins, a nickle, two pennies, 
 and a small key. 
 
 Just at this moment my telephone bell rings again, and when 
 I answer it my sister tells me that she has just found the sample at 
 home instead of in her purse, and that she thinks she will not need 
 any of that dimity. — Ralph P. Mattingly. 
 
 THE GHOST AT VASSAR COLLEGE. 
 
 It was about five years ago that I paid a visit to my aunt, who 
 was then professor of history at Vassar College. There were several 
 girls attending the college from my town, and they did much toward 
 making my stay a pleasant one. On the second night after my arrival, 
 a "spread" was given in my honor, to which several of the teachers 
 were invited besides the girls themselves. Of course, the "spread" 
 was a great success. At about half-past nine my aunt, who was 
 one of the company, told me that she was going to her room, in 
 order to do a little work before ten, the hour at which the lights 
 were turned out. It so happened that at ten all of the teachers had 
 gone to their rooms. Of course, we could not think of going to bed 
 so soon, so we stuffed a towel into the crack under the door, lighted 
 a candle, and began to tell ghost-stories. Then I became a little 
 nervous, for I knew I had to sleep all alone that night, and I did 
 not feel any too brave. You can imagine my horror when a girl began 
 to tell a ghost-story concerning occurrences which, as she said, had 
 happened in room 17, the very one that I was to occupy that night. 
 Therefore, in order to avoid hearing it, I put my fingers to my 
 ears, but the little that leaked through did not make my nerves any 
 steadier. 
 
 About half-past ten I went to my room. It was a large chamber 
 with a high ceiling and three windows. There was but one door, how- 
 ever, near which stood an old mahogany bed. After convincing myself 
 that the closet and the space under the bed were both unoccupied, I 
 
 220 
 
locked the door and went to bed. but I did not immediately go to sleep. 
 Certainly I was in a very bad mental condition; for at the least 
 sound I would jump and hold my breath in order to hear from which 
 direction the noise came. A Welsh rarebit, pickle, and chocolate 
 combination is not the most conducive to sleep. 
 
 It was but a few minutes after I went to bed when 1 heard the big 
 clock down the hall strike twelve. Then I tried to go to sleep in 
 earnest. I began counting, one, two, three, four, but just as I reached 
 seventeen I stopped, for I distinctly heard steps in the hall outside 
 of my door, and a few seconds afterward I heard my door-knob turn 
 round. I was simply paralyzed with fear. I thought how lucky it 
 was that I had locked the door; then I wondered if even that would 
 keep out the ghost. The next instant I heard a weird, trembling voice 
 say, "Bessie, O Bessie, give me my body — give me my body. Bessie, 
 please give me my body." Again the knob was turned. Then I began 
 to shake. What could it be that w r as calling my name and asking 
 for its body? I thought of many things to do, from opening the door 
 to screaming, but I did neither of these. I simply pulled the clothes 
 firmly over my head, and kept very still. 
 
 The next morning I awoke with a bad headache, and thought to 
 myself, "Oh, that was only a dream, but it certainly did seem real 
 last night." Finally, I told my aunt of my experience, and she laughed 
 as if she considered it a fine joke. "I thought that you were sleeping 
 very soundly," she said; "for I came to your door quite late last night 
 to get my waist that I left there yesterday, but your door was locked." 
 "But how do you account for that ghost that asked me for its body?" 
 I asked. "Oh!" she said, "I asked for my bodice." — Elizabeth Shotwell. 
 
 "SIS." 
 
 Imagine a young lady about eighteen years of age, of average size, 
 with a slender but not angular form, with a neat, fashionable, but 
 not extravagant dress, with a luxuriant growth of golden hair arranged 
 in pompadour style, and you have the general appearance of "Sis.", 
 Her face, somewhat oval, with a slightly prominent chin, is beautified 
 by Nature's best cosmetics, a clear complexion, while her nose is 
 one of that exquisite type famous in Grecian sculpture. Her languish- 
 ing blue eyes are bordered with long-, light lashes, in keeping with 
 her golden hair. Her teeth, of course, are like pearls; and those 
 lips — rosy as the tint on a red astrakan in September — must be 
 delicious. 
 
 The outward manners of "Sis" (especially in public) are very be- 
 coming. She is modest but not reticent, talkative but not silly. On 
 the street she politely recognizes all her acquaintances, without regard 
 for "color, race, or previous condition of servitude." Her every 
 movement is graceful, while her light, brisk step and beaming counte- 
 
 221 
 
nance betoken a buoyancy of spirits. "Sis" attends the high school, and 
 is naturally a favorite with both sexes; she is a genial companion and 
 a ready talker. The girls seek her company, and walk arm in arm 
 with her. Some of the boys are almost envious, for though they may 
 walk and talk with "Sis," they must adore at arm's length. "Sis" 
 is seldom alone, for she enjoys talking to anyone who has anything 
 to say; the halls have become familiar with her suppressed laughter. 
 She excels in all her work, though she says that she wishes Euclid 
 had died when in the midst of his fourth proposition. 
 
 As a member of the Methodist church, "Sis" is extremely religious, 
 and attends nearly all the Sunday and mid-week services. At the 
 Epworth League meetings her testimony is always expected, while each 
 earnest petition of several prayers is distinctly sanctioned by her 
 "Amen." In a revival meeting she thinks that she may exert some 
 good influence. So, drawing her chair close to some wayward youth 
 and placing her hand on his shoulder, she exhorts him to enter "the 
 straight and narrow way." And though unable to see the way, he 
 imagines that Heaven is a little nearer while he feels the pressure of 
 that hand. 
 
 Thus far, "Sis" is a girl with whom the ordinary freshman might 
 readily fall in love; but I advise him to see her first in her home: here 
 the scene changes. "Sis" is often peevish, irritable, and ill-tempered; 
 she has been spoiled. Because the cat is in her way, she kicks it 
 under the table; on using some slang invective against the dog, the 
 parrot mocks her, and she hangs him outside to "cool off," At other 
 times she is extremely silly and sentimental, when she hugs her 
 father, kisses her mother, and caresses the cat. 
 
 But we must hear "Sis" in the parlor as she talks with her dearest 
 chum "Lil." "I just had a lovely time with Harry last night! He 
 is such a dear boy; he just thinks as I do. You know Will and T 
 never did think alike, and George seldom had any thoughts," thus 
 she runs on. "Sis" studies on alternate evenings, and on other nights 
 she entertains her gentlemen friends. "I would like to invite Freddie 
 Brown some evening," she says. "But Monday is Harry's night, 
 Wednesday is Mr. Smart's night, Friday is Mr. Stewart's night, and 
 on Sunday sister desires the parlor for her company; but I will 
 arrange it to have Freddie some night soon." 
 
 As may be concluded, "Sis" has different aspirations under vary- 
 ing circumstances. In school she has ambitions for literary honors; 
 in church work she sometimes has a hope that she may lose her life 
 for the heathen world. But taking all the evidence into consideration, 
 we may justly conclude that she will be very apt to make an unreserved 
 consignment of herself to the first man who may make a fair proposal. 
 ■ — John Barnes. 
 
 . MY ENCOUNTER WITH A BURGLAR. 
 
 A burglar! The word, sleepy though I was, caused chills to run 
 
 222 
 
down my back. Instantly there flashed through my mind the par- 
 ticulars of half a dozen or more burglaries which had recentlj 
 place in our neighborhood. I recalled how Mr. S — , our near neigh- 
 bor, was severely wounded in attempting to capture a burglar, and 
 how Mrs. W — , an aged widow wealthy by repute, had been tied to a 
 bed-post and tortured to make her give up her money. Consequently, 
 when told by my mother that a burglar was attempting to secure 
 entrance, I was badly frightened. 
 
 By chance there were only three of the family at home: my 
 mother, Norah the maid, and myself. 
 
 In agitated whispers mother and Norah told me that the burglar was 
 working at the kitchen door. So, going to the head of the back stairs, 
 I stood and listened. Soon I heard a sound which indicated that a 
 saw was being used on the door. All at once it stopped. Evidently 
 the burglar was alarmed. Preserving the utmost quiet, I still listened. 
 Yes, he was attempting to saw his way in, for there was the noise 
 again. This time it continued a little longer. Once more it stopped. 
 
 I went immediately to the dresser and procured the revolver kept 
 there for such an emergency. Coming back, as I was passing through 
 the hall, I met mother and Norah, the former carrying a lamp and 
 the latter armed with my ball bat. Although badly frightened, since 
 I was the only male member of the family present, I would not show 
 my terror, so I kept a bold front. I now proceeded to marshal my 
 forces, and we slowly marched down the front stairway. I was in 
 front, holding the revolver at arm's length, so as to insure the speedy 
 annihilation of the burglar, were we to meet him unexpectedly. Norah 
 followed, savagely brandishing the ball-bat, while mother followed, 
 carrying a lamp. At the foot of the stairs I called a halt and went 
 forward to reconnoitre. After listening for some time, I was sure 
 that the burglar was still at his work. Slowly "and cautiously we 
 advanced until we entered the dining-room. Here we halted, and Norah 
 nearly went into hysterics upon hearing the supposed burglar at his 
 work. To add to our misery, mother, being nervous, set the lamp down 
 too hard, and jarred it out. 
 
 Now the noise became louder. Suddenly there was a crash and 
 the sound of falling glass. Evidently the burglar was about to enter 
 and we must move at once if we wished to frustrate him. Calling 
 upon Norah to follow, I quickly walked foward and, throwing my 
 weight against the pantry door (a swinging one, by the way), I hurst 
 into the kitchen. Norah, following closely in the dark, was struck by 
 the door as it swung back. Greatly terrified, supposing the burglar to 
 be upon her, she cried out, "Och, it's kilt entoirely Oi am, lave me go, 
 Mr. Burglar, lave me go!" To make a grand finale, nervous as I was 
 and frightened by Norah's cry, I pulled the trigger. There was a roar 
 and then all was still. I stood and listened. Then I stepped in some- 
 thing wet. Supposing that I had killed the burglar and was now 
 
 223 
 
standing in his blood, I called for Norah to bring a light. This she 
 did, after being assured that the burglar was undoubtedly dead. 
 
 Imagine the nervous relaxation that took place when I found 
 that instead of standing in the blood of the burglar, I was standing 
 in a pool of milk. Crouching in an opposite corner of the kitchen was a 
 little kitten, the household pet. Around its neck was part of a broken 
 cream pitcher. Instantly all became plain. The cat, becoming hungry 
 during the early hours of morning, had started on a tour of investiga- 
 tion. In its eagerness to procure food, it had thrust its head into the 
 cream pitcher and imbibed all the cream that it could. Then, not 
 being able to get its head out, it had madly careered around the floor 
 until the pitcher was broken by striking a table leg. This was the 
 crash of falling glass which we heard. The sawing was the sound pro- 
 duced by the pitcher dragging on the floor. The burglar, having thus 
 been successfully routed, we once more went to bed and slept until 
 morning, troubled by dreams in which gigantic cats figured as burg- 
 lars.— Walter A. Stults. 
 
 WATCHING FOR SANTA CLAUS. 
 
 While spending the holidays at the home of a friend, I happened 
 to go to the library on Christmas Eve to get a package that she had left 
 there in the afternoon. Slipping softly down the hall to the library 
 door, I pushed the portiere aside to enter. What a picture presented 
 itself on the opposite side of the room! Even now I can see it, — the 
 firelight making the rich furnishings more inviting than ever, the 
 stockings hanging from the mantel, the two little daughters of my 
 hostess waiting for Santa Claus. 
 
 The gas has not been lighted, and the curtains are drawn; so that 
 the fire in the grate sends out a warm glow, now making the corners 
 bright, now leaving them dark. The red and yellow flame chases the 
 shadows in and out as they play hide-and-seek among the chairs. It 
 darts along from one piece of wood to another, and disappears as if 
 merely playing a joke, after all. The tiling about the grate reflects 
 its olive disks in response to an advance on the part of the flame; 
 while through the mirror above fantastic shapes beckon and nod to 
 their partners in a merry dance on the ceiling. But all this jollity is 
 unseen save by myself and the doll on the mantel, who smiles down 
 on the little girls below. 
 
 At the left of the fireplace, half hidden in a great Morris chair, 
 the older one leans back against the soft velvet, and a glimpse of her 
 face through the long brown curls shows no look of doubt nor of impa- 
 tience; she is waiting for Santa, and he will come. In fancy she is 
 far away, whither she has been charmed by the fairies that beckon 
 from the dancing flames; and she sees those things that only a child 
 can see as she listens for the sound of bells and the patter of reindeer 
 hoofs. Close beside her chair and almost in front of her, cuddles 
 
 224 
 
another little white-robed lassie, whose curls cluster and fall lovingly 
 over the lace and ruffles of the little white night-dress. The low has- 
 sock lifts her just high enough for her head to be silhouetted against 
 the flame as it dashes up the black chimney; and though her back is 
 toward me, I fancy I can see her eyes as they follow the daring flame 
 which goes to meet and to greet Santa. Neither child speaks, neither 
 moves; each is lost in her own dreams. 
 
 The stockings hanging limply yet expectantly from the mantel 
 tell of intent to deceive, for they are both wide and deep; and the little 
 bedtime candle by the fireplace winks at them mischievously. Not a 
 sound is heard save the crackling of the wood and the ticking of the 
 clock on the mantel; so, lest I break the spell which rests upon the little 
 watchers, listening for bells that will jingle only in the Land of Nod, 
 I steal away as softly as I have come. — Lucretia Garfield Kays. 
 
 "WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE GOOD?" 
 
 Martha was certainly a very bad child. No one of the inmates of 
 tenement row No. 6 would have denied it. Indeed, they lost no oppor- 
 tunity to acquaint each other with the fact. Old Anthony, who was 
 very old indeed, and who kept a sort of grandfatherly eye on all of the 
 tenement "brats", only shook his head solemnly at the mention of 
 Martha's name. As for Martha's mother, if she wasn't scrubbing 
 somewhere, or wasn't in a heavy stupor, a commoner occurrence, and if 
 she chose to answer at all, she would have told you with no little pride 
 that Martha was a "bad un, a very bad un." 
 
 Now simply because I have said that Martha was commonly 
 acknowledged a bad child, it must not for a moment be supposed that 
 the children who swarmed the floors, the stairs, and the alley, so thickly 
 that their mothers were never sure which were their own, — it must not 
 be supposed that these children were good. No, Bridget Maloney said 
 that they were all "little divils," and the association lady who visited 
 Tenement No. 6 every two months would have voiced the same senti- 
 ment in her own cultured way. So it was not because of contrast with 
 goodness that Martha appeared bad, but because, in spite of the badness 
 of the others, she contrived to be still worse. 
 
 Martha knew that she was bad, but I do not know how she could 
 have helped that, since she had heard it always, and from everyone. 
 She gloried in her badness; gloried in the fact that, as a baby, she 
 had cried louder and more than any baby born before or since in the 
 tenement; gloried that she had eluded and received more beatings than 
 any six of her companions; gloried that she had caused at least five 
 grocery horses to take sudden and wild flight, and that she was hated 
 cordially by their owners. She knew that she could lie faster and 
 more cunningly, and could strike harder than any boy of her age in 
 the row, and she also knew that her vocabulary of "swear words" was 
 
 225 
 
far more extensive than any they could hoast, and again she gloried. 
 
 But, strange to say, Martha was not satisfied; and yet it was not 
 so very strange, after all, for Napoleon, you know, sighed for more 
 worlds to conquer, and so Martha longed for new ways in which to be 
 bad. The old ways were so old and commonplace, and the tenement 
 was so used to them, she feared that in time it might not think them 
 so remarkably bad after all. She became quite disconsolate while 
 brooding over this thought, which she did so much of the time that 
 for hours she entirely forgot to be bad in the ways she knew. 
 
 One day while Martha was still distressed over this problem, it 
 was noised throughout the tenement that the association visitor would 
 probably be there in the afternoon, and the children, for the most part, 
 were glad, for they thought the manners and clothes of the lady 
 extremely interesting. A few of their mothers shoved some of the 
 things on the floor under the bed, but the most of them kept on with 
 what they were doing or were not doing in their accustomed way. 
 
 Martha, in some way, failed to note the approach of the association 
 lady, but she stood at the head of the line of curious alleyites, watch- 
 ing her descent. Suddenly, an exultant cry went down the row, "There's 
 two of 'em, two of 'em!" There certainly were, and as they came 
 close Martha saw the "new un," a slender girl, plainly dressed, with a 
 sweet, timid face. She looked straight at Martha as she passed, and 
 suddenly bent down, and said in the softest voice, "Be good, little girl, 
 be good," and was gone. 
 
 From that moment the aim of Martha's life was changed. In all 
 of her days she could not remember ever before having any one tell 
 her to be good, and she was fascinated by the strange new idea. "What 
 does it mean to be good?" This was the question which came con- 
 tinually from her lips. She went first to old Anthony, but it was one 
 of his feeble days, and he only smiled happily, and nodded his head. 
 She asked her mother, who looked at her with scared eyes, and then 
 with an oath told her never to ask that question again. Martha saw 
 that there was nothing to do but to ask each inmate of the row till she 
 obtained the desired information. She felt that life was now worth 
 living. It was much more interesting to discover how to be something 
 of which she had never heard than to worry over new ways in which 
 to be bad. She was no wiser, however, after questioning the various 
 mothers of the tenement. The common answer was, "You'll never 
 know," "You'll die before you find out," with a door shut in the "bad 
 brat's" face. She at last humiliated herself by asking the other chil- 
 dren, and they, rejoicing at the opportunity of appearing greater than 
 Martha, replied that they knew well what it meant to be good, they 
 had always known, but did she suppose they would tell her? Martha, 
 undeceived, and with contempt in her eyes, turned away, and then 
 she made a decision. There was no one in the alley who could tell her 
 what she wished to know, and she would go away from the alley and 
 
 22ti 
 
find out, and some day come back and tell them all. How fine they 
 would think her then, and how grand it would be! There were two 
 places she would find, one was a college (she had beard Bridget 
 Maloney tell Mrs. Nordska that the "dacent young lady" was from the 
 "college"), and the other was a church; for little Jake, softer-hearted 
 than the others, had told her that in the city there was a very large 
 stone building called a church, which a "cop" had once told him was 
 for good people. The next morning she slipped away. As soon as she 
 reached the heart of the city she began her inquiries for the church. 
 To the question, "What church?" she could answer only, "A big stone 
 one;" at which every one laughed and hurried on. Well, she would ask 
 the next time for the college, she thought, as she waited for a street- 
 car to pass. Looking at the other side of the street, she saw something 
 which made her give a scream of delight. It was the girl, the "dacent 
 young lady,'" standing on the corner. Martha shouted and gave a 
 glad little leap, and then, — nothing strange happened, only a careless 
 little girl, who had not seen a car coming from the direction in which 
 one had just gone, was knocked down and thrown from the track. 
 
 When Martha again opened her eyes, she saw pure white walls 
 around her, a pure white face bending over her, and she herself lying 
 in the whitest of white beds. With a triumphant smile not unlike the 
 ones alleyites had so often seen, she murmured, "Is this what it is to 
 be good?" Then she closed her eyes, and then, better than the philoso- 
 phers, better than the moralists of all ages, Martha knew what it means 
 to be good. — Mary Lyon. 
 
 A HIGHWAYMAN. 
 
 Being the oldest child, upon the death of my father considerable 
 business devolved upon me, especially as my father had no male rela- 
 tives living near. It is true that I had an uncle out West somewhere, 
 but we had not heard from him for several years. My father also had 
 a sister living at Wedron, a town twenty miles from my home. 
 
 Among other things, I had to attend to some loans that my father 
 had negotiated for certain men in the East. It was therefore neces- 
 sary for me to go to Ottawa, the nearest city, in order to meet one of 
 these men and get about $20,000. I went on Saturday. When I had 
 finished my business, all of the passenger trains had gone. Only a 
 slow freight train was left. Hastily putting the money, which was in 
 bills, into my valise, I ran to the station and reached the rear end 
 of the caboose just as the train started. Immediately behind me a man 
 swung himself upon the platform. At first I took little notice of him, 
 but afterwards I was attracted by the close scrutiny which he gave 
 me. 
 
 He offered the conductor money for his fare, as he evidently did 
 not have time to purchase a ticket. When the conductor asked him 
 
where he was going he replied, "Oh, to Wedron, I guess." The close 
 scrutiny of the stranger made me nervous. I thought of the hasty 
 manner with which I had put the money into my valise, near the 
 unshaded window of the bank. The thought came to me that perhaps 
 this man had seen me from the street as I started with the money 
 and that he had followed me with evil designs. The fact that he had 
 no ticket and that he seemed undecided as to where he was going 
 strengthened this belief. The more I thought about it the more con- 
 vinced I became. Dalton was only a cross-roads, and as it was very 
 dark, while the conductor was ahead attending to the switching, this 
 man would relieve me of the money. I resolved that if the conductor 
 left the car I would go with him. But when we reached Dalton the 
 conductor was writing his report, and therefore sent the brakeman 
 ahead to care for the cars. I felt relieved. The next station was 
 Wedron. I would soon be rid of this fellow. But the man remained 
 on the car. The conductor said, "I thought that you intended to get 
 off at Wedron." "No, I think that I shall go on to Sheridan," was the 
 reply. I started. That was my destination. I lived a mile and a half 
 from the station. The agent would be gone, everybody would be in 
 bed, and I would be at the mercy of this man. What was I to do? I 
 was unarmed, and he had twice my strength. A cold sweat stood on 
 my brow. I gripped the handle of the valise with such force that my 
 hand was bruised. I thought of many possible and impossible means 
 of escape. At last an idea occurred to me. Just before reaching Sheri- 
 dan I went out on the platform, and as the train began to slow up I 
 jumped. Near by was a cornfield into which I ran at full speed, not 
 towards home, however. I then made a wide detour and reached home 
 in the rear. 
 
 Cautiously approaching the house, I was surprised to see a light 
 in the window. As I stepped upon the porch I could look into the 
 window of the library. I stopped in amazement. Sitting in an arm- 
 chair before the fireplace was my companion on the train. I was about 
 to step back, but my mother had heard me and immediately opened 
 the door. "What made you so late, John?" she said. "Your uncle from 
 the West has been here for over half an hour. You must have been on 
 the same train that he was." Everything was now clear to me. I 
 understood why he had scrutinized me so thoroughly. I also reasoned 
 that he was in doubt whether to go first to my aunt's at Wedron or to 
 come to Sheridan. 
 
 The next morning my highwayman went with me while I delivered 
 the money. — O. O. Townsend. 
 
 AN EASTER BROWNIE DUDE. 
 
 He is not tall and slender as one would naturally imagine. On the 
 contrary, he is rather short and very portly. To be more exact, he is 
 
 228 
 
just three and five-sixteenths inches tall in his hoots; while his waist- 
 measure exceeds his height hy three-eighths of an inch. This extraor- 
 dinary corpulence is due to the fact that the body is made of an egg- 
 shell, the contents of which were removed through a hole in the small 
 end. The head is made of batting tightly and smoothly covered with a 
 bit of fine handkerchief linen; while the arms and legs are pieces of 
 heavy cardboard cut out in the proper shape and pasted to the body 
 at the shoulders and hips, respectively. By a free use of water-color 
 paints, hair, eyes, nose, mouth, clothing, etc., have been produced. 
 
 In general appearance Brownie is what is called in modern par- 
 lance a "swell.'* His flashy dress and flippant bearing are painfully 
 suggestive of the fop. The one somber thing about him is his black 
 coat, which is of the style called "cut-away." It is entirely unbuttoned, 
 and rolls gracefully back in front, revealing the gaudy green vest 
 beneath, from the lower left-hand pocket of which hangs a large watch- 
 fob. The immaculate shirt-front is studded with two huge emeralds, 
 while the high paper collar is set off by a large red bow-tie. Quite 
 in harmony with the other articles of dress are the bright yellow 
 trousers, which, with the black shoes and a tall silk hat, complete the 
 costume. The hat sits well back on the head, and is tilted slightly to 
 the left, thus revealing a light growth of jet-black hair parted in the 
 middle and brushed smoothly back on each side. A low forehead, large 
 eyes, heavy, arched brows, a flat nose, a wide, grinning mouth, — all 
 these, together with a florid complexion, go to make up a countenance 
 which, although far from handsome, is not altogether unpleasing; 
 while a large monocle adds much to the general dudish appearance. 
 The arms are both bent at the elbows and extend forward in a manner 
 that reminds one of a Jewish clothier setting forth the merits of his 
 merchandise. This e/fect is somewhat relieved, however, by the pres- 
 ence of a little black cane, which is held by the middle in the left 
 hand. 
 
 Such was the appearance of Brownie some four years ago. To-day, 
 however, his condition is greatly changed. By some means the head 
 and body became separated from each other, and at the same time the 
 body was crushed almost beyond recognition. Since that time Brownie 
 has had much the same experience as that of a hermit crab, seeking 
 from time to time a new place of retreat in which he may hide his 
 trunkless neck. At the present time he is peering with a look of sur- 
 prise from the mouth of a little blue ink-well, the lid of which is thrown 
 carefully back out of the way. Although his hat is somewhat shabby 
 now, and though the hair is tinged with gray, otherwise there seems 
 to be very little change in the surviving portions of the unfortunate 
 Brownie. — Faye A. Moon. 
 
 MY EXPERIENCE WITH INDIANS. 
 Several years ago, after a long illness, I was sent West to recuperate. 
 
 229 
 
I spent the summer in southeastern Montana on a large farm 
 but a few miles east of the Crow Indian Reservation and near Little 
 Big Horn River, where General Custer fought the Sioux. Hence the 
 
 region abounds in interesting stories, and Mr. T , my host, took 
 
 pleasure in acquainting me with all the Indian tales at his command. 
 
 At the beginning of my visit there had been some trouble at the 
 Reservation, and the neighboring farmers had become somewhat 
 uneasy, but the disturbance had soon quieted down, and was forgotten. 
 The Fourth of July was approaching, and the people were making 
 preparations to celebrate in true Western fashion. There was to be a 
 
 big celebration at the neighboring town, twenty miles away. Mr. T 
 
 and family decided to attend, and urged me to accompany them, but 
 not feeling sufficiently strong to endure the long ride and the tiresome 
 day, I refused. 
 
 At eight o'clock on the morning of the Fourth I was left alone. 
 Feeling a trifle lonesome, I decided to walk to an old log fort about 
 half a mile distant. This building had been used in former years by 
 the "whites" as a place of refuge against the attacks of the "red- 
 skins." As the day was oppressively hot, I sought the shady side of the 
 fort and sat down to rest. I was thinking of the interesting race that 
 had inhabited this region but a few years previous, and was musing 
 over all the stories I had heard, meanwhile adding many imaginary 
 ones. While in this train of thought, I saw two horsemen riding hur- 
 riedly down the road. They were talking excitedly, and I thought I 
 saw them glance back in the direction of the Reservation. This alarmed 
 me, and I began to realize that I was at least three miles from the 
 nearest neighbors, and that they had probably gone to the celebration. 
 I sprang to my feet and hurried homeward. Once inside of the house 
 I felt calmer, and as it was past noon, I visited the pantry, where my 
 lunch had been left. I had been instructed to make my coffee over the 
 alcohol stove. It was empty, but after a short search I found a large 
 bottle of alcohol, filled the stove, and prepared my coffee. When my 
 lunch was finished I wandered into the sitting-room, picked up a vol- 
 ume of "Boots and Saddles," and began to read. The book was interest- 
 ing, and I read on and on, forgetting entirely my fright of the morn- 
 ing. But what was that noise! It came from the direction of the 
 kitchen, and sounded like a door being gently opened. I listened 
 intently. Yes, there was certainly some one entering the house, for I 
 heard a murmuring conversation. Soon muffled footsteps were cross- 
 ing the floor in the direction of the pantry. I thought of the large 
 bottle full of alcohol that I had failed to return to its proper place. 
 What if they should discover it and drink it! I remembered stories of 
 the effect that "fire-water" has on Indians, and shuddered. Immediately 
 the noise of clattering dishes, mingled with satisfied grunts, came from 
 the direction of the pantry. The confusion of sounds increased until 
 it became deafening. Soon the intruders had finished their repast, for 
 
 230 
 
I could again hear them walking about the kitchen. I tried to move 
 in order to seek a hiding-place, but tear had paralyzed me, and 1 was 
 compelled to remain in the chair. I felt that my time had nearly 
 come. Yes. a satiated brave had his hand on the sitting-room door- 
 knob: I watched it slowly tinning. The door opened a wee bit, and in 
 the crack I saw the bright eye of a painted Indian peering at me. Im- 
 mediately he gave a terrific whoop, flung the door wide open, and 
 rushed into the room followed by five staggering Indians in full war 
 dress. They formed themselves into a circle around me, and danced the 
 war dance, meanwhile uttering hideous yells. Then the leader, his 
 cruel eyes glittering with a satanical light, advanced toward me, seized 
 me by the hair, slowly raised his tomahawk — I made a last tremendous 
 effort to move, and awoke, letting my book fall to the floor. — Margaret 
 L. Seager. 
 
 ANOTHER MAN. 
 
 In the latter part of the summer of 1897, my brother Frank and 
 a neighbor's boy, "Buch," with six men, left Evanston for Klondike. 
 They took with them a steam sledge, which was as large as a locomo- 
 tive, expecting to travel up and down the frozen rivers of that country. 
 Landing at the mouth of the Copper River, they put their machine 
 together, but to their great disappointment it would not move. They 
 left it there on the beach and started inland afoot. During this over- 
 land trip one man was expelled from the company for foul play, and 
 the remaining six broke up into two parties of four and two, respec- 
 tively. Since each party then took a different trail, neither party saw 
 the other again. 
 
 Frank and "Buch" trekked to Dawson City, where each found 
 employment, the former as a printer, the latter as a wood-cutter. Soon 
 conditions changed, and Frank, leaving "Buch" at his wood-pile, left 
 for Cape Nome, where he, with several other men, founded "The Nome 
 Daily News." Before long a good business had been worked up, and 
 Frank seized an opportunity to come home on a visit. After spending 
 several years in the "land of the midnight sun," of course, many people 
 supposed that he was literally sprinkled with gold-dust. 
 
 Early one morning during his visit, the sleep of our family was 
 disturbed by a cry, "A man's in the house!" I recognized Frank's 
 voice, for it was my misfortune to occupy a room adjoining his, from 
 which came that horrible cry. Just about that time Evanston was 
 being visited by bold burglars, who, in their nocturnal expeditions, had 
 carried away many thousand dollars' worth of valuables from various 
 places. 
 
 Of course, such cries of distress immediately awakened all of us, 
 from the baby to the aged grandfather. Again came that cry. What 
 under the sun, moon, and stars could it mean? Could it be that burglars 
 really were in our house, and that they actually were after his money? 
 
 231 
 
Under ordinary circumstances I would have called out in order to learn 
 the cause of the disturbance, but now, — I no more could have talked 
 than I could have walked. 
 
 Again came that cry, "A man's in the house!" this time the word 
 "man" being strongly emphasized. What was to be done? Were we 
 to leave our brother to the mercy of the intruder? Alas, a pistol shot! 
 No doubt the poor boy was lying with an ugly bullet hole in him! By 
 this time father, mother, and my other brother, Fred, had armed them- 
 selves and could have been heard a block away ascending the stairs to 
 his room, each with a shotgun, a rope, or a flat-iron. The door was fas- 
 tened from within. He was locked in with the murderer! To add to 
 the excitement, his window went down with a crash. Was the villain 
 escaping? In a moment the door was forced in with a bang and dis- 
 closed, — horrors! There lay Frank on the sofa, laughing, enjoying his 
 pipe, thus celebrating the early hours of his twenty-first birthday. He 
 had caused all this commotion as a joke, for since he was twenty-one 
 years of age, there truly was another man in the house. — John A. Kap- 
 pelman. 
 
 A STRANGE EXPERIENCE. 
 
 It was a sultry summer afternoon. I had been traveling for 
 several hours, and still had a long, tiresome ride before me. Weary 
 of the dust, smoke, and continual noise, I read the newspaper very 
 thoroughly, and then tried to amuse myself by observing the passen- 
 gers. But all seemed dull and commonplace until I noticed a distin- 
 guished-looking gentleman, who had just entered the car. He was the 
 type of man which attracts a green country boy like myself. His 
 great stature and broad shoulders gave him a superb physique. His 
 hair was iron grey, and his face, though not wrinkled, was very pale. 
 And the pallor was enhanced by a pair of black, glowing eyes which 
 seemed to shed a light over the whole car. He walked down the aisle, 
 and, no vacant seat being near, he consented to share mine. 
 
 I was burning with curiosity to know something of his history, and 
 after several "weather remarks" inquired his vocation. Fixing those 
 black, piercing eyes upon me, he gazed so steadily that I felt guilty 
 of some unknown crime. However, he told me that he had been a 
 professor in Physics in one of the eastern colleges, but had resigned 
 his position in order to devote all his time to experiments. He said 
 that he loved science, that it had been to him as a mother or father. 
 "Surely you have heard of Sir Isaac Newton? Well, you now have 
 the honor of his acquaintance." After these remarks he buttoned his 
 coat, took his grip, and said that he was going to the front to 
 engineer. 
 
 There certainly was a mystery about this strange man. What 
 could it mean? Was he some poor soul who had become insane from 
 
 232 
 
overwork? At Last my curiosity got the better of me. and I determined 
 to ascertain what kind of a reception the engineer had given him. 
 Keeping out of sight of the train men — for I did not wish to give them 
 any trouble — I sneaked through to the engine, and climbed into the 
 cab. There a strange sight met my eyes. The engineer lay senseless 
 on the floor. Above him stood the giant form of the mysterious gen- 
 tleman, his eyes glowing like coals of fire, and his breath coming 
 faster and faster. With one hand he held the throttle, and with the 
 other he pointed a pistol at the poor, cowering fireman. The speed 
 of the engine kept increasing. We seemed to be flying through the 
 air. At this rate we would soon reach the terminal point, and what 
 would happen then? This great seething animal would burst straight 
 into the station, and at the sacrifice of how many lives! Should I go 
 to warn the passengers of their danger? or should I attempt to cope 
 with this maniac and meet the fate of the engineer? I hear a great 
 creaking noise, and feel myself suddenly shaken back and forth. Is 
 this already the beginning of the wreck? I turn and see at my side, 
 not the crazy engineer but the burly figure of the conductor, who is 
 saying, "Wake up, here, Mister. This is the place where you get off." 
 — Katherine V. Jenkins. 
 
 A TALE AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 i 
 
 I heard footsteps, the door opened softly, and I found myself 
 in the presence of "Old Nocomis" himself, Nocomis, the chief of the 
 Ojibway tribe. The long white locks of hair were brushed proudly 
 back from his forehead, while his broad heavy shoulders were thrown 
 squarely back. As he noticed that I was a mere lad, a smile quickly 
 stole over his face, and extending his hand he led me without a word 
 to his fire-place. For some time he sat there with his massive shoul- 
 ders bent slightly forward, gazing intently into the fire, as the crack- 
 ling embers snapped out upon the hard oak floor. 
 
 Growing restless and wondering at his long silence, I said, "I 
 came to visit you to-night, Nocomis, because I have heard so many 
 tales concerning you that I could not wait longer." 
 
 "But were you not afraid?" he answered (I was only a lad of 
 twelve), and he pointed to the wall above the fireplace. There, 
 arranged in a circle, hung bowie-knives and pistols, bows of almost 
 every description, and arrows tipped with stone, while in the center 
 was something black that I could not make out. I now glanced about 
 the room; the walls were decorated with the heads of deer, bears, 
 and the skins of wild animals; and while I was wondering at all this 
 I felt a gentle touch upon my arm and Nocomis again pointed above 
 the fireplace. 
 
 "See," he said, "there are the scalps of thirty warriors, and these 
 knives and arrows I took from their dead bodies." 
 
 233 
 
A thrill of horror ran through me; he noticed that I was fright- 
 ened, and then he quietly said: 
 
 "But, lad, those times are passed and 'Old Nocomis' has left the 
 war-path: no more shall our camp-fires blaze; no more shall the pipes 
 of peace be smoked, for the white man has crushed out our life; he 
 calls us civilized now and makes us dwell in houses instead of wig- 
 wams; he has cut down our forests, and we must now till the land 
 where once we roved and hunted." 
 
 It must have been near midnight when he blew the ashes from his 
 long-stemmed pipe, and, fixing his eyes steadily upon me, said : 
 
 "Something tells Nocomis to relate a tale which he has told to few. 
 We were savages once, and the echoing war-whoop was the sweetest 
 sound to our ears. Nequimis was my friend, and a truer friend 'Old 
 Nocomis' never had." 
 
 Here he filled his pipe, and lit it with an ember that snapped on 
 the floor before him. 
 
 "Nequimis was my friend," he repeated; "we were boys together, 
 and had shared each other's boyish triumphs, and had wept in each 
 other's affliction; for, lad, the heart of a savage is yet human. To- 
 gether we had followed the trail of the deer, 'Wa was kish,' and when 
 ac evening we sat about our camp-fire, our hearts were filled with the 
 same wild joy as we listened to the savage tales of our chief, Bowesig. 
 Years rolled by and we were men, yet two hearts were never bound 
 more closely together; but one day Bowesig died, and the death-note 
 to our friendship rang out. Our tribe must have a new chief, and part 
 were for Nequimis and part for me. Each took his followers and there- 
 after we were enemies; yet I loved him. Those scenes of my boyhood 
 ever lingered in my mind, and I thought of how one winter's day he 
 had rescued me from the icy waters of the Shiawassee. 
 
 "He was strong and brave; his light brown skin was as smooth as 
 marble and his muscles as hard as steel; his eye could flash like wild- 
 fire, or in a moment twinkle with merriment. 
 
 "As each knew the other's cunning, it was long before we had a 
 conflict; but one day my scout came rushing to me, and said, 
 'Nequimis strikes to-morrow night, when that hill-top yonder shall 
 hide the setting sun.' 
 
 "The next evening I led my men to ambush about sixty rods from 
 our wigwams; and just as the last ray of light lingered on the mossy 
 summit of the hill that my spy had named, Nequimis and his warriors 
 passed us in their trail with noiseless tread. Soon we heard the wild 
 war-cry ring out, and a moment later a shout of disappointment, for 
 they had found the wigwams deserted. I now planned to outwit my 
 enemy and to take him by surprise. 
 
 "We hunted each other for weeks without a battle; but one night 
 as we again lay in ambush, Nequimis and his same band of warriors 
 passed us and halted for their night's rest not more than fifty rods 
 away. My chance had come; with only two of my men I crept care- 
 
 234 
 
fully along the trail of our enemy, for even the rustling of a leaf would 
 betray us. When within ten yards of their camp a twig snapped under 
 my hand, and like a flash all those painted warriors were on their 
 feet. As I could not distinguish their chief, I suddenly shouted with 
 jill my strength, 'Nequimis.' For the first time in his life 'Nequimis' 
 fell into the trap of his enemy, for, turning, he uttered one wild, 
 piercing yell, 'Nocomis.' That was enough; I had found my man, and 
 I sent an arrow speeding to his heart. As I dashed to the side of the 
 fallen brave, his warriors fled like madmen. 
 
 ■The pale moon cast a dim light upon his face; I saw his eye 
 flash wild with haughty hatred; but in a moment a smile crept over 
 his countenance, and I beheld once more the friend of my childhood, 
 the dearest friend I had ever known." 
 
 Nocomis's voice trembled, and a tear stole down his cheek, but 
 recovering himself, he continued: 
 
 "Nequimis raised his hand, and I grasped it with the same warmth 
 of olden days. I stooped to brush back the long black locks of hair 
 from his forehead and noticed his lips move. Bending low I heard 
 him whisper: 
 
 " 'Let us part friends, O Nocomis.' 
 
 "There on bended knee I drew the arrow from his breast, and 
 showered my tears upon the wound." 
 
 Nocomis ceased; tears trickled down the deep furrows in his dark 
 cheeks; and as he gazed into the dying embers, I fancied that he was 
 once more kneeling beside Nequimis, his bitterest' enemy yet his 
 dearest friend. — Jas. F. Halliday. 
 
 THE TIME I RAN MY BEST. 
 
 As the result of a story in the Youth's Companion, it became the 
 custom of the boys of our neighborhood to go, the night before Easter, 
 to some secluded spot where we could build a fire, cook eggs, and 
 indulge in the delightful terror aroused by ghost stories. The last 
 of these midnight revels that I attended has left such an impression 
 that every detail is vividly photographed upon my memory. 
 
 It had been rainy for several days, and upon this night low, dark 
 clouds were driving across the sky, allowing the moon to show for 
 a few moments, and again casting a shadow whose blackness was 
 intensified by the preceding light. The place chosen for the feast was 
 upon a point of land formed by a horseshoe-shaped curve of a creek 
 known as "Little Jordan." This stream, which in summer was merely 
 a succession of pools connected by shallow "riffles," now flowed, black 
 and sullen, within a few inches of the top of its ten-foot banks. Directly 
 in front of the opening of the horseshoe was a knoll covered with a 
 growth of prairie willows, which showed black and scraggy in the 
 
 235 
 
fleeting moments of moonlight. The place was fairly heavy with lone- 
 someness. The nearest house was two miles away and out of sight. 
 The dark water, slipping along between the full banks, gave forth an 
 oily gurgling, while the chill spring wind groaned and sighed in the 
 bare branches of the willows with sounds that seemed not of this 
 earth. 
 
 For some reason we boys were strangely quiet that night. The 
 few words exchanged were spoken in half-whispers, as if we feared 
 that those fleeting shadows might hear. We hastened to build our 
 fire with dry material that we had brought along, hoping that the 
 cheery blaze would dispel our gloom; but it only increased our rest- 
 less fears. My cousin Will, the oldest of the party, started a rollicking 
 song, but he changed to a whistle at the end of the first bar, and then 
 stopped, while our youngest member, a lad who bore the great name 
 but lacked the 'intrepid spirit of him who crossed the Rubicon, sug- 
 gested in quavering tones that it was a very chilly night, and that we 
 had better go home. It was lucky, indeed, for us, as later events 
 proved, that we were so thoroughly frightened that the slightest 
 addition to our terror caused a panic. 
 
 We determined to have our fun out at any rate, and soon eggs were 
 cooking in kettles that had been slyly appropriated while maternal 
 backs were turned, and apples and potatoes were roasting in the hot 
 coals. But still the dreary surroundings oppressed us. The dark 
 shadows chased one another across the evil-looking strip of water; the 
 willows complained against the harsh treatment of the raw breeze; 
 while a dull intermittent roar came to our v ears from the dam two miles 
 up the creek. 
 
 Presently, however, all lesser sounds were drowned in a long rend- 
 ing crash like the first rumblings of a thunder-clap. We all leaped to 
 our feet, dreading we knew not what. The crash was succeeded by a 
 hissing roar that increased in volume with every beat of our palpitating 
 hearts. Will was the first to come to his senses. 
 
 "Jerusalem, fellows, it's the dam!" he shouted, and, calling to the 
 rest to follow his example, he seized one of the smaller boys by the 
 hand and started at a run for the knoll. If I could make as fast time 
 on the cinder path as I did that night over the hummocks and stones 
 of Jordan Point, dragging little Julius Caesar Brown by the wrist, my 
 reputation as a sprinter would be made. But we were none too quick. 
 While still what seemed miles from the hill, a side glance showed me 
 a rapidly approaching line of white, extending many rods wider than 
 the bed of the stream. However, fear lent us wings, and we reache:l 
 the willows just in time to turn and see our fire suddenly blotted out as 
 that line of foaming whiteness went rushing by. 
 
 Thus we escaped the deluge, but not the wrath to come, for among 
 my memories of that night is a very vivid one of the interview with 
 my mother concerning the lost kettle.— C. G. Sabin. 
 
 23(3 
 
THE MYSTERY OF HENRY THOMPSON. 
 
 You may talk of your Cronin and your Luetgert cases, but neither 
 of them can at all compare in point of mystery with an affair that came 
 under my own observation. 
 
 Four years ago I was in the city of Ashland. Wisconsin. It was 
 the week before the general election, and I hud just finished a 
 "stumping" tour of the county In behalf of my friend, James Firth, 
 who was seeking re-election as sheriff. Early on Friday morning I 
 in Mr. Firth's office discussing the final arrangements of the 
 campaign, when a messenger rushed in, and, as soon as he could catch 
 his breath, told us that Henry Thompson, treasurer of the Keystone 
 Lumber Company, had been murdered during the night. 
 
 The large plant belonging to this company is situated in the west 
 side of the city, along the shore of Chequamegon Bay. Thither Jim 
 and I were hastily driven, and upon our arrival were at once taken by 
 Superintendent Maxwell to the office. What a sight there met our eyes! 
 At our feet and all about the floor were the scattered fragments of 
 broken chairs. In the middle of the room the office desk lay up- 
 turned, while under it and around it were books, papers, and broken 
 ink-bottles. Great splotches of blood smeared the floor, the walls, and 
 the furniture. It was quite evident that a fierce struggle had taken 
 place and that brave Thompson had sold his life dearly. At the 
 further end of the room stood the safe, with its door wide open. 
 Examination showed that there was missing about $12,000 in cash and 
 in time checks, placed there in readiness for the monthly pay-day. 
 Here, then, was a motive for the horrible crime. 
 
 But no corpse was found. A light coat of snow that had fallen 
 on the previous evening enabled the men, however, to trace the red 
 stains out of the office into the street. The blood splotches here 
 assumed the form of streaks caused, without doubt, by the dragging 
 of the corpse over the ground. Around the mill and through the yard 
 the tracks were traced as far as the boathouse, where they disap- 
 peared. It was seen, however, that one of the boats had been wrenched 
 from its fastenings and was missing. 
 
 There was now no solution of the mystery other than that the 
 body had been taken out and dumped overboard. Orders were accord- 
 ingly given to drag the bay. During the whole morning and through- 
 out the afternoon chains and nets swept the harbor, but no corpse came 
 to view. In the evening, all night, and until late the next morning 
 volunteer crews took turns in endeavoring to find traces of the body, 
 but nothing was discovered save a small wooden snuff-box bearing 
 the initials, "H. E. T." The old inhabitant wagged his head and once 
 more gave the warning, "The deep waters of Lake Superior never give 
 up the dead.'' 
 
 There was one man, however, who did not believe that Thompson 
 had been murdered. Thomas Bardon, the mayor, had a different theory, 
 
and gave instructions to the Chief of Police to telegraph messages of 
 inquiry to the authorities of Duluth, Minneapolis, Chicago, and other 
 cities. 
 
 On Sunday morning a number of rough-looking miners got off the 
 Wisconsin Central train at Chicago. Among them was a clean-shaven 
 man with a bandage over one eye and a cap pulled well down over the 
 other. His hands did not appear as though they were used to wielding 
 a pick-axe or a shovel. A detective who had been shadowing him for 
 some time presently had him arrested and taken to police headquarters, 
 where, after a severe examination, the prisoner admitted that his name 
 was Henry E. Thompson, and that he himself had carried off the 
 money that was missing in Ashland. But what about the blood? That 
 was easily provided by beheading two old Maltese cats. — T. O. Edgar. 
 
 A WRITING BOARD. 
 
 As much of the world's history has been gathered from tablets and 
 inscriptions as from the writings of the historian. Thus, much of the 
 history of Northwestern, which has escaped the catalogues and syllabi, 
 may be learned from the writing boards about Old College. Let us 
 decipher one of these tablets to see what story of the past it telle. 
 
 This particular board lies with many others in a pile at the side of 
 Professor Clark's desk in room three, Old College. It has no marked 
 individuality nor anything that especially recommends it to our atten- 
 tion, and were we not relic-hunting, it would escape our notice. 
 
 Its color is a dark grey, and in size it is a trifle smaller than some 
 of its newer and less-used companions. It has no binding around the 
 edges, and about three inches are missing from one corner. Both 
 sides of the board are covered with inscriptions, written at every angle, 
 and in various languages. Some, by their freshness, betray their 
 recent origin, while others have become nearly obliterated by the 
 ravages of time. At the first glance, it seems impossible to decipher 
 this chaotic jumble, yet, upon closer application, we may find the 
 meaning of some of its strange characters. Across one corner are 
 some Greek letters, and these we find to be fraternity monograms. They 
 were evidently written to decorate the tablet, and had no particular 
 use. Near these, pictures appear which possibly conform to the 
 ancients' ideas of art, but which, to our higher cultivated tastes, seem 
 crude and grotesque. 
 
 Yet, at some time in its history, this board has been of a different 
 use than that which these pictures would indicate. Often it was used 
 for correspondence, for along one side is written, "She is looking swell 
 to-day, isn't she?" while the answer is below, 
 
 "Ambiguous use of the pronoun." 
 
 Our attempts to read some lines, evidently a poem, are futile on 
 account of the signatures and initials written over them. We think 
 of the world's best poems that have been scribbled off-hand on a 
 
 238 
 
window pane or a board, and regret what may be lost to the world 
 forever because of some one eager to leave his name everywhere. 
 Another poem, however, has not yet been destroyed, possibly because 
 it was written recently, but probably it was saved Prom destruction by 
 its excellence. It reads, 
 
 "When she stands up in English A 
 To read a descriptive essay. 
 We almost wish the bell won't ring, 
 For she's too sweet for anything." 
 This board is at present used to write on in examinations. In 
 this capacity it has served in the past, for in one corner, written in 
 ink, very small but legible, are the "thirty-nine articles of the English 
 faith," while another corner bears the inscription, 
 
 "Precision is that quality of style that requires that words be so 
 selected and combined as to convey exactly the meaning intended by 
 the writer; no more, no less." 
 
 After obtaining this glimpse of the past through the study of this 
 tablet, we long to examine the hundred others of its kind, but lack of 
 time causes our search to end here. — R. H. Burke. 
 
 MARY JANE GILMORE. 
 
 The spring and summer of '97 I spent in the backwoods of Ver- 
 mont, in a part of the Green Mountain State called Pumpkin Harbor. 
 The Harbor is a stretch of low land among the hills; it comprises 
 four farms, and on one of these — the first on the left hand side of the 
 road as you drive down from the village — lives Mary Jane Gilmore 
 and her husband, George. 
 
 Mary Jane is an unusual woman in many ways. So long as she 
 stands perfectly still in front of the village store, a stranger notices 
 nothing striking in her appearance. Of medium height, plump but 
 not stout, she stands erect, and nervously fingers the fringe of her 
 paisley shawl; her hair is buff-colored, her eyes a very light blue, and 
 her cheeks a vivid red. Her taste in dress is somewhat unfortunate; 
 she is fond of bright colors, and the blues, reds and yellows which she 
 most affects are such as entirely to quench any suggestion of life in 
 hair and eyes. 
 
 Altogether, Mary Jane Gilmore appears in repose like the ninety- 
 nine other farmers' wives who bring eggs to town; but let Mary Jane 
 walk down the village street, and no observer could doubt either her 
 strength of character or the vitality of her constitution. Wait, how- 
 ever, for her to accost you, which she is sure to do, and the wisdom 
 of Solomon is nothing compared with the amount of information which 
 she will pour into your ears. Her tongue has unlimited endurance. 
 Beginning with the parson's baby, she ends with Hansen's expedition, 
 all in accordance with approved laws of association. Mary Jane Gil- 
 
more is one of those people wno love to talk; she seems absolutely 
 independent of a breathing apparatus, and is approachable on any topic. 
 She does not believe in gossip, but she takes a friendly interest in 
 her neighbors' affairs. 
 
 Whether at church or in the garden, Mary is always herself; her 
 manner varies just enough to suit the occasion, but is always charac- 
 teristic. She never misses a funeral, and she loves to go to the circus, 
 although she seldom feels that she can spend the money. At church 
 her emotional nature is uppermost; she carries along the hymns with 
 the vigor of a Caesar — singing is business, which, like scrubbing the 
 kitchen floor, must be "got through with." A feverish haste charac- 
 terizes all that she does. When the minister from his green baize pulpit 
 thunders of hell, Mary grows rigid; if her shepherd relentlessly pic- 
 tures the evils of eternal torment, she sits breathlessly on the edge of 
 the seat. The real effect of such a sermon is visible in all that she 
 does during the following week; she is guarded in her conversation, 
 scrupulous in her actions, and apt to lay aside a little something for 
 the support of missionaries in foreign fields. Probably no victim of 
 the inquisition ever trembled before rack and wheel more than does 
 Mary before the thought of hell. 
 
 No such spectre is necessary, however, in domestic affairs. Mary 
 Jane is a model housewife. The stove always shines; the doorstep 
 has a tired look, and the windows fairly gleam from their red brick 
 setting. She flies from one thing to another; she is here, she is 
 there, she is everywhere. She will never have "help" in her kitchen; 
 young girls are too shiftless and wasteful; older women "too set in 
 their ways." 
 
 Mary Jane loves water in all its uses and manifestations. It is 
 a pleasure to her to work out-of-doors in the rain; and when I found 
 her on such occasions weeding in her garden or piling up sawn wood, 
 she would laugh in half-embarrassment and say: "George says I'm a 
 reg'lar duck for water, but I guess it's a goose that I am." 
 
 With all her eccentricities, Mary Jane is scrupulously honest; she 
 is "terribly savin'," as the neighbors say; she uses much cornstarch 
 in the making of her ice-cream, and pours her coffee into the empty 
 cream-pitcher "so as to get the good of the cream;" but when you 
 send over to buy a dozen eggs, she never forgets to explain that the 
 largest ones are packed in lime; nor will she accept full price for 
 the smaller ones. Though "savin' " of money and material goods, Mary 
 Jane is prodigal in kind acts and thoughtfulness of others. In fact, 
 the last time I saw her she was down on hands and knees in the 
 pine-woods groping for the herbs which should cure a neighbor's ills. 
 — Edna M. Hawley. 
 
 OUR MONITOR. 
 
 Sue says it is a goat, but I haven't a doubt that it is a Burmese 
 
 240 
 
ox. My "Harper's Primary Geography" contained a most impressive 
 picture of one of the small, long-haired Burmese oxen, and I have not 
 seen, since the days of my earliest infancy, an animal, real or arti- 
 ficial, so much like that picture, indelibly impressed upon my memory. 
 Hence I shall call our monitor a Burmese ox, even at the risk of 
 making Sue my life-long enemy. 
 
 Now, don't for a moment think that I am talking about a real, 
 live Burmese ox. Our monitor is only a toy animal about an inch and 
 a half high, standing on our study table and by his silent influence 
 reminding us that we must not talk during study hours. 
 
 I have heard that most Burmese oxen have dark hides, so our pet 
 must be an exception, for his hair is soft and white, and (I must 
 confess it. though I would dislike to have him hear me say so) it looks 
 very much like cotton. His beard, also, has the same appearance. 
 But his eyes sparkle like diamonds, or perhaps I should say like glass 
 beads. His ears are the pink of perfection, and I use the term 
 advisedly, for a more beautiful shade of pink I never saw. They seem 
 to be pricked up, just waiting to hear a word from one of us, when 
 the diamond eyes will flash, the little corkscrew tail will swish, and 
 the tiny black hoofs will stamp in rage. 
 
 Our little friend has not come to this stage in his existence with- 
 out some very serious misfortunes. If you look at him closely, you 
 will see an ugly red scar on his back. One day last week Sue let him 
 fall into a pool of carmine ink with which she was working, and I 
 rushed to the rescue just in time to save him from drowning. I 
 washed him as best I could, and, except that he looks as if he were 
 blushing all the time, he is none the worse for his adventure. 
 
 Perhaps you are inclined to underestimate the intellectual capacity 
 of our monitor. I never saw a Burmese ox (or a goat either, for that 
 matter, for Sue still insists that he is a goat) with a more knowing 
 expression. His firm yet pleasant mouth, his broad and noble forehead, 
 and his attitude of interested attention, all bespeak a master mind. Of 
 course, he realizes the truth of the adage, "Little folks should be seen 
 and not heard," but I am sure that he holds communion with himself 
 during the still hours of the night, when his day's work is ended. 
 
 Both Sue and I have become very much attached to our monitor. 
 We look to him as to an elder brother, for, by his quiet manners, 
 by his intelligent comprehension of affairs around him. and by his 
 attention to duty he is to us a constant rebuke. Nothing can take the 
 place in our affections held by our little monitor. — Isabel O. Warring- 
 ton. 
 
 "OLD SOLOMON." 
 
 Back in the most rural part of C county, Michigan, lives 
 
 a quaint character with whom I have long been familiar. It may be 
 the rustic nature of his dwelling — the picturesque log-cabin against its 
 
 241 
 
background of verdant forest, with the ivy wandering uncontrolled 
 over its weather-beaten front and the velvet grass creeping up to the 
 mouldering threshold, that makes a visit to this quiet spot a pleasur? 
 long remembered and an anticipation enjoyed for days before; but 
 I think that the blameless life of the simple-minded tenant is what 
 draws one to his modest home. 
 
 As I approach his humble dwelling, "Old Solomon" (for such is the 
 name by which the whole country-side designates him) comes to grasp 
 my hand with all the warmth of his nature. His clear blue eyes smile 
 out at me from beneath their shaggy brows, while his low, pleasant 
 voice bids me a hearty welcome. He is a man of medium height. His 
 well-knit frame is suggestive of strength and endurance, his square 
 jaw and firm mouth give evidence of determination, while his frank, 
 open countenance and manly bearing bespeak the true nobleness of 
 his soul. His age is uncertain. Deep lines in his forehead betoken a 
 long season of buffeting the storms of life, but his smile is "ever 
 young," though sometimes pathetically sad. 
 
 "Old Solomon's" life is a strange one. Here, year after year, he 
 lives in his simple home, away from society, without human com- 
 panionship, "near to nature's heart." He spends the summer days 
 working in his little garden and in wandering over the somewhat 
 wild country near his cabin. He is something of a naturalist, too, 
 and the single room of his dwelling is fitted with shelves on which he 
 has arranged row after row of curious stones picked up in the course 
 of his ramblings. All the denizens of the woods seem to know his 
 kindness, for they show little fear of him. Nor is their confidence mis- 
 placed, for the old man loves all creatures that God has made. He 
 observes very closely the habits of animals, and often entertains me 
 with tales from nature. But it is seldom indeed that he speaks of his 
 sorrowful past. 
 
 "Old Solomon's" youth was filled with promise. His developing 
 mind was broadened by a liberal education, and it was with the high- 
 est expectations that his numerous friends watched the opening of his 
 career; but the Grim Monster came and snatched from his cheerful 
 fireside all in life that he held most dear, and he turned from the 
 grave of his buried hopes to face the world alone. Through a long life 
 of varied fortune he never recovered from the shock his young man- 
 hood had received, and finally sought this retirement in which to spend 
 his declining years with the memories of the past. 
 
 So there are days when I find him sitting in his armchair with his 
 open Bible on his knee, gazing absently out across the meadows. Then 
 I steal softly away, for I know that he is living again in the days that 
 are gone, and that, with the eye of faith, he is looking across the dark 
 valley to his loved ones in their Heavenly Home beyond. — C. H. Wood. 
 
 24: 
 
MY GOLF BAG. 
 
 It is with a little regret that I look at my golf bag, for its prede- 
 cessor was stolen from its locker one night last summer. It seemed to 
 be an old friend, while this one is comparatively new, and we are 
 only just getting acquainted. 
 
 The bag leans in the corner, and reminds one of a Japanese 
 umbrella-stand, chock full of canes. It is cylindrical in shape; about 
 three feet in length and eight inches in diameter. Although it is not 
 old, yet there are signs of wear, not so many about the bag itself as on 
 its contents. 
 
 This interesting receptacle is of canvas with leather trimmings. 
 But whereas the old bag was of brilliant colors, resembling the 
 gorgeous hues of the late September days, the new one is a mixture of 
 dull green and somber blue, reminding one of the dismal, rainy days of 
 the last of November. 
 
 There is a band of heavy, tan-colored leather at the top of the bag, 
 and one a little wider at the bottom. Half-way between the top and 
 bottom is a leather handle, and joined to the canvas about half a 
 foot from either end is a heavy shoulder strap. A few inches from the 
 handle is the necessary addition of a pocket, five or six inches square, 
 which holds about half a dozen golf balls. 
 
 All that I can see of the contents of the bag are the heads of five 
 sticks peering curiously over the leather rim. The head of the tallest 
 projects nine or ten inches above the top of the golf bag. Two of the 
 sticks consist of light-colored wood. One of them is called the driver 
 and the other the brassy. The head of each is almost at right angles 
 to the handle, and resembles a good-sized potato in its shape and size. 
 Their only visible difference is that the brassy, in accordance with its 
 name, has a flat brass cap covering the top of the head, while the driver 
 bears the heat of the scorching sun bare-headed. 
 
 The other slender occupants of the case are three iron-headed» 
 sticks, which are a few inches shorter than their three wooden com- 
 panions. The longest is called the cleek. Its head is almost oblong in 
 shape and very nearly vertical. The lofter, who is ambitious in help- 
 ing others to soar, bends his head at an angle of forty-five degrees. 
 The smallest, the baby, whose name is Putter, is shaped exactly like 
 the cleek, except that the head is larger. 
 
 As I turn away from my golf clubs I sigh to think that the cold 
 winter days are close at hand and that my stanch little friends will 
 have to take a rest until the bright days of spring come again. And 
 then, as soon as the weather will permit, we. will resume our games 
 and continue them as long as we possibly can. — Ruth Ray. 
 
 "JINKS." 
 
 Jinks was an odd fellow. Nobody ever tried to explain his 
 
 243 
 
tricities after the first two or three attempts. His oddities could no'; 
 be placed under any law; so, as a result, the usual answer to any 
 question regarding his peculiarities was, "Oh, that's Jinks," with a 
 decided emphasis on the "Jinks." 
 
 What his talents were nobody in the seminary at B seemed to 
 
 know. Certainly his form and carriage were not of the Greek Apollo 
 type but rather those of an overworked rural deity. "Jinks" was 
 what is commonly known as a plodder; he was always at work. In 
 view of his economy of time started the saying that he "worked days, 
 studied nights, and slept during recitations." Besides these qualities 
 he had the regulation ministerial twang in his voice, which, com- 
 bined with his dignity of bearing and general seriousness of purpose, 
 seemed especially to fit him for the work of a country preacher. 
 
 Jinks believed that he had been called to the ministry, although in 
 a doubtful moment he acknowledged to a friend that he sometimes 
 thought that "God had made a mistake" in the call. Besides the 
 ambition to be a preacher he desired most of all to become learned in 
 theology, in ethics, and in the kindred sciences. Drummond he read 
 and admired; Huxley he enjoyed, or thought that he did; and the 
 works of Darwin were to him a constant fund of material for his 
 unasked-for dinner-table lectures on evolution. In matters biblical he 
 had a decided inclination toward higher criticism and a corresponding 
 aversion to literal interpretation. Whatever other faults it may have 
 had, "Jinks's" language was never open to the charge of "too great con- 
 densation." The longer the word the better it suited him. In writing 
 an essay the first and greatest requirement was a title, which was 
 usually a wonder in itself. He once astonished the literary society of 
 which he was a member by announcing the subject of his paper as 
 "Man's Insatiable Thirst for Knowledge, or the Boundless Realm of the 
 Soul." 
 
 At last, after weary years of tending furnaces, milking cows, wash- 
 ing floors, and failing in examinations, "Jinks" was graduated. From 
 
 the seminary at B he went to Boston to enter the theological school 
 
 as a special student. Here his surroundings were not so congenial as 
 
 they had been in B . He was a stranger in an unknown country; 
 
 his fellow students had cares and sorrows of their own; the professors 
 had little time to spend on a not over-brilliant "special;" the cheap 
 restaurant where he worked for his meals had little of the homelike air 
 to which he had been accustomed; so what wonder is it if at times he 
 found his thoughts turning aside from historic scenes, from college 
 halls, and from learned professors, and seeking again the scenes of 
 his boyhood? That "Jinks" was deeply attached to old scenes and 
 associations one incident will show. We were on the steamer bound 
 for Boston and were talking over "old times" when, after a moment of 
 silence, "Jinks" looked up and, with an indescribable sadness in his 
 voice, said, "Ordway, I would rather have one of my old 'mooley' cows 
 
 244 
 
at B than the whole of Boston." This hrief sentence tells the story 
 
 of his attachments. — K. S. Ordway. 
 
 MY POCKETBOOK. 
 
 Nearly everyone possesses some kind of a pocketbook. whether he 
 has any use for it or not. In a city a purse is man's constant com- 
 panion and. therefore, it is usually a good index of his life, showing 
 whether he is busy or idle, prosperous or unfortunate. 
 
 My purse was the Christmas gift of a friend last year, and for 
 almost twelve months it has been in constant use. It is a ladies' com- 
 bination pocketbook and card-case, about five inches long and three 
 wide. The outside is of fine-grained brown leather, which is said to 
 be the skin of a monkey. Originally two sterling silver mountings of 
 Florentine design decorated the corners of the card-case. One was 
 lost recently, and only a clean place on the leather remains. However, 
 it is evidently missed, for its companion piece is about to follow. 
 
 The inside is made of smooth brown leather, which has grown very 
 shabby from constant friction. The card-case contains a half dozen 
 calling cards, between which are those tiny squares of tissue paper 
 which are always in evidence wherever one tries to make a fashionable 
 call. The three open compartments are actually bursting at the sides 
 on account of their bulky contents. In one are two commutation 
 tickets on two suburban railroads. The worth of these far exceeds 
 their face values because of the feeling of security which they afford 
 the shopper when she spends her last five-cent piece in the city, nine 
 miles from home. A money-order receipt for $1.50 is a source of 
 satisfaction, for it tells me that my subscription to The Northwestern 
 ; . A bunch of silk samples mutely speaks of hours of vain search 
 fur some particular shade of goods. Into the very corner of another 
 compartment an unused postage stamp is tightly glued. The kind face 
 of the Father of his Country grows positively satanic whenever it is 
 the only stamp within reach and a letter must be mailed immediately. 
 
 The third compartment is filled with a bulky document which 
 proves to be only a very long Christmas shopping list. On this sheet 
 of paper the names of relatives and friends are found with hints for 
 suitable gifts. Through most of these lines are drawn, which seem to 
 re-echo very faintly the sighs of relief given when each article was 
 purchased. 
 
 The length of this list has been the cause of the collapse of the 
 
 main compartment of the pocketbook, the one for money. The sight of 
 
 : leather, the bent silver rims, and the weakness of th2 once 
 
 - flasp is, indeed, pathetic. The contrast between the past and 
 
 the present is strong. Where only a week ago crisp bills and heal 
 
 ver filled the purse to overflowing, we now see three pennies. 
 
 It. with the children. I were to make a Christmas wish, it would 
 
probably be that the capacity of my purse might again be tested, but a 
 perverse fate would, doubtless, bestow upon me only another empty 
 purse.— Amy Hedwig Olgen. 
 
 COLONEL MONTAGUE. 
 
 Picture a Scotchman, about sixty years of age, of medium build, 
 straight as a shingle, handsome, with light hair, tinged with red, with 
 sandy whiskers, neatly trimmed to a point, with blue eyes, with a 
 somewhat florid complexion, and you have a not indefinite idea of 
 Colonel Montague, whose soldierly step invariably causes the stranger 
 to look around and ask, "Who is that man?" 
 
 There is no sham about Colonel Montague. His title is not merely 
 complimentary, but has been earned by honest service in the war. 
 Everything about the man is genuine, from the bottom of his finely 
 polished shoes to the top of his hat. And there is not a better dressed 
 man in town. Yet it takes but a glance to notice that there is an 
 infinite diiference between the dress of Colonel Montague and that of 
 the dude. But if one were asked to distinguish definitely between the 
 two types of dress it would not be an easy task. Certainly, if the same 
 kind of clothes were worn by another man, that man could not escape 
 the uncomplimentary epithet. 
 
 To be polite, particularly to the ladies, is as natural to him as it 
 is to eat. This, coupled with his superabundance of wit, makes him a 
 charming entertainer. 
 
 A few moments' talk with him is sufficient for one to discover that 
 he is a scholar of no mean ability. It would be hard to find a uni- 
 versity graduate that uses as perfect language. On matters of state, 
 travel, history or literature he can hold one spellbound by the hour. 
 But, perhaps, he is at his best when reading Shakespeare. Such a 
 happy combination of rare talents makes him much sought after for 
 entertainments, where he is always the lion of the hour. 
 
 He is a lawyer, of course, and when he really is in earnest he 
 rarely loses a case. His personality so captivates the court that it is 
 not a case of whether the defendant wins or loses, but whether Col. 
 Montague is successful or not. One wonders why such a wonderful 
 man has not become a supreme judge, a foreign ambassador, or some 
 other great man, until he discovers his weakness. 
 
 It is the same old story. Drink has swallowed up his handsome 
 fortune: through drink he has had to leave the army, where he was a 
 profound strategist; and drink is slowly but surely leaving its mark 
 on his constitution and his handsome face. 
 
 Yet no one can appreciate more than the Colonel what an awful 
 injury this habit has done, and is yet to do to him. At the same time 
 no one can comprehend so well as the drunkard himself the strength 
 of the chains that bind him. To one who can appreciate the condition 
 
 24« 
 
of such a man it is Indeed pitiful to see him, in a moment of weakness, 
 yield at last to the temptation that he has heen resisting for months, 
 which sometimes lengthen into years. One taste and not a soul on 
 earth can stop him. His hlood is on fire; his clothes show neglect; 
 his shoulders take on a stoop; his eyes and face are bloodshot. He 
 is now on a spree that will last for weeks, varying more or less accord- 
 ing to the length of his abstinence. During this time all business is at 
 an end. 
 
 In short. Col. Montague is one of a certain type of brilliant men 
 who are doomed to a life of obscurity because of the greatest common 
 curse of the nations. — R. W. E. Summerville. 
 
 MY COZY CORNER. 
 
 i 
 My cozy corner occupies a niche, about four feet wide and seven 
 feet long, between two diagonally opposite doors. The lounge, which 
 just fits comfortably into the space, is covered by a throw of a striped 
 Persian design in a combination of dark blue, red and old gold. A roll 
 at the head of the couch is almost concealed by a conglomeration of 
 pillows, the position of which resembles that of several girls with 
 their arms affectionately around each other and their heads tossed to 
 one side. Four and-a-half feet above the lounge, and extending around 
 the corner, is a mahogany shelf supported by three bronze brackets. 
 On the shelf, above the head of the lounge, are three small volumes of 
 uniform size, "The Vicar of Wakefield," "Cranford," and "A Chord 
 from a Violin." Leaning against them is a photograph of our pastor 
 and near by is a Venetian wine bottle. Around the corner, on the 
 part of the shelf above the side of the couch, are Lawrence Hutton's 
 two books entitled "Literary Landmarks of Venice" and "Literary 
 Landmarks of Florence." Near them is one of those vases whose lower 
 part is ludicrously fat while its neck is long and thin. Close to this 
 artless object is a graceful little delft vase, in which is a bunch of 
 Edelweis. A colored picture of a cathedral window, mounted in a 
 tiny black frame, rests against a morocco bound volume of Whittier's 
 poems. Past the middle of the shelf is a Cambridge University cup 
 and on the end are more books, some standing erect, others reclining, 
 and one, whose worm-eaten cover shows it to be aged, apparently has 
 a good excuse for lying down. In the corner formed by the junction of 
 the two rarts of the shelf is a rose bowl filled with pink and white 
 asters, which seem to be peeking over the edge of the shelf, looking 
 wistfully at the pillows below as if wishing to rest their weary heads 
 on the soft clown. Above the shelf, on the end wall, is a picture of 
 ( hrlst and John in a gilt frame with a black mat. Along the side wall 
 are Swiss scenes. One large frame contains three views of the Alps. 
 To the right of this is another Alpine scene, that of the Matterhorn, 
 while to the left is a view of the Bay of Naples with Mt. Vesuvius in 
 the distance. Below the shelf, on the end wall, is a picture of the Cas- 
 
tie of Chillon and a snap-shot of my eight-months-old niece, sitting in 
 a large chair in the library, pondering over Dante's "Divine Comedy." 
 A Venetian scene with a gondola in the foreground and St. Mark's in 
 the background is across the corner, directly underneath the asters. 
 Hanging at various intervals along the side wall are pictures of cathe- 
 drals and landscapes. Each differs from the others in shape and size 
 and each is framed in various combinations of colors. If one questions 
 the comfort of this cozy corner he need only look near the foot of 
 the lounge at the maltese and white pussy curled up for a nap on the 
 bright red Roman slumber-robe, the color of which she is well aware 
 is very becoming to her style of beauty. — Ida F. Wright. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 The large painting of "Christ before Pilate" is exhibited in Phila- 
 delphia. When one first enters the room in which it hangs the picture 
 looks like a great blotch of color, but as one gets closer the separate 
 figures in the background and in the foreground stand out in bold 
 relief. No two faces are alike; each one is a study in itself. 
 
 The room which the painter has depicted is evidently the space 
 adjoining the judgment hall. It is a dim and shadowy cloistered gal- 
 lery, upheld by massive carved pillars; between these pillars, in the far 
 distance, against the brilliant blue of the sky, the hilly country beyond 
 Jerusalem can be seen. The judgment seat is raised three or four 
 steps from the floor, beyond an alcove ornamented with pilasters of 
 ebony, on which are carved the letters "S. P. Q. R." There is a dim, 
 uncertain light over the whole that makes the white faces in the back- 
 ground stand out with horrible distinctness. Raised above all the 
 curious, cruel and vicious men is the figure of a beautiful Jewish 
 woman, holding a child in her arms. Her face is expressive of 
 unspoken sympathy; her large, tearful eyes are fixed on Christ with 
 a look of perfect devotion. 
 
 The light in the foreground falls directly on the steel casque worn 
 by a Roman guard, his yellowish brown coat, half off his shoulders, 
 showing his brawny, naked arm. Standing beside the guard, in a 
 short, ragged tunic of dirty white, is a little Arabian boy, his dark, 
 peculiar face a study in amazement and curiosity, as he watches a large 
 Israelite by his side. This man's arms are raised high in the air, his 
 large mouth open to its fullest extent, and his whole face indicative of 
 vicious brutality. The priests are conspicuous for their rich, many- 
 colored garments. Some sit in a group by the wall, listening and 
 making shrewd comments to one another. One stands on the stairs; 
 his face, for its utter lack of expression, might be carved out of bronze. 
 Caiaphas, in a gown of rich, deep colors, stands on the lowest step, his 
 face raised to Pilate, his finger pointing in derision at Christ. His 
 attitude of concentrated hate and contempt is superb. In the judgment 
 
 248 
 
seat, raised far above the others, is Pilate. His large, troubled eyes, 
 under their heavy brows, his hands nervously pressed together, the 
 anxiety evident in his whole position, show that he does not know how 
 to decide. 
 
 And down below, in the very foreground, is Christ. His robe is of 
 spotless white. His fragile hands are bound. His head is partly raised, 
 with long hair, slightly waved, and parted in the middle, brown in 
 tint with a tendency to gold where most strongly touched by the sun. 
 The eyes are dark-blue and large; they gaze through rather than at 
 Pilate, as if He were more concerned with the mental conflict through 
 which His judge is passing than with the result as affecting Himself. 
 He is the "Master of man" because He is, what no other man present 
 is, the master of Himself. And in His sad and sorrowful face can 
 be read the words, "He is despised and rejected of men, a man of sor- 
 rows and acquainted with grief." — Jeannette Foster. 
 
 MY BROTHER'S CART. 
 
 At the back of our house there is a little door which opens into a 
 hole under the "lean-to." For the most part this cubby-hole is filled 
 with kindling-wood and old barrels, leaving an open space only a few 
 feet wide, in which the subject of my sketch is kept when not in use. 
 Do not imagine that this cart is a highly-colored "boughten" affair, 
 for it is not. It is strictly home-made. It is six feet long by two feet 
 wide, and rises fourteen inches from the ground, with the exception of 
 one sagging corner where the wheel is loose. 
 
 The floor is made of three long five-inch matched pine boards, and 
 is bolted to the back axle; it passes above the small front wheels and 
 is fastened to the top of a tool-box, to which the front axle is swiveled. 
 If you look closely at the under-side of the floor you can trace the faint 
 letters "Mason and Hamlin, Upright Pianos." What a "come-down" 
 for an upright piano box! The upper side of these boards has been 
 neatly planed, and the long sides are finished off with a quarter- 
 round. The front edge is trimmed with a narrow strip of zinc, in the 
 middle of which is tacked the steel plate from a messenger boy's cap. 
 This plate bears in sunken black figures the enigmatic number "1731." 
 
 The back wheels, it is quite evident, belonged to a bicycle in the 
 days of narrow rims. The rubber tires have been worn off, leaving 
 only the rusty steel rims. The axle on which these wheels revolve 
 looks as if it were a part of Professor A.'s old baby-carriage. One 
 axle-nut being missing, the wheel wobbles perceptibly. From all 
 appearances the front wheels and axle came from a real express 
 wagon, but now they are badly worn, and when I push the cart they 
 grate harshly. 
 
 Near the front of the cart, just above the axle, is an opening in 
 the floor. If you pull out the little stick under those two staples, the 
 
 249 
 
board that covers this hole can be turned back on its brass hinge, dis- 
 closing the inside of the tool-box, which is divided into three sections. 
 On the outside of this box are the words "Horse Shoe Nails, No. 8," but 
 in it you will find only a few tacks, some old screws, a coil of picture- 
 wire, two washers, a nut, a pair of pliers, some cracker crumbs and 
 an empty oil-can. 
 
 Between the back wheels, above the floor, is another box; this is 
 the seat. It is made of better wood than the rest of the cart, and i3, 
 in fact, an ordinary six-pound silver-gloss starch-box, with the lid 01. 
 
 The handle of the cart is a long, closely-woven dirty-white rope, 
 which looks very much as if it might have been a part of the very 
 clothes-line that hangs on a nail in the laundry. The ends of this rope 
 are passed through whittled "auger-holes" in each side of the floor 
 of the cart, a few inches back of the front axle, to which they are tie 1. 
 This line is never used to draw the wagon, but the boy on the starch- 
 box uses it to 'steer the automobile," while that other boy with his 
 feet hanging off the back of the cart furnishes the mo':ive power. — 
 Elizabeth Bronson. 
 
 A QUEER LITTLE BOOK SHELF. 
 
 The shelf itself is of simple oak, with no attempt at decora':"o~i; 
 but, although so unpretentious and although fastened directly oppo- 
 site a handsome case well filled with beautiful volumes, it is not 
 ashamed; for is it not honored by holding the owner's particular 
 literary treasures? 
 
 Suppose we look at them, displayed in picturesque variety, with- 
 out regard to size or color. The first volume is bound in faded gresn 
 covers. The corners are turned over, and here the gray paper shows 
 through the cloth of the binding, for the book is a little worn. In 
 fact, you cannot read the tarnished gold letters on the back unless 
 you step nearer. It is "Lorna Doone." 
 
 From across the room you can tell that the next volume is Dickens. 
 It is such a fat, jolly-looking book. When you notice that it contains 
 "David Copperfield" and "Nicholas Nickleby" bound together, you can 
 almost see Ham Pegotty and the Cheeryble brothers peeping over the 
 top. Next to this refreshing piece of literature is a book in gray cov- 
 ers decorated with a spray of pine needles. It is a simple, child's 
 story translated from the German; "The Story of Heidi." A cherry 
 stain on the cover shows that this book has seen good service, for it 
 has evidently been its owner's companion "from youth up." A more 
 vivid contrast to this book could scarcely be found than its next 
 neighbor, a small, thin volume bound in scarlet with quaint, conven- 
 tional designs in gold. It looks somewhat lost between its two larger 
 companions, and yet, to the owner's eye, it stands out with distinct 
 individuality. It is the "Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam." You do not 
 need to look at the words on the back of the next book, bound in gay 
 
 250 
 
Scottish plaid, to know that it is a copy of Burns's "Poems." This, 
 with its next neighbor, a copy of Kenneth Graham's little sketches, 
 entitled "The Golden Age." prettily bound in yellow and silver, form a 
 bright bit of color among their more somber companions. The next is 
 a ponderous-looking volume, which your imagination compares to an 
 old man looking at you over his glasses fiercely, and yet with a little 
 twinkle in his eye. And perhaps the comparison is not far out of the 
 way, for the book is "Vanity Fair." Almost affectionately, as though in 
 perfect confidence, a small dark-red book stands close to "Vanity Fair." 
 It seems an odd companionship, for the little book is Van Dyke's 
 exquisite "Story of the Other Wise Man." The next is by far the hand- 
 somest book on the shelf, a beautiful copy of Tennyson's poems, an 
 Edition de Luxe, with a rich binding of dark green and gold, which 
 seems to give promise of still greater richness within. Jostling up 
 against this magnificence is — "0 breathe it not in Ascalon" — "Alice in 
 Wonderland." I grieve to tell it, but so it is, bound in glaring red, 
 with a picture of Alice on the cover, thus adding insult to injury. 
 There are two more books on the shelf, and although I am sure that 
 by this time you are sitting resignedly, ready to be astonished at 
 nothing, I fancy that there is at least one more surprise in store for 
 you; for next to Alice, thereby making her seem still more incon- 
 gruous, is a copy of the Odes of Horace, not in poetical translation, 
 but in unadulterated Latin. Last — and this betrays unquestionably 
 the sex of the owner — is "Little Women," and this ends what is surely 
 an odd assortment of literature, although perhaps it is not such a bad 
 one; and I hope that, although you may indulge in some amusement, 
 you will not indulge in ridicule at the expense of the queer little book- 
 shelf. — Ruth Crandon. 
 
 CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH. 
 
 Nearly every town has a character who is known and quoted far 
 and wide. In this respect Evanston is not an exception; for Evanston 
 is the home of Captain Smith. 
 
 Unlike his colonial ancestor, our friend is a large man. He is 
 somewhat more than six feet tall, and appears to be proportionally 
 heavy. His face is peculiar, and does not seem to match his body. 
 His nose is large, and is generally pointed upward, as if the owner 
 wished to keep that part of his physiognomy as far away from the 
 pavement as possible. His eyes are small and bright, and there is a 
 peculiar expression of self-consciousness about them. His mouth is 
 wide, and his lips are compressed in a way which shows great sternness 
 or an attempt to hold his false teeth in place. 
 
 Although his face is odd, his clothes distinguish him more than 
 anything else. I have seen him in three different suits, and have 
 never been able to decide which of them fits him worst. The first is 
 
 •>:, i 
 
the light gray uniform of a policeman. The coat is very large, and is 
 adorned with the customary brass buttons. The helmet which belongs 
 to this uniform is very old and battered and looks as if it would be 
 just the thing to put over a brick on the first of April. The second 
 suit is supposedly that of a soldier. It is made of dark blue cloth with 
 buttons smaller than those of a policeman's uniform, and instead of a 
 helmet there is a slouched hat. The brim is generally pulled well 
 down over the eyes, giving the wearer a fierce appearance. When the 
 captain wears his third suit he looks like a walking rag pile. I would 
 like to tell you what the original color of this suit was, but I have 
 never been able to decide. 
 
 These clothes are remarkable, but they are no queerer than the 
 captain's boots. Captain Kidd would have been conceited if he could 
 have possessed such foot-gear. The tops of these boots are so wide that 
 they suggest piracy and all sorts of bloody crimes. One instinctively 
 looks to see if he can not catch sight of some deadly weapon protruding 
 from them. He is disappointed, for the only weapon which our friend 
 carries is a heavy club, which looks as if it might have served as a 
 dray-pin. This formidable-looking stick is not a weapon of offence, 
 but merely the insignia of office. 
 
 You need not be afraid of the captain. He looks fierce, but is really 
 very peaceable. He imagines that he is a guardian of the city and that 
 if it were not for him the town would be stolen bodily. Having 
 appointed himself Lord High Protector of Evanston, his dignity is in 
 keeping with his office. 
 
 His walk is slow and majestic, and one has but to look at him to 
 see how important he is in his own eyes. To the jeers and banters of 
 small boys he pays no attention, but stalks by as if unaware of their 
 existence. He will always salute a policeman in the most military 
 manner, and will answer a salute from anyone. 
 
 All these peculiarities are easily explained. The old fellow really 
 thinks himself to be the largest man in the world. In reality he is 
 slender, but he has his clothes made a few dozen sizes too large, and 
 then stuffs the empty space with any available material. In summer, 
 when the weather is hot, he becomes very thin, but when autumn comes 
 on he gradually expands like a balloon which is being inflated. 
 
 He allows no one to question his size, but he asks people to take a 
 tape and measure and to convince themselves that he is the largest 
 man the world has ever known from the time of Goliath to the great 
 Irish giant. The old man thinks that, being the largest man in the 
 world, he is also the most powerful. Now, what is more natural than 
 to appoint the strongest man in town to look after the public welfare? 
 Having reasoned all this out he goes about performing the duties of 
 his office to his own and everyone's satisfaction. 
 
 I, for one, am glad that we have such a large and powerful 
 guardian of the peace, and I wish him long life and happiness in the 
 discharge of his duties. — William Heilman. 
 
A LONELY GRAVE IN Al'Tl'MN. 
 
 "Far from the busy haunts of men." this western spot is always 
 lonely, even in spring, when the hi ids peal forth their gay notes, and 
 flowers ar< springing into life. But who can describe its utter desola- 
 tion in melancholy autumn? 
 
 Off to the north and east, as far as eye can see, extend the broad 
 lands of the Dakotas, "billowy hays of grass, ever rolling in shadow 
 and sunshine," as the October wind hlows the clouds across the sun. 
 Here and there a tiny black square indicates an attempt at farming. 
 To the south are more prairies, broken by an occasional solitary dwell- 
 ing, while farther off, like a series of dim blue turrets and towers 
 against the horizon, lies one of Dakota's cities. About half a mile west 
 is a small white school-house, and two miles beyond, the little village 
 of Hand, a mere group of half a dozen buildings. 
 
 With the prairies on all sides as described, covering several acres 
 is a field, once cultivated and yielding corn, but now overgrown with 
 the rank vegetation which flourishes in the dry soil of the western 
 States. Here and there a few stalks, from which the wind has long 
 since torn husk and silk, protrude through the luxuriant weeds. A 
 wagon-road, leading from some Indian Reservation, perhaps, extends 
 along the north side of the field, running past the school-house, through 
 the village, and off to the next reservation. Within this field, about 
 forty feet from the road, sunken so low as to be almost on a level with 
 the ground, and attracting attention only by the fence that surrounds 
 it. is the grave, — a baby's grave evidently, judging from its diminu- 
 tive dimensions. No head-stone or even simple pine board marks the 
 place, revealing the name of the occupant of the narrow house. Nor is 
 there a single trace of tame shrubbery. But nature has done her 
 duty. Tumble-weeds, piled one on top of another, cling to the fence as 
 though to protect the tiny mound from the chill autumn wind and 
 from the snows that will soon drift the furrows. Coarse parsley and 
 pig-weed and timothy fill the space between the fence and the grave, 
 and a wild rose-bush, whose dainty petals have fled with the summer, 
 thrusts its scarlet berries between the wooden bars. The fierce sun, 
 unable to bring forth foliage on the mound itself, has parched and 
 baked the brown earth until it has split open, forming a dozen deep 
 cracks. Here the ants, their natural industry as they move in and out 
 forming a strange contrast with the dead silence of the grave, have 
 chosen to make their winter home. Some cows, ranging the field for 
 
 I, pause to thrust their heads over th<- bars and nibble the dry 
 timothy. A sparrow lights on the decayed fence and chirps his farewell 
 ere he wings his way to the Sunny South. Amid his solitary sur- 
 roundings the fair sleeper awaits, alone, the final resurrection.— Wini- 
 fred Chappell. 
 
 2o.i 
 
MY OLD UMBRELLA. 
 
 My old umbrella stands there in the corner, a mere wreck of its 
 former self. In place of the new, trim-looking figure of former days, 
 there it is, only a dilapidated, broken-down frame. The size is not 
 exactly in keeping with the style of the day; this umbrella was evi- 
 dently intended to accommodate more than one person. Once it stood 
 up straight and trim, like a young soldier starting out to battle, but 
 now, alas, the rod is so bent that it resembles the old soldier coming 
 home after a long, hard campaign. If I were to endeavor to open it I 
 fear there would be a groan, since the ribs are so entwined; while 
 some even have the appearance of floating ribs. It looks neglected 
 and sad and as if it wished to be young again. It has an air of utter 
 desperation, for now no one has any use for it, and its place is in the 
 darkest corner of the closet, instead of out in the hall, where it has 
 passed so many happy hours. 
 
 The traces of many summers and winters are distinctly left on 
 the silk. That bright blue is faded to a dingy color; there are streaks 
 down each side, where streams of water have trickled along. Between 
 the ribs are great rents and small round holes, proclaiming the age of 
 the material. 
 
 The handle is indeed interesting and suggestive. That very same 
 handle has^ probably been fastened to a great number of umbrellas 
 before this one, and to all appearances it may even be used for more. 
 Those scratches seem to be an essential part of the umbrella and not 
 ugly nicks; without them my old umbrella would lack a great part 
 of its value. The hands that carved some of those initials are far 
 from here now, and naught but sweet memories remain. 
 
 See that stain! The minister borrowed my umbrella one day 
 when he called and a storm came up; his little son was allowed to 
 play tent with it, and he in some way stained it. My little brother 
 played horse with it, and bent the pole in that manner. This place, 
 where it has been mended, was torn years ago. See how nicely my 
 grandmother mended it! That piece of paper there on the rod is a 
 curious relic. If you will examine it closely you will see that it is a 
 piece of a postage stamp whose mark is Salem, Massachusetts, October 
 first, eighteen hundred and nine. How that came to be there I can 
 not say, unless it was caught up in a bundle of papers in my grand- 
 mother's attic. As with so many unfortunate umbrellas the top is broken 
 off half way up. In spite of these defects I shall try to keep this 
 umbrella as one of my choicest relics. — Mabel V. Ferris. 
 
 THE OLD MILL. 
 
 The summer's sun is about two hours high; the grass is fresh from 
 its dewy bath, and a small stream sparkles gaily in the morning light. 
 All nature stands forth with the vigor of new- life. In the midst of 
 
 254 
 
these surroundings stands an old mill, whose wrinkled, faded features 
 make a strong contrast with the brightness of its setting. 
 
 it stands in a quiet country valley. A winding road descends from 
 a hill on the north, half encircles the mill, and is lost to view among 
 the hills to the south. To the west is a peaceful expanse of water, 
 rimmed with white water lilies. Behind this stands a hank of wooded 
 hills. A noisy stream leaps out of the pond. and. clashing over huge 
 stones, winds its way through a deep ravine, and is lost to view in a hit 
 of timher on the east. The water still flows through the mill-race, 
 which runs from the pond, although the mill has ceased to play an 
 active part in neighborhood affairs, for the wheel is gone. 
 
 The building stands east and west and faces the road with a full 
 broadside. It is built in the form of an oblong square and is of medium 
 height. It has a sharp-peaked roof, and its sides are pierced with 
 small windows, whose sashes are set with small, square panes of glass. 
 In a word, its appearance reminds one of a huge Noah's ark. From the 
 north side a shed-like roof projects over the driveway to shelter it from 
 the storms. But this, like the roof of the mill, is old and decayed. 
 The shingles are warped, mildewed, and scarred with moss, while here 
 and there the storms have broken through. Its coat is of faded red 
 and it shows the trace of years of storm in its dull, checked surface. 
 Like an old face, it would speak through a new coat of paint and say, 
 "You may try but you cannot make me look young again." It is fast 
 crumbling to decay and seems to remind one of the old, old days of his 
 grandfather's, when it was a proud landmark. But now it tries to 
 shrink away and withdraw itself, as if it were conscious of its departed 
 glory and wished to avoid thrusting itself upon a stranger's sympa 
 thies. 
 
 The old mill is useless now. The little driveway before the door is 
 overgrown with grass. There are no wheel-tracks upon it. The 
 fowls wander leisurely and unmolested before the door, which seems 
 to have been untouched for years. A wagon, loaded with grain, rattles 
 by. It would be useless to pause, for the mill cannot grind the grain. 
 There it stands with a melancholy look, feeble and useless, pushed .off, 
 like an aged parent by his heartless children. Thus it stands by the 
 side of the youthful stream, surrounded by the bloom of early sum- 
 mer, a sad reminder of death in the midst of life. — Geo. W. Briggs. 
 
 MY DAGGER. 
 
 I had scarcely completed a post-graduate course in College when 
 
 I was shocked by the premature death of my father. He had been a 
 good father to me. I could not have asked that he treat me better. But 
 there was one thing I could not understand. We were prosperous, hut 
 money did not come to me for the asking. On the contrary, anything 
 I desired must be bought with my own savings. This, I say, seemed 
 strange to me. My father was not miserly, but he seemed to think that 
 
 255 
 
I ought to provide for myself. This I did. But what was my surprise 
 on finding at his death that I was the only heir to a very large fortune. 
 His death affected me so much that I scarcely realized what it meant 
 to be a millionaire. But things were soon to happen that would help 
 me to understand. 
 
 Early in life I had decided to be a bachelor. To this idea I still 
 clung, and as a bachelor I, of course, had many hobbies. Now that I 
 was fatherless I spent a great portion of my time collecting souvenirs. 
 My most beautiful and extensive collection was that of old daggers. 
 They had been gathered at random and now numbered three hundred 
 and eighteen. I wanted more, and spent many hours in examining odd 
 stock for suitable pieces. I became very much interested in some at 
 one of our best stores, and scarcely noticed who waited upon me. On 
 a second visit the harsh voice of the clerk aroused me, and I glanced 
 up to see a most hideous face. His nose was long and sharp, his eyes 
 deep-set and coal-black, his forehead low and receding; but to enforce 
 all this was a large mouth, upon which lingered a disagreeable sneer. 
 In truth he looked to be a villain. I bought my dagger and started for 
 the door, but, in turning, bumped into one of the prettiest ladies I had 
 ever seen. I apologized and went out. Two days later I was surprised 
 to find myself again standing in front of the same store. They surely 
 had a fine assortment and I was wondering how some of the knives 
 would look in my collection when I felt a slight pressure on my arm. 
 I looked up to find the pretty lady standing next to me. 
 
 "Excuse me," she said in a sweet little voice, "but you are collect- 
 ing weapons, are you not?" 
 
 I nodded, and added that daggers were my especial hobby. She 
 told me that she, too, was collecting daggers, and had a very interesting 
 assortment, and that she would be pleased to have me call upon her the 
 following Wednesday. At the appointed day I arrived at her rooms 
 and was ushered in. But in passing through the doors I noticed a num- 
 ber of bolts and strange contrivances, yet all this did not make me 
 suspicious. She invited me to take a seat, and pointed out a heavy 
 trunk, which she said contained her collection. I went over to the 
 corner and started to examine the box when I heard a number of sharp 
 clicks, but I thought that the noise was merely something in the hall. 
 I stooped over to examine the carving more closely, and as I did so, I 
 was suddenly seized from behind, bound and gagged. Over me stood 
 the villain clerk. His eyes flashed fire and He started to say something 
 when the pretty lady reappeared. Alas! she was no longer pretty. 
 She, too, had a sneer, and came upon me like a panther. Both hands 
 were behind her, but suddenly she raised one arm, which grasped a 
 dagger, and swore that unless I signed, a check immediately for $100,- 
 000 she would kill me. 
 
 "This, you see, sir, is my odd collection. Doji't you think it pretty? 
 Decide and decide quickly." 
 
 25H 
 
I glanced about me. The doors were shut and bolted. I tried to 
 stream, but could not. She hushed me by pricking me just above the 
 heart with her dagger. I would not sign, and determined to make a 
 mad rush for the door. I reached the corner, but I could not free my 
 hands. Already the dagger was ready to fall. Now I saw it about to 
 descend. But it never fell — because I awoke. — Harry H. Brown. 
 
 A SKULL AND CROSS-BONES. 
 
 There lies on the top of my book-case an object which has never 
 ceased to be of interest to me, although it has been in my possession 
 for some time. This object is a human skull with its accompanying 
 cross-bones. A glance shows that this is no plaster-of-paris tobacco- 
 jar molded into the shape of a skull but the genuine bone frame-work 
 of a human head. Upon looking at this skull the first thing that one 
 notices is its peculiar color. It has not the color of sun-dried bone, but 
 it is as black as if it had been smeared with ink. But this peculiarity 
 is accounted for by the fact that the skull was at one time in a fire, and 
 although not burned it received a bad scorching. The absence of a 
 part of the upper jaw next attract attention, for an inch of it and the 
 front upper teeth are missing. The bridge of the nose is also broken, 
 showing that the specimen has had rough usage. These imperfections 
 give the features a battered appearance and increase the grewsome 
 expression which every skull exhibits. 
 
 Viewed from above, the skull displays the usual bumps and depres- 
 sions as a result either of accident or growth. More noticeable than 
 these, however, is a round hole, nearly half an inch in diameter, show- 
 ing the bone to be more than a quarter of an inch thick. It is easy to 
 imagine possible causes for this hole. For the opening is of such a 
 nature as to prove either that the owner met his death by a pistol-shot 
 or that the skull has been drilled for scientific investigation. The lat- 
 ter is the more plausible suggestion, for the hole is exactly in the center 
 of the crown of the head, while from it start out the sinuous fissures. 
 These fissures, which show how r the different bones of the head have 
 grown and knit together, are very distinct and resemble more than 
 anything else the coast-line of a much indented shore as shown on a 
 map. 
 
 Closer examination of the jaw shows that it is held in place on 
 either side by a small wire spring fastened above at the temple and 
 below 7 upon the jaw-bone. Just behind the place w r here the jaw is 
 pivoted, a slight depression and hole, the size of a pencil, show the 
 position of the ear. The teeth seem considerably worn down and two 
 of them are slightly decayed, but none show any signs of the dentist's 
 work. 
 
 Looking at the head less critically, I note that it is rather small, 
 and, if I did not know that the rest of the skeleton was of normal size, I 
 
might think that it was the head, not of a man, but of a child or youth. 
 The forehead indicates no great brain power, for it is very low and 
 receding. The brow, however, projects very noticeably and the cheek- 
 bones also protrude. 
 
 As I look at the skull and note these peculiarities I often wonder 
 who the owner could have been, of what race, and why his bones are 
 not lying peacefully in some tomb. The thought always comes to me 
 of the French prisons and the "Reign of Terror" and I wonder if this 
 was a head severed from its body by the guillotine. Nor is this entirely 
 improbable, for the skeletons which are used as anatomical models 
 come from France, and this skull was originally a part of one of these 
 models. — C. P. McConnell. ! 
 
 A SUNSET AT BLACK LAKE. 
 
 It was a Sunday afternoon in August when the sky was darkened 
 by threatening clouds, which scurried hither and thither across the 
 heavens, until finally they merged into one another, and a heavy rain- 
 fall seemed to be inevitable. That this was no idle conclusion was 
 shown by the perfect deluge which ensued soon after. However, the 
 rain finally ceased, the wind subsided, the clouds parted (though they 
 did not disappear), the sun shone again, and then, just as twilight was 
 coming on, we were treated to a sight of one of the most entrancing 
 and beautiful sunsets that it is possible to imagine. Could it ever be 
 fixed upon canvas one would at once suppose it to be the creation of 
 some disordered — say opium-smoker's — brain, conjured in one of its 
 wildest fancies. 
 
 At the west end of the lake, near which the sunset was witnessed, 
 there were masses of clouds, large and small, tinged with crimson, edged 
 with scarlet, touched with the palest pink and wrapped in a golden 
 glory from the rays of the dying sun. At the north the cloud effects were 
 just as gorgeous, just as wonderful. Purple in all its shades vied with 
 yellow, ranging from the faintest lemon to the deepest orange. At the 
 eastern side of the lake were clouds of a less beautiful yet more threat- 
 ening aspect, as if to remind us that a sorrow accompanies every joy. 
 Overhead were scattered gems of the fleecy variety, pierced through 
 and through with the sunbeams hurrying along the sky, their every 
 movement revealing their beauties in newer lights. Near the south 
 were the retreating rain-clouds, slowly and unwillingly forced away by 
 the power of the sun, their dark and gloomy look indicating that their 
 capacity for drenching the earth had not entirely vanished. The lake 
 itself was a gem of a somewhat more subdued hue, compared with its 
 wildly gorgeous settings. The little remaining breaths of air gently 
 stirred the surface of the lake, creating tiny wavelets of silvery water, 
 which leaped and played like dolphins. The shore-line was an unend- 
 ing curve of. the prettiest and most fascinating shades of green by 
 
 258 
 
reason of the surrounding woodlands. Over and beyond the shores were 
 clusters of trees and clumps of bushes, set on the hill-tops, thus making 
 their beauty more prominent. 
 
 Jutting out into the lake were various piers, their details obliterated 
 in the fast-failing twilight and looking like gigantic black pencils to 
 be used only by enormous beings. 
 
 As the twilight faded, the colors were gradually withdrawn and 
 superseded by the growing darkness. The sun itself seemed to be 
 sinking with less than its accustomed speed, as if reluctant to leave a 
 scene so magnificent, so peerless. 
 
 The watchers wended their way homeward, conscious of having 
 witnessed a splendor that transfigured and ennobled them by its sur- 
 passing beauty. It was Nature who painted that picture — Nature, with 
 sunbeams for a brush, clouds for pigments, and the sky for a canvas. — 
 Helga M. Leburg. 
 
 A LAKE TAHOE SUNSET SEEN FROM SHAKESPEARE ROCK. 
 
 Shakespeare Rock is a perpendicular cliff in the Sierra Nevada 
 mountains. Seated upon a genuine stage coach beside a real Western 
 stage driver, who handles his six-horse team with characteristic energy, 
 the tourist dashes down the canyon, around a sharp turn in the road, 
 and into the presence of this mighty monument of mountain-making. 
 When told to look for Shakespeare, he at once tries to stretch his 
 previous conception of the lineaments of Shakespeare's visage into con- 
 formity with the outline of the whole cliff. But this is too great a 
 stretch of imagination. The rock rises vertically one hundred feet 
 above the broken remnants of its former self that lie at its base; its 
 width is about two-thirds of its height. Closer observation reveals the 
 secret of its name. When the tourist is told that the likenesses of an 
 Indian and of a Dutchman as well as that of Shakespeare are upon 
 the face of the rock, he discovers certain discolorations which, with 
 the aid of his imagination, more or less slowly resolve themselves into 
 the required countenances. That of Shakespeare, which very closely 
 resembles his picture, is quite distinct; it occupies a central position, 
 as if Nature had painted the poet's portrait and made the massive 
 frame in order to give enduring expression to her own appreciation of 
 her most favored author. 
 
 On the summit of this rock, two hundred feet above the surface of 
 the water, let us take our stand to witness the panoramic splendors of 
 a Lake Tahoe sunset. We are facing the west. At the right, far below us. 
 nestling between the feet of two great mountains, is the village of Glen- 
 brook. Patches of green pasture, small fields of waving grain, and clumps 
 of tall pines crowd one another for standing room. The school-house 
 yonder, at the foot of the winding grade, the cottages, and the campers' 
 tents look cozy as they crouch for. protection in the shade of lofty moun- 
 
 259 
 
tains or towering pines. On the shore of the lake stand the sawmills, — 
 fishermen drawing out the leviathan-like logs with hooks. The mountains 
 reach out two long arms and gently enfold Glenbrook Bay. Held up 
 by the snow-capped Sierras as a mirror for the sun and the clouds, the 
 crystal lake stretches away before us, its broad expanse unruffled by 
 the gentlest zephyr. The mirror seems to be inlaid in a framework of 
 gems. The brown of the topaz, the dark green of the emerald and the 
 lighter green of the chrysoprase, the yellow of the Tiffany Diamond, 
 and the blue of the turquoise are all seen in variegated arrangements 
 according to the depth of the water and the material of the lake bot- 
 tom. A border of sapphire everywhere separates the gems from the 
 broad reflector. 
 
 Overhead the clouds are floating in fleecy flimsiness, while favored 
 fantastic forms are blushing as the Lord of Day kisses them good- 
 night. The stillness of the evening hour and the quietness of nature 
 are undisturbed save by the movements of a little naphtha launch that 
 glides from the wharf below, as if to follow the retreating orb across 
 the silvery lake to his gorgeous chambers of the west. Old Sol stands 
 for a moment amidst his splendidly apparelled messengers of light, 
 and smiles complacently at the wondrous picture mirrored before him. 
 For a moment we are on a mountain of transfiguration beholding 
 Nature glorified. Then, gayly waving a fond good-bye to the nestling 
 village and reverently kissing the brows of the gray-headed mountains, 
 the king turns and, parting the curtains of crimson and silver and gold 
 which gracefully close behind him, is gone. But the radiating path- 
 ways of light remain, like the wake of a steamer, to tell us that the 
 light of this earth has passed this way. — Delbert S. Ullrick. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 Some little time ago I was walking unsteadily up the aisle of a 
 swaying railway coach, with a heavy case in one hand while the other 
 was fully occupied in assisting myself to retain a rather uncertain 
 poise. Fear was knocking at my heart, for not a seat appeared to be 
 vacant; and a mental picture of the forty weary miles to be covered 
 was just presenting itself when out from behind a broad-shouldered 
 man peered two bright old eyes over a pair of dull old spectacles. 
 Surely their message was to be read in only one way: an invitation was 
 plainly written there. Even more than that was visible to my not too 
 far-seeing orbs; and I thought, as I approached the owner of the eyes, 
 that they showed fatigue from a long journey, loneliness because of no 
 one to whom she could talk, and satisfaction as I seated myself beside 
 her. 
 
 The first rapid conclusion that this woman must have come a long 
 way was not wrong, if one could judge from little evidences about her. 
 It would scarcely require a Sherlock Holmes to draw a few conclusions 
 
 260 
 
from the object that was reposing near her substantial, elastic-sided 
 shoe. There was a basket with its covers warped just enough to al low- 
 one a glimpse of a red-and-white checked napkin; and either imagina- 
 tion was playing the traitor this time, or else a delicious odor of old- 
 fashioned gingerbread was wafted forth. In her lap was a hand-bag of 
 the reticule order, which she held firmly with one hand, while she 
 tossed the handle back and forth with her thumb. She opened the bag 
 from time to time to see if her return ticket were safe in the pocket 
 or to pursue around the bottom a perverse and wily peppermint. 
 
 Her whole appearance suggested a comfortable lack of slavish 
 adherence to the prevailing mode, from her skirt of last year's cut, and 
 her waist with its sleeves of four winters back, to her rather too-com- 
 modious bonnet, which was suspended from a nail just above her head. 
 The handkerchief of generous proportions that was spread over the 
 bonnet could not quite conceal a "posy," whose agitated motions 
 betrayed that it was quite as startled as could possibly be the observer. 
 
 Her garb was relieved from ugliness by that article so indispen- 
 sable to a grandmother's wardrobe, a dainty jabot of lace, and by a 
 really beautiful old shell comb, which topped her hair and caught the 
 rays of the late afternoon sun. Certainly my friend must have had 
 some firmness to have resisted a granddaughters's teasing for that 
 comb. 
 
 All of these homely details could never have come under the 
 observer's eye had not my old lady talked incessantly with such rapid 
 questions, answers, and bits of useful information that inattention was 
 impossible. Words flowed from her in streams, amusing me, relieving 
 her, and filling my mind with knowledge of her town, her house, her 
 daughters, her grandchildren, the last church sociable, and the quilt 
 that she had just finished for Jennie's boy Tom, who was going to 
 marry Sallie Waters and move to Arizona. 
 
 Regret and amazement were the sensations that the conclusion of 
 the ride brought with them, and, as I turned at the door of the car, 
 I took one last, lingering look back, that I might impress upon my 
 mind a lasting and delightful picture of somebody's grandmother. — 
 Ida A. Campbell. 
 
 POLLY'S APRON. 
 
 It was just a checked gingham apron. The small squares, once 
 blue and white, were now merging into one another because of the 
 frequent applications of dirt, soap, and water, in turn. It hung with 
 the cast-off clothing in limp, lifeless folds, like a plant in want of 
 water. Knowing that it was Polly's apron, the curiosity to learn more 
 of her childhood days led me to examine it. It hangs full, in the front 
 and back, from a low, round neck, and is smooth across the shoulders. 
 A ruffle three inches in width surrounds the neck and armholes. Half- 
 way to the bottom, on the right side, is a pocket neatly stitched. One 
 
 ■j.; i 
 
corner is coming loose, and the whole pocket stands puffed out, as 
 though accustomed to being distended to the limits of endurance. 
 Lastly, attached to the sides, are strings, which could scarcely be rec- 
 ognized as the butterfly bow that was always tied at Polly's back. 
 
 So much for the apron, now let us note the decorations, which are 
 odd and characteristic of Polly. First in size and therefore in import- 
 ance is the large, ominous black spot, far down in front with a whole 
 retinue of smaller counterparts trailing off to the right. Of course, 
 these came from no other source than very friendly ink-bottles and 
 pens in untrained fingers. To counterbalance these spots, on the other 
 side is a brown stain suggestive of a tip-toe visit to a pantry, forbidden 
 sweets, jam probably, and a catastrophe, caused by a mouse and a 
 guilty conscience. Other spots in various sizes and forms are due to 
 Polly's aversion to a bib, while a long black streak in the back reminds 
 us of the last time the fence was painted. 
 
 In addition to the spots and stains there are holes and patches. 
 There is the round hole, the square hole, the three-cornered hole, and 
 the one which the mathematician would call the hole of the nth degree. 
 Patches are to match. Just above the hem in front is a group of three- 
 cornered, round, square, oblong, nth degree holes irregularly arranged. 
 These were cut by Polly's new scissors in imitation of the insertion in 
 her mother's apron. In the back, hidden by two folds pinned together, 
 lurks a large, shapeless rent. Polly accounted for this by saying that 
 her apron "just grabbed hold of a nail and tore itself." Opposite 
 this is a small, round hole, brown near the edge, which proclaims itself 
 the result of the delightful but dangerous sport of playing with fire. 
 The only part of the apron entirely free from stains and rents is 
 adorned with a large red patch. It is sewed on the outside with the 
 frayed edges loose, and is held in place by long, rambling stitches 
 such as characterize the young and inexperienced seamstress. 
 
 Such is Polly's apron. Patches, holes, stains, ties, pocket, — all 
 together make it not a harmonious but a very suggestive whole. For, 
 note how much the description of Polly's apron tells of Polly herself. — 
 Laura Ullrich. 
 
 THE SITTING-ROOM IN GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE. 
 
 The sitting-room in Grandfather's house is the most home-like of 
 all. There is a bright-colored carpet on the floor and light paper on 
 the walls, which causes a sharp contrast with the somber air of the 
 parlor and "best rooms." It is not a very large room — about fourteen 
 feet square, I should say, but it is made very pleasant by the addition 
 of a bay window that looks out upon the street. This window faces 
 the west, and even now the rays of the afternoon sun are shining in, 
 and they fill the room with a mellow light. 
 
 The sitting-room is not elegantly furnished. That chair in which 
 Grandmother is sitting was purchased when she and Grandfather 
 
 262 
 
began housekeeping fifty years ago. Grandfather's favorite chair La a 
 family heirloom, handed down from father to son for four generations. 
 It is true that some of the furniture is modern, but it is seldom used 
 except by the younger members of the family, for Grandfather and 
 Grandmother love these old chairs and pictures, which recall to their 
 minds memories of days gone by. 
 
 The table stands in the center of the room. Its covering is a red 
 cloth, over which are strewn pamphlets, magazines and a few books. 
 The organ stands in one corner, and on the rack I see a copy of the 
 "Gospel Hymns." Near the door that leads to the bedroom is the sofa. 
 It is evidently very old, for the woodwork is of mahogany and the arms 
 and legs are curiously carved. 
 
 In the corner by the window is a stand with bric-a-brac — a "what 
 not," as we used to call it. On it are placed shells and curios, souvenirs 
 of pleasure trips to the seashore and visits to friends. On the walls 
 are a number of pictures of friends who are dead and gone. There are 
 our great-grandparents — a venerable couple who long since have gone 
 to the land where tears and troubles are not known. There hangs the 
 picture of our mother when she was a child, and on the wall over the 
 organ is a print of the old church which Grandmother attended when 
 a girl. 
 
 Grandmother is sitting in a rocking-chair by the stove. She is 
 knitting a stocking, and as she plies her needles she hums over one of 
 the airs which she learned when she was young. 
 
 Grandfather, in his favorite arm-chair, is reading the Bible. He 
 is old now, and his back is somewhat bent with the weight of years, 
 yet his form tells of days when he was a powerful man. His hair is 
 nearly white, and a pair of silver-bowed spectacles sits astride of his 
 nose. His face is lighted up with something of a heavenly light as he 
 reads the old, old story of the love and compassion of Jesus. His voice 
 is not so strong as formerly, and he hesitates a little now and then. 
 As he reads the account of the platting of the crown of thorns, the 
 scourging, and the cruel death, tears flow down Grandma's cheeks, and, 
 when the story is finished, there is a long silence. — Henry Avery 
 Thompson. 
 
 TAKING A SERMON. 
 
 Although he often indulged in flights of oratory, one could see by 
 his nervous manner and the position of his hand during the delivery 
 that our clergyman could not trust himself far from his manuscript. 
 Saturday afternoon found him tired, half sick, and eager to make the 
 final draft of his morning sermon in order that he might afterwards 
 secure as much rest as possible. 
 
 The pastor of one of the city churches had called upon me to 
 assist him in a case of emergency by typewriting his sermon. This was 
 my first experience in taking dictation from a preacher, and I was 
 
 263 
 
determined to make a record. Any one of my fellow-wcrkers will 
 appreciate the nervous state I was in. His notes had been carefully 
 selected, and consequently he knew pretty well what he wanted to say. 
 As he became "warmed up to his subject" he began to dictate faster. 
 Corresponding to his increase in speed, my nearly upright position 
 had changed until I found myself cramped over the table, my hand 
 making all kinds of lightning dashes which I wondered if I would ever 
 be able to read. Now he began to grow more eloquent, and just as he 
 reached a very impressive climax — bang! went the door and, to my 
 horror, I realized that I had lost a word. But down he came with 
 increased momentum, and I could not stop writing long enough to 
 ask him a question. It was like a train shooting through a tunnel and 
 momentarily shutting out the light. Now we were several pages ahead 
 of this break, and were nearing the close of the dictation. I did not 
 want to let him know that I had missed a word, and encouraged myself 
 by saying that the context would help me out. He now dismissed me 
 and told me to have the copy ready for him in the morning. 
 
 Contrary to all expectations, I had no special difficulty in decipher- 
 ing my notes until I came to that climax. I went up one side and 
 down the other, substituting in this break every word I could think of, 
 but none seemed to fit. I imagined that I was giving the sermon, and 
 went at it with much spirit, thinking thereby to receive an inspiration, 
 but to no avail. However, I must put in something, for my reputation 
 was at stake, — but what if I should substitute the wrong word and the 
 preacher should become confused! I knew that he had perfect confi- 
 dence in his regular stenographer and seldom read over the typewritten 
 matter before the sermon. But nothing seemed exactly to fit in, so I 
 finally left a space and proceeded to finish making the transcript, which 
 I delivered to him that evening. 
 
 The next morning I took a back seat in church and waited to see 
 what the result would be. The nearer he came to that place, the 
 farther down I managed to get in the seat, until I could just catch a 
 glimpse of his face. He was making the ascent slowly and very impres- 
 sively. I shuddered to think of his coming up to the climax and finding 
 no climax there; it. would be worse than failure. But he kept on and 
 step by step reached the very height, and then ensued for a moment 
 perfect silence. The truth now dawned upon me — this was merely a 
 rhetorical pause, and it had so happened that the door had slammed 
 just as he came to this point in the dictation. — D. F. Angier. 
 
 A VIEW FROM MY PORCH ON A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 As I sit on my porch, on a warm summer evening, myself screened 
 from view by vines and thick foliage, the scene before me is one 
 of great interest. Gathered in the street and on the lawns across 
 the way, is a congregation of children from the neighboring homes; 
 children varying in age from six months to twelve years. 
 
 264 
 
There are the two Jones boys, tow-headed, freckle-faced, and bare- 
 footed. The bruises on their feet and the toes wrapped in dirty- 
 rags give evidence that shoes are never worn more than once a 
 week — on Sundays. An onlooker would hardly be able to tell these 
 two boys apart, but their companions seem to have no difficulty in 
 doing so. There, too, are the Finnegan boys, three of them, handsome 
 little fellows, presenting a striking contrast to the rest of the group. 
 One is a bright, good-natured little fellow, with curly brown hair, 
 blue eyes, and a complexion that any girl might well envy. He is 
 a general favorite and is the peace-maker of the crowd. His brother, 
 a year or two older, is cross and surly and is the cause of much of 
 the trouble, of which there is no lack. His face always wears a 
 scowl and a bored look, which seems to say that life is not worth 
 living. "Chicken" is also a prominent character. This is the nick- 
 name which clings to a tall, awkward lad whom the other boys delight 
 in tormenting. The name was given to him on account of his peculiar 
 manner of walking, and is very well applied. He may usually be seen at 
 this hour riding up and down the street on what his tormentors call 
 an "ice wagon," but a "Columbia Chainless" could not be more dear to 
 him. A grotesque figure he is with the arch of his foot on the pedals, 
 his arms extended to their greatest length to reach the wide-spreading 
 handle-bars, his head held high in the air until the wheel strikes a 
 stone and his pride, together with himself and his wheel, is brought 
 low in the dust. A game of "scrub" is in progress, but it cannot last 
 long as the constant dispute as to whether or not some one is out 
 is sure to end in a fight and a scattering of the boys to opposite 
 sides of the street, where they sit and glare at each other for a few 
 minutes and then decide to try it again. 
 
 On one side of the street are gathered the baby carriages of the 
 neighborhood, while the nurse girls play hide-and-seek around the 
 corners of the houses, and are recalled to their duty only by the 
 scream of some child as its carriage rolls out into the street and 
 tips over. The little girls with their dolls in diminutive go-carts are 
 much more attentive to their charges, never leaving them for a 
 moment. 
 
 But most interesting of all, is the third Finnegan boy, a little 
 fellow of about three years, the dirtiest, raggedest, and the happiest 
 of the whole crowd. Dressed in the outgrown garments of his two 
 older brothers, his stockings falling down over shoes entirely innocent 
 of buttons, he makes a picture long to be remembered. In his hand 
 he carries the crown of a straw hat, which he can never be persuaded 
 to put on his head. Indeed, it would be a shame to cover his curls, his 
 only beauty, with such a wreck of a hat. His fists are always in good 
 fighting order, and he may be heard to challenge some man passing on 
 the street more often than any of his playmates. His vocabulary, even 
 English A students, would be puzzled to spell. His brothers say that 
 
 265 
 
his name is John Earl, but his own version of it I will not attempt to 
 write. He is certainly the star performer in this scene which I see 
 enacted every evening. — Gertrude B. Maxham. 
 
 PULP. 
 
 Why he was called Pulp I do not know, unless it be that his 
 posture generally reminded one of a bag of rags standing alone. 
 His favorite place for spending evenings was the corner of the two 
 principal streets of the village, and it was there that I saw him one 
 night, propping himself up against the corner-post, his hands shoved 
 into his pockets nearly up to his elbows, while an expression of stolid 
 indifference overspread his face. 
 
 He is tall and well proportioned, if he would only stand erect, 
 but that is too much work. One leg, making an angle of sixty degrees 
 with the sidewalk, bears that part of his weight that is not supported 
 by the building, while the other leg is bent so that his foot hangs 
 on the basement-stone, resting there until it shall be called into 
 use in its turn. His back, being shaped like a rocker, touches the 
 building in only one point. His neck projects forward from a pair 
 of stooped shoulders over a hollow chest, and ends in a large, unshapely 
 head. Standing as he does, he resembles a curved hammock-stick 
 leaning against the wall. His clothing is of sufficient size to allow 
 perfect freedom of motion, were there any thought on his part of 
 moving at all, his trousers, especially, being large enough to accom- 
 modate a man of twice his size. They are of corduroy, but even in 
 this durable material he has worn holes at the ankles. Now he has 
 slipped down through them until they leave a short space above 
 his heavy cowhide boots, from which peep, none too modestly, a 
 pair of socks, once gray, but now nearer the color of his shoes. The 
 knees of the breeches are stretched so as to form almost another 
 pocket on the leg that is straight, while their .general worn appearance 
 betrays their age. His pockets, opening at the top, are completely 
 filled by his enormous hands. 
 
 The coat and vest are a few shades lighter than his trousers, and 
 their general condition is better. Only three vest buttons are on 
 hand for duty, While those on his coat are hidden in the folds as it 
 hangs back of his hands. The soiled collar turns up a little in the 
 back, meeting his hair. In his right-hand pocket can be seen a red 
 bandanna. 
 
 Underneath these garments appears a black shirt with a large, 
 soft collar fastened together with a pin. Above all is an unshapely 
 hat of black felt — such a hat as boys like .to throw up and shoot at. 
 It rests on the back of his head, while out from under its edges 
 protrudes a mass of unkempt brown hair. 
 
 His head may be called angular. The crown is flat and the sides 
 
 266 
 
are straight, with ears that Btick out almost at right angles. A 
 dark complexion, a sandy mustache, and a short growth of heard 
 are the principal features of his face. It would puzzle an expert 
 physiognomist to find any expression there, excepting, perhaps, the 
 stubbornness that the broad chin may denote. 
 
 He was looking at the pavement as I passed, and when, after 
 walking to the next corner, I turned again to see him, he was still 
 looking at that identical spot, and would probably continue to look 
 at it until something more striking happened to attract his attention. 
 — A. L. Gates. 
 
 THE WEDDED TREES. 
 
 We are following a trail winding through a pine forest out in the 
 Rocky Mountains. The midday sunshine is warm and comfortable. 
 The sweet breath of the pines fills the air with a spicy fragrance. 
 A distant waterfall and the pines keep on whispering to each other. 
 
 But now a picture by the wayside wrests our thoughts from this 
 communion. It is a picture of two pine trees. Yes, it is true, pine 
 trees grow thick and wild on every side, but these two have progressed 
 a step beyond all others of the vast multitude. They live so near 
 each other that a small child could barely walk between them, and 
 there grows from the heart of one to the heart of the other a 
 wooden bond. This sacred branch is not straight like an iron rod, but 
 it has a graceful curve such as is characteristic of the careless 
 hand of Nature. It is as large around as the great bushy tail of 
 to find a hiding place in the folds of its green garments, 
 a lithe squirrel that just now scampered up the tree on the right 
 
 It will be many years before this unitea pair will celebrate their 
 diamond wedding, for their young bodies are now slender enough 
 for infant arms to embrace. These trees, like all their pine friends, 
 are straight and tall. W T ith tapering limbs free from knots and 
 wrinkles, they stand, majestic and noble, defying the force of the 
 winds. Sword ferns and maidenhairs play around their feet. Be- 
 neath the soft leaves of the ferns fine ivies creep. Half buried in 
 the rich black soil are last year's cones, now wet and worm-eaten. The 
 bark is smooth, and of a greenish brown. The green appearance is 
 given by small tenacious lichens. On several of the lower limbs 
 hang small bunches of black moss, which looks just like goats' whiskers. 
 It grows out of the twigs like rootlets. Each hair branches and re- 
 branches, till the finest hairs can scarcely be discerned by the naked 
 eye. Tiny green lichens crouch close to every hair of the moss, 
 but they are neither large enough nor numerous enough to blemish 
 the black hair. The trees are clothed in somber green foliage with 
 shiny brown cones for trimming. The leaves have the shape of a 
 short needle flattened by a great weight. Each leaf is dusted with a 
 powdery substance that looks like pollen. The pines have used the 
 
 267 
 
cones to adorn their top-most branches. This is a wise use of these 
 ornaments, for there where the sunlight strikes them they are far 
 more beautiful than they would be on the shady lower branches. 
 Each cone is about the shape of a farmer's stubby thumb, but unlike 
 such an awkward object in action, for the cones display perfect grace 
 when they move together with the swaying branches. 
 
 Ihus bound to each other, this wedded pair whisper together in 
 summer, moan together in November, and bear together their burden 
 of snow in winter. We do not know what nymph of the forest bound 
 their wooden hearts into one; but it must have been a beautiful cere- 
 mony; and now "may they live long and prosper." — Effie Kinnison. 
 
 A STREET SCENE. 
 
 It is just at noon of a beautiful autumn day, and chapel-goers, 
 leisurely or hurriedly, as their appetites impel, are directing their 
 steps toward their respective dinners. On the sidewalk in front of 
 one of the boarding-houses a little group has gathered, while from 
 the upper windows laughing faces look eagerly down upon the scene 
 below. In a corner of the yard stands a woman, a foreigner, evi- 
 dently, but of what nationality it is difficult to tell. Her skin is of 
 a darker shade than that of the girls around her, but her hair is a 
 soft, light brown, while her features are small and -almost delicate. 
 She is neatly dressed, with even some attempt at ornament, for there 
 is a gay ribbon at her throat, and a clean white apron hides the dingy 
 skirt. No heavy earrings disfigure her ears, and she seems far supe- 
 rior to most women of her station. She sways lightly to one side as 
 she stands, and the accordion which she holds and plays with machine- 
 like regularity seems too heavy for the slight figure. There is little 
 expression in her face; she seems to take no note of the people 
 around, but one may imagine that underneath there is a feeling of 
 weariness, almost of hatred for herself and for the gay, curious 
 faces near. It is not a face that is easy to read, perhaps there is 
 no story beneath it, but if there is any at all, it is a sad one, of 
 that we may be sure. 
 
 Even more pathetic than the woman is the child solemnly dancing 
 in the middle of the yard. She is perhaps nine or ten years old, 
 short and thick-set, with heavy, straight black hair, large round 
 eyes, and a dark, swarthy complexion. She is dressed in the regula- 
 tion shirt-waist and skirt, with collar, tie, and belt all complete. Her 
 clothes indicate little care, and are far shabbier than those of the 
 woman. There is no touch of color to set off the dark face and hair, 
 nothing to make her look as a child should look. Her dancing slippers 
 are heavy half-button shoes, stouter even than those with which 
 fashion and common sense have decreed that the college woman shall 
 be shod. In one hand she holds above her head a worn and dirty 
 
 268 
 
tambourine, while with the other she picks up her scanty calico skirt, 
 and circles slowly around the yard — not with the lightness of foot that 
 we usually ascribe to Italians, not even with the natural grace of 
 childhood. Her face is like the woman's, not in features or coloring 
 but in expression, for it has the same stolid, meaningless calm, only 
 in the child it is far more pitiful, contrasted with the quick responsive- 
 ness and gaiety that we see in other children. The longer we look, 
 the sadder becomes the grave, self-possessed little figure in its mockery 
 of dancing, and the more touching grows the dull dark face, standing 
 as a type of all the hopeless faces of the many children who are 
 "weeping ere the sorrow comes with years." — Ellen Barrows. 
 
 AN ATTIC CORNER. 
 
 While in the attic practicing elocution, my attention is drawn to a 
 corner of the room. Taking a seat on a trunk near by, I notice some 
 of the objects around me. 
 
 On my left stands an old bookcase. It is very plain and has no 
 doors or curtains. Some of the shelves are completely filled with 
 books, while others hold but a very small number. These books are 
 of all sizes and colors and ages, ranging from one hundred and fifty 
 years back down to within the last few months. A good many of them 
 are my old school-books. Here is my "First Reader," which brings 
 to mind my earliest school days. I also see "Reed's Speller," "Milne's 
 Arithmetic," on whose title pages I read the names of former teachers. 
 Glancing at the next shelf, I find "Jones's First Latin Lessons," 
 "Macnie's Geometry," and "Carhart's and Chute's Physics." I well 
 remember my last year in the high school, when I worked hard in 
 the laboratory. I look on the top, and perceive variously labeled 
 bottles, which show the shelf to be a sort of medicine chest. Besides 
 these, it holds as ornaments a box of moth balls, a tooth-brush, a 
 tin-pail, three cakes of soap, a piece of sand-paper, a sponge, and 
 several boxes. 
 
 Directly in front of me is a window, affording a cheerful view into 
 the street below. My attention is frequently drawn to the out-door 
 world by the shouts of merry children, who are playing down on 
 the pavement. 
 
 Glancing above the window, I see numerous piles of old Youth's 
 Companions. They were truly companions of my youth, and the mere 
 sight of those papers does me good. Many and many were the pleasant 
 childhood hours spent with them. 
 
 Away back in the corner, almost hidden from sight, are two 
 pictures, one of my grandfather and the other of his brother. They 
 are in small, round, gilt frames, and are very different from the 
 pictures seen now-a-days. The men wore high stocks, ruffled shirts, 
 and coats with wide rolled collars and big brass buttons. The pic- 
 
 260 
 
tures seem to take one back to the early thin:e.3. Shawl-straps and 
 bunches of odd keys help to decorate the corner, while beneath these 
 are a case of golf sticks and a hammock, reminders of the pleasant 
 summer just past. 
 
 On my right, near the window, stands an old-fashioned clock, my 
 grandfather's clock. Its hands, which have pointed out the time for 
 many years, are now motionless and bent. Below the time-face is 
 a calendar, and between the two faces, on the middle of the door, are 
 decorations of gaudy flowers. I can well remember when I would 
 gaze up at the tall case with a feeling of awe, and wonder if I 
 should ever be able to see over its top. 
 
 Near the dear old time-piece hangs a looking-glass, broken in 
 many places. Who knows how many pleasant faces have been reflected 
 therein? 
 
 Close to me stands a large black walnut chest bearing the. letters 
 M. O., the initials of my great-great-grandmother's name, Martha 
 Owen. Opening a drawer, I find a small roll of cloth, the faded 
 sampler of my great-grandmother. On a piece of coarse canvas are 
 worked in red, black, and blue silks rows of the letters of the 
 alphabet several times repeated and two or three sets of the numerals 
 from one to ten. Below these one can read, "Sarah Hollinshead, her 
 sampler. She was born on the 27 day of the 6 month 1783." At 
 the bottom are several conventional designs of trees and flowers, which 
 add even more quaintness to the old piece of fancywork. The date, 
 1794, is also to be deciphered on the margin of the sampler, probably 
 the year in which it was made. 
 
 A casual observer would probably not consider this corner a very 
 beautiful place, but to me, for whom almost every article has some 
 association, it is beautiful in memories. — Elizabeth Burr. 
 
 THE CAMPUS ON A RAINY MORNING. 
 
 The rain is falling with a melancholy drizzle as I roach the south 
 door of University Hall, and turning, look back over the campus in 
 the direction of the big stone pillars at the end of the driveway. 
 
 Trees, grass, streets, and sidewalks, all seem to have borrowed 
 their hue from the leaden sky that hangs low overhead. The branches, 
 long since stripped of their foliage, hang their heads with a dismal 
 droop, and shiver slightly in the fitful breeze, as if chilled to the 
 bone by the cold rain that is drenching them. Already the water is 
 standing in pools among the trees and turning the wheel-tracks in 
 the driveway into beds for miniature rivers, while every hoof-print 
 boasts a tiny lake, rough with widening ripples whenever a rain- 
 drop falls upon its surface. Here and there on the ground are patches 
 of snow, like tattered and soiled fragments of the beautiful white 
 mantle that was formerly spread here. 
 
 270 
 
But the scene before me is not devoid of life, for along the winding 
 Bidewalk from the gate cornea :> line ot .- :u Lents, some singly, some 
 in groups. First come two girls, one in a dark blue mackintosh, so 
 long that i: barely clears the ground and flops about her feet at every 
 step, while she vainly tries to hold it up and at the same time manage 
 her umbrella and an armful of books. From the frown on her forehead 
 and the downward curve of her mouth it is evident that her mood is 
 entirely in accord with the state of the weather. Her companion, 
 though free from the incumbrance of a mackintosh, seems in no better 
 humor. She is pointing with one hand to a stray lock of hair that 
 is blowing about her face, and is talking with such a decided pout on 
 her lips that I imagine her words are: "'Look at that! Straight as a 
 string, after all the bother 1 had curling it." 
 
 Perhaps a rod behind these girls comes a professor, plodding along 
 with his coat collar turned up around his ears, one hand holding a 
 gigantic "family umbrella" and the other grasping a roll of examina- 
 tion papers. With eyes cast down, he seems to be watching the 
 jets of water thrown up by the toes of his immense overshoes. 
 
 Behind the professor is a group of three young men with only 
 two umbrellas, an arrangement which is to the disadvantage of the 
 middle man. for a stream of water is now trickling down upon his 
 hat. All three wear expressions of discontent, and the weary look 
 in their eyes suggests late hours last night. Behind them stretches 
 out a long line of men and girls, whose aspect seems likewise to blend 
 with the dull, gloomy day. 
 
 But no! My eye falls upon an exception to this rule. There, a 
 little way down the walk, is a girl of medium height with a red 
 Tam-o'-Shanter set back on her brown, curling hair. Her short skirt 
 and heavy boots make her indifferent to the dampness underfoot, and 
 as she turns toward me her smiling face with its merry dimples and 
 its moist ringlets around the temples, I smile back, feeling as if a 
 ray of sunshine had fallen through the gloom of this dreary day. — H. 
 Hope Maine. 
 
 A GIRL'S TOP BUREAU DRAWER. 
 
 A place for everything, and everything in its place. What one 
 of us has not had the well-worn maxim preached to him ever since 
 he can remember? It may have had its effect in some places, but 
 no power on earth can persuade me that it has made the slightest 
 difference as regards the top drawer of a dresser. Suppose we take 
 a "day off" and examine one of these indispensable and interesting 
 catchalls. I am sure our investigation will be rewarded. 
 
 It looks innocent enough from the outside. It is large and 
 capacious; it has a front of bird's-eye maple and is furnished with 
 the conventional brass handle. Who would ever dream of the wealth 
 of treasures concealed within its four encircling walls? 
 
 >>- 1 
 
At first sight we are bewildered. The contents appear as one 
 indescribable mass, resembling hasty pudding more than anything 
 else. On closer examination, we discover that there really has been 
 some attempt at order. Here in this corner, for instance, is a pile 
 of the finer handkerchiefs carefully folded; and just back of them is 
 some tissue paper, containing white kid gloves. Next to these and 
 in a somewhat more chaotic state are the handkerchiefs designed for 
 everyday use and a motley collection of gloves and veils. Now our 
 search becomes more interesting; a pair of opera glasses and a pitch- 
 fork might be of use in here. Not having these luxuries, we will 
 make the most of our natural abilities. The first treasure we come 
 upon, nearly hidden by an all-embracing work-box, is a cube of long 
 black pins; next is a beautiful pink necktie, and lurking in its pro- 
 tecting folds we find a shoe-horn. In a corner, standing haughtily off 
 by itself, is a box of Mennen's Borated Talcum, yet, from the powdered 
 look of some black velvet next to it, we infer that it has not always 
 stood so erect and proper. Here, almost concealed by a pile of stocks, 
 is a box of hair pins, and from this pile also a paper of safety pins is 
 issuing. Next we find a glove-box. Strange that it should be here 
 when all the gloves are at the other end of the drawer! No, here in 
 the bottom is a solitary Dent, mourning its lost mate. This box, I 
 think, once contained wedding cake, but just at present it is filled 
 with shoe-strings. Another box, judging from its odor, contains soap. 
 Next we come upon an aluminum thimble, carefully cherished in a 
 silver-topped salve-box. What unwieldy things those linen collars 
 are, always sprawling around where they are not wanted, and taking 
 up so much more than their share of room! Beneath these, the soft 
 folds of a Liberty scarf may be seen. Over and around everything and 
 wherever there is a chink, are ribbons: violet, indigo, blue, green, yel- 
 low, orange, and red, besides many intervening hues. A few letters are 
 scattered in among the other treasures, as are also several belts and a 
 broken clock, awaiting the happy time when it shall be taken to the 
 jeweler's. This, I think, must have been originally intended for a 
 handkerchief case, but at present it contains nothing but a cuff button 
 and three soda mint tablets. The tube of tooth paste has unfortunately 
 shed its cover and is pouring its contents upon the party bag next to it. 
 Here is the tape needle for which the owner has been looking for a 
 week and the fountain pen that she had long ago given up as lost. This 
 empty medicine bottle looks useful. I am glad it has been preserved so 
 carefully. And, after all, I believe we have overlooked the purse, card- 
 case, and numerous other things that must be there. 
 
 Surely, this has been a sight for gods and men, worthy of much 
 serious consideration and many good resolutions, but what girl has 
 not frequently had her drawer in just such a condition? — Mary Ray- 
 mond. 
 
 !72 
 
A ROOM IN A CHICAGO TENEMENT. 
 
 On the West Side of Chicago, on Peoria street, between Lake and 
 Randolph streets, there stands a barren-looking house which is old 
 and unpainted. A door leads to a flight of stairs, dark even in the 
 daytime, and now at night it is almost impossible to see one's way. 
 These stairs, steep and dirty, lead to a still dirtier passage, down 
 which we go, trying not to stumble over the numerous things piled 
 up in it, and we finally come to the room that we are seeking. The 
 door is open, and we see the family seated here in the only home 
 they know. The room is small, being not over twelve feet wide and 
 sixteen feet long. Two small-paned windows, one on the west and 
 one on the south side, together with the door on the north side, 
 let in the thick, smoky air of the city. The furniture consists of a 
 bed, placed in the south-east corner of the room; the cooking-stove, in 
 the south-west corner, a large cupboard reaching almost to the ceiling, 
 in which the coarse china is kept, an old bureau with a cracked look- 
 ing-glass at the foot of the bed, while on the west side of the room 
 before the window is a small table. A lamp, standing on this table, 
 emits but a very dim light, so that the room is almost in darkness. 
 Between the bed and the cooking-stove is a carriage, in which lies a 
 baby, about three months old, sound asleep and surprisingly sweet and 
 clean. 
 
 The inmates of the room consist of two Italian men, two women, 
 and the baby. Unlike most tenements, there is no swarm of children 
 about, although there must be a great many in the house. One 
 of the Italian men is sitting at the table, and the light from the 
 lamp lights up his dark, swarthy skin and fiery, deep-set eyes. His 
 hair is thick and black, slightly tinged with grey, and his nose is 
 a veritable eagle's beak. One could imagine his being an anarchist 
 of the most pronounced type but for the contented expression on 
 his face, as he looks at his family. His wife is not at all so typical 
 an Italian as her husband. She is short and rather stout with blunt 
 features and a much lighter skin than his. Her clothes are clean 
 and, in this respect, she is very different from the majority of her 
 neighbors. This couple seem to be very happy, although they have 
 very little to make them so. 
 
 The other Italian is older and more careworn than the first one, 
 but still has bright eyes and is very similar to his friend in appear- 
 ance. He is visiting in this room, as he lives in a room across the 
 passage. His wife, the other woman in the room, appears, at first 
 sight, to be a child; she is so emaciated; her hands are claws; her 
 hair is short, black, and bushy, and her eyes are dull and hopeless; 
 her teeth stick out like fangs. On second sight she seems an old 
 woman; but no, she is only about forty years of age, although she 
 is deaf and almost blind. Hers must have been a life of poverty and 
 
 273 
 
incessant suffering. Even now she seems to be enduring pain, perhaps 
 that of hunger. Her sad and melancholy appearance contrasts strongly 
 with the gayety and good spirits of her husband. Watch him as -he 
 looks at her, and note how proud he seems to be of this bundle of 
 pain and rags, how affectionately he calls her "old woman," as lis 
 watches her, sitting by the door. The scene is very picturesque; the 
 small room, the dim light, the Italian men and the two women, the 
 one so happy and comfortable-looking, the other racked with pain, 
 but still bravely trying to smile, and the innocent babe, calmly sleep- 
 ing, unconscious of the poverty and misery of its surroundings. 
 
 We can only marvel at the cheerfulness displayed here among 
 the most depressing surroundings. — R. M. Gooch. 
 
 THE PISA TOWER. 
 
 To the north of the city of Pisa, on a pretty grass-covered square, 
 stands the leaning tower forming part of a notable group of buildings 
 that have attracted public attention for centuries past. The cathedral 
 is the central object. In the rear of this stands the tower, in front 
 the baptistry, and at the side the "Campo Santo," or cemetery. These 
 buildings of pure white marble, standing out against the blue Italian 
 sky, form a striking picture. The Tower, cylindrical in shape, and 
 one hundred and seventy-nine feet high, rises far above everything 
 else. Its first story, with enclosed columns, is surmounted by six 
 stories of beautiful colonnades, surmounted by the belfry, in which 
 hang seven bells, the largest of which, v/eighing six tons, is placed on 
 the side opposite the leaning side of the tower. It takes its name, 
 "Leaning Tower," from its peculiar oblique position, which is thirteen 
 feet out of the perpendicular. It is now generally supposed that the 
 foundation sank in the course of erection, and a proof of this is that 
 the columns in the upper stories are longer on the leaning side. 
 A small door gives access to the interior, whence a winding stair- 
 way of two . hundred and ninety-four steps leads to the belfry. At 
 each landing one obtains a fine view of the surrounding scenery; 
 but the one surpassing all others awaits the traveler at the top, where 
 is disclosed a picturesque panorama, extending for miles in every 
 direction. 
 
 Standing on the highest platform, one has an unobstructed view as 
 far as the eye can reach. To the northeast, a plain stretches away, 
 meeting the Carrara mountains at the horizon. To the westward lies 
 the Mediterranean, dotted here and there with vessels; and to the 
 left, in the distance, is seen Leghorn with its bell-towers, its churches, 
 and its harbor, decked with white-sailed ships. Only a little way off 
 is the historic Arno, flowing peacefully seaward, on each side of which 
 lies the quaint city of Pisa. Across the street from the Tower are 
 stores filled with beautiful statuary, copies of all the great master- 
 
 274 
 
pieces of art: while in the square below, awaiting every newcomer, 
 arc the street venders with baskets of marble busts, all sorts of 
 curios, and souvenir postals; there, also, is the ubiquitous guide, ever 
 willing to tell in broken accents ail that he knows and much more 
 besides. At the right is the old "Campo Santo," to which, after the 
 loss of the Holy Land, fifty-three ship-loads of earth were brought from 
 Mt. Calvary, so that the dead might repose in holy ground. Lastly, the 
 eye falls on the cathedral and baptistry, which with the tower 
 make one of the finest groups of buildings in the world. Seen in the 
 brilliancy of an Italian sunset, with the radiant rays reflected upon 
 the pure white marble, these form a picture that can never be for- 
 gotten. — Almon Greenman. 
 
 A FRUIT STAND. 
 
 The Fifth Avenue bridge was turning, and I could see the train 
 that I had intended to catch just pulling out, so what was the use 
 of worrying? An important little tug with its unwieldy load puffed 
 on. regardless of the smoke that choked the onlookers. 
 
 As I turn my back on the offender my eyes rest on a familiar sight, 
 a fruit-stand. It is a typical stand, such as is pictured by the mind's 
 eye when the name Italian fruit-stand is mentioned. The head- 
 quarters of this tiny establishment are not much larger than a piano 
 box, having a door at one end, while one side wall is made of small 
 panes of glass. In front of this little room is a sloping shelf, on which 
 are displayed the wares. 
 
 At the left, having three of its sides made of glass so that the 
 flowers may be better displayed, is a flower stand. At the right is a 
 small battered peanut-roaster, which has done long and faithful service. 
 A canvas awning protects this little stand from sun and rain. No 
 doubt at some previous time this covering was new and white, but 
 now it has lost all resemblance to its former self, and is old and 
 dejected, patiently waiting for the end of its duties. 
 
 The sign, "Choice Fruits," belies the nature of the wares dis- 
 played, for there is everything from cut flowers to gum-drops to be 
 found here. Baskets of grapes, peaches, and pears are piled up in 
 orderly array at the end of the stand, awaiting the good housewife, 
 who will soon be looking for a bargain in the way of fruits to take 
 home to the children. The boxes and baskets of fruits are placed 
 on the table in a much-studied arrangement, in order to save space, 
 yet the artistic instinct of a true child of Italy has made the stand 
 a picture. The "three-for-five-cents" russet pears are piled next to 
 the "five for ten cents" peaches, and just above these are placed the 
 red apples, which have been polished until the white stalked celery 
 is reflected on their shining surface. Great bunches of bananas sus- 
 pended from the awning give a touch of yellow to the picture. The 
 
 9>7K 
 
pink carnations nod a welcome from the top of the flower stand, and 
 the violets, in little huddling bunches, appear to ask for a wearer. 
 The little peanut-roaster, piled high with the sacks of peanuts, is not 
 idle, but is singing its merry song. 
 
 A woman with a careworn face and sad dreamy eyes is standing 
 by the window of this room, watching the passing vessel. She seems 
 meek and patient, but there is a look in her eyes and an expression 
 around her mouth, showing that her passions, once aroused, are not 
 easily quelled. A man stands in front of the establishment care- 
 fully filling a basket with peaches. He is probably "deaconing"' this 
 basket of fruit. The man is short and firmly built, with a physique 
 that a foot-ball man might well envy. His face has a shrewd yet 
 child-like expression, belying the popular opinion that only cold 
 water nations are prosperous; for in spite of his ragged, filthy 
 clothes, it is plainly seen that fortune has not slighted him. 
 
 The bridge turned back into its place, and the people jostled each 
 other in their hurry to reach the other side of the river, so I hastened 
 on to catch the next train. — Aura M. Benedict. 
 
 A LOVING-CUP. 
 
 On a little carved table that belonged to my great-grandmother, 
 among a motley collection of odds and ends, stands a small Delft 
 loving-cup. The curios that . make up this strange little collection 
 were gathered from all over the world, the loving-cup coming directly 
 from the little town in which it was made, over a century ago. 
 
 It is small and unpretentious, and few people would guess its 
 value; only six inches in height and about four in diameter, yet more 
 than one china enthusiast has begged us to sell it. The bottom of 
 the cup is a little larger in circumference than the top, but the dis- 
 tinguishing features are the handles. There are three of these, of 
 ordinary shape, set well up toward the brim, but large, very large, 
 so that the poor little cup looks dwarfed by the enormous handles. 
 
 Of course, the cup is decorated with the dark blue peculiar to 
 Delft china, there being scrolls in the darker and lighter shades of 
 this blue around the top and bottom and on the handles; and between 
 each of these handles is a little scene as clear and distinct as a litho- 
 graph. The first picture shows an old-fashioned wind-mill, one of 
 the kind that was used long ago in the little village of Holland. It 
 is only a post, and an old and crooked one, too, with its three gaunt 
 arms pointing in three directions, yet it must have done its work 
 well, for the little house behind has a prosperous air. House and 
 mill are both mirrored in the quiet little stream; for not only is 
 the picture little, but one knows by intuition that the house, wind- 
 mill, and stream really were little; the men and women, too, were 
 little, with little thoughts, little ambitions, and little sorrows. But 
 
 276 
 
all is very peaceful and quiet; happiness, at least, was great there. 
 
 The next scene is entirely different — a rushing river with many 
 crafts; in the distance are the spires and smoke of a city, while in 
 the foreground is another wind-mill. This is more modern, being a 
 great stone tower with four webbed arms. The water is dirty, the 
 tower is too new; the very position of the man stooping Over the 
 water is suggestive of hard, wearisome work. The people are larger 
 here, but they are not happier. 
 
 The third picture is that of a sail-boat in a storm. The sky is 
 dark, the water surges round the frail little craft in great waves 
 that threaten each instant to destroy it. The boat is tipped almost 
 over, and hanging to one edge is the figure of a man; he is looking back 
 toward land, where, faintly outlined against the dark horizon, are the 
 three arms of the old-fashioned wind-mill. 
 
 Such is the cup, simple and unpretentious as I said; but it has seen 
 more joy than has many a mortal, for the health of dozens of new 
 babies and the happiness of scores of pretty brides has been pledged 
 from this small Delft loving-cup. — Jeannette Foster. 
 
 THE TRAMP. 
 
 One sunny afternoon, early last summer, I was sitting on a railway 
 bridge, watching the gurgling river beneath me, when "Old George," 
 a well-known tramp, came along the road. I bade that degenerate 
 specimen of humanity a cordial good-day, which he apparently re- 
 garded as an act of sympathy and kindness, for he came over where 
 I was sitting, sat down, and began to tell me of his troubles. As 
 he related the strange story of his life, I became deeply interested 
 in his personal appearance. 
 
 He was a short, stout man, slightly stooped, nearly fifty years 
 of age, and weighed about one hundred and eighty pounds. The 
 part of his sun-burned face not hidden by his long, shaggy beard 
 revealed a life of hardship, debauchery, and sadness. In heavy 
 locks about his shoulders hung his uncombed hair, making an appear- 
 ance not unlike that which might be expected of the "missing link." 
 Nor did his clothing indicate any exception to his peculiar tastes. 
 Gathered, as it had been, from the offcast remnants of as many dif- 
 ferent wardrobes as there were pieces of dress, its wearer had a variety 
 in color scarcely excelled by Joseph of old. True, however, to the 
 custom of his class, he had managed to equip as successfully as 
 possible his head and feet, for every tramp believes that the extremes 
 are the only parts of his garb that appeal to the eye of his bene- 
 factor. A broad-rimmed grey hat, dinted into as many peculiar shapes 
 as if it had been the outcome of a failure to combine into one all 
 the latest styles of woman's head-dress, protected his weather-beaten 
 brow from the sun. A dark brown coat, with a rip under the left 
 
 277 
 
arm, two huge pockets, and an air-hole in each elbow, partially cov- 
 ered a buttonless navy blue vest and a dirty grey shirt, of which 
 the top fastener was also wanting. His attire was completed by a 
 pair of cow-hide boots, over which the legs of his ragged corduroy 
 trousers hung in wrinkled folds. 
 
 The only other possessions of this strange being were the rough 
 cane that he carried in his right hand, an old overcoat hanging on 
 his left arm, a few pairs of socks, which swelled his large coat 
 pockets, and the only luxury of his life, a broken-stemmed clay pipe. 
 
 As he continued his story, telling how he had been driven to the 
 road by the reckless extravagance of a wife whom he once had 
 loved and the disgraceful waywardness of a beautiful daughter, who 
 had once been the idol of his home, a tear rolled down his cheek, 
 and revealed to me an expression which stirred all my sympathies 
 to their lowest depths. As I looked into those swollen, blood-shot 
 eyes, and mused upon the strange markings of his reddened nose, 
 which looked as if it might have been the field of carnage for many 
 an army of insects, I could not fail to realize how plainly the traces 
 of sin are exhibited in the face. Yet the brimming eye and the 
 dampened cheek told me that, in spite of his degradation, a tender 
 heart beat within that saddened bosom. 
 
 When I carefully intimated the subject of reform, it seemed to 
 touch an unfavorable chord, for the old man arose and slowly started 
 on his way. I watched him for some distance until he disappeared 
 around a curve in the road, and I saw him no more. — F. J. Johnson. 
 
 A PHOTOGRAVURE. 
 
 On the wall of our library hangs a picture, which, though 
 simple both in design and execution, never fails to awaken interest 
 in its beholder. It is about eight inches long by six inches wide, and 
 is framed in a white mat and a narrow brown molding. The picture 
 is but a photogravure, yet the scene represented is one which arouses 
 many conjectures as to its meaning. 
 
 The place portrayed is the interior of a schoolroom. The ceiling 
 is paneled, and the walls are very high. Hanging on one of the 
 walls is a large portrait of an old gentleman. Judging from the 
 uniform which he wears and the numerous medals which adorn his 
 coat, one would at once imagine him to be a German official. On 
 the adjoining wall hangs a map upon which a faint outline of Europe 
 may be discerned. A curiously-carved desk with a top about a 
 foot square stands in the front of the room. In one corner is a 
 rude shelf, not over three feet below the ceiling. Upon this are a 
 globe, four or five books, a tall jug, a violin, and several large sheets 
 of paper. But the most prominent piece of furniture in the room 
 is the blackboard, which rests upon an easel. Sketched upon the 
 blackboard is a very ludicrous and unmistakable portrait. 
 
 278 
 
A very interesting feature of the photogravure is the characters 
 in the school room. In front of the board stands a man. presumably 
 B school master, whose personal appearance at once excites mirth. 
 His form is tall and angular, his hair is of snowy whiteness, and a 
 pair of glasses rests upon his too prominent nose. His long black 
 coat reaches below his knees, and entirely conceals his trousers, 
 while his feet are encased in slippers having large silver buckles at 
 the toes. With his right hand he is grasping a small boy by the 
 collar, with the left he is pointing to the caricature, which bears a 
 striking resemblance to himself. Anger is plainly depicted upon 
 his countenance. He is looking at another man, whom we will call 
 tne parson, and is probably setting forth the crime of the young delin- 
 quent. 
 
 The parson, for such does he appear to be, resembles the master 
 only in his style of dress and in the whiteness of his hair. In other 
 respects he presents a marked contrast to the teacher. His form 
 is shorter and much stouter, a black cap rests upon his hair, and a 
 kind, genial expression is upon his face. One hand rests at. his side, 
 w r hile the other is raised to his lips as if to conceal a smile. Gath- 
 ered around the parson is a small group of children. Two little 
 girls with black eyes and dark flowing hair have their caps upon 
 their heads and their satchels in their hands, ready to go home. 
 One is glancing at the parson, while the other timidly watches the 
 master. At a short distance from the girls stand four or five boys. 
 One of them who has his hat in his hand evidently sees only the 
 amusing part of the joke, for his face is enveloped in a smile. How- 
 ever, he has wisely hidden from the master's sight by standing behind 
 the parson. Two other boys watch the scene with eager curiosity, 
 while the remainder look on with fear. But the young artist is the 
 one who is most uncomfortable. His head hangs down with a crest- 
 fallen air, one hand is up to his eyes, and the other, with palm 
 upward, is placed behind him as if to ward off expected blows. At 
 his feet lies his open satchel filled with books, tablets, pencils, a 
 slate, and an apple. His only hope of escaping punishment seems 
 to rest in the parson, who, we hope, will intercede for the young 
 artist. His drawing certainly shows a talent that merits recognition 
 and culture, and we do not wish him to become discouraged. 
 
 I do not know the name of the artist who has designed this 
 photogravure, but it is evident that he well knows how to portray 
 human character. — Sadie Beardslee. 
 
 THE PET BIRD. 
 
 On my study table, a little to my left, is a reproduction of the 
 famous painting called "The Pet Bird," by the German artist, Meyer 
 von Bremen. 
 
 27« 
 
The artist begins to relate his story in colors by placing upon a 
 table in a room a bird-cage. The little golden colored canary has just 
 left the cage and is now perched on the left hand of one of the chil- 
 dren. The canary seems to be very tame and evidently has no fear of 
 rough treatment from the children. 
 
 In the picture are represented two boys and two girls, each of 
 whom attracts special attention. The eldest is a boy about twelve 
 years of age, who seems to be the leader of the sport the children are 
 having with the bird. This boy's face beams with looks of kindness 
 and good will. The painter has succeeded in making the lad appear 
 as a noble little fellow. The look of sunshine and good-natured fun 
 that is easily read from his countenance attracts our attention. He 
 has a cherry in his right hand while the canary is perched in his left 
 hand pecking away at the fruit. The second child in the group is a 
 little girl about ten years of age. She is sitting at the table beside 
 her eldest brother with her head resting upon his shoulder. Intelli- 
 gence, thoughtfulness, kindness and affection are written in her looks. 
 She reminds me of the pen picture the poet Longfellow has given us 
 of "Grave Alice" in the poem entitled "The Children's Hour." On the 
 opposite side of the table is the third child, a little girl about eight 
 years of age. She is a personification of smiles and beauty. She is the 
 "laughing Allegra" of the group. Her bright red cap, her dimpled 
 cheeks, sparkling eyes, and her pearl-white teeth make of her a promi- 
 nent part of the picture. The fourth child in the group is a boy, who 
 is about six years of age. A chubby little fellow he is. He is at 
 one end of the table, and is watching with a great deal of interest every 
 move that the bird makes. So intensely interested is he that he has 
 kicked off both of his wooden shoes and is now in an attitude sugges- 
 tive of jumping upon the table. His childish face is aglow with rap- 
 ture and delight as the canary eats from his brother's hand. 
 
 The room in which these young people are having so much sport 
 is a very plain one. There is no carpet on the floor and no curtains 
 are at the window. The furniture is home-made and bulky and 
 clumsy-looking. Jn one corner of the room is an old-fashioned cup- 
 board with some drinking utensils on top of it. On the sill of the only 
 window in the room is a flower-pot of medium size, in which is a pretty 
 geranium. On one side of the room, and about two feet above the floor, 
 is a permanent or stationary seat about one foot wide. Grandma's 
 knitting is lying on this seat. 
 
 The artist shows us in this picture a plainly furnished room and a 
 group of children whose lives are replete with love and kindness for 
 each other and for dumb animals. — M. L. Planingam. 
 
 A PICTURESQUE VILLAGE. 
 
 Situated on the east bank of the Dupage River, with high bluffs 
 
 280 
 
rising on both sides, is an old village. At this point the hills are about 
 one-half mile apart, the river flowing midway between. 
 
 To one standing upon the west bluff on the road leading into 
 town, an interesting view is presented. It is winter, and the ground 
 is covered with snow. The sun is just setting, and the windows in 
 the houses of the village have the weird appearance of being afire. 
 Down below us on the river, a force of men is busily engaged in storing 
 away ice in a large building that stands near the stream. We can 
 faintly hear the shouts of the men and the yells of the boys who are 
 skating near by. Here the river is divided into two parts by a small 
 island, across which the road is built like a high turnpike. Entering 
 the town, the road then turns north, thus forming the main street. 
 
 In the north end of the village we see a large schoolhouse sur- 
 rounded by a row of tall elms. Since it is Saturday the yard is 
 deserted, but we can see in the dim outlines of a large snow fort the 
 result of the work done yesterday. Directly behind the schoolhouse 
 stands the church. It is of the true old style with its long steeple 
 pointing skyw r ard. Our attention is drawn to the curl of black smoke 
 rising from the chimney into the clear frosty air. Perhaps A meeting 
 of the sewing society is being held inside, or preparations are being 
 made for a social in the evening, when the town and country people 
 will assemble to see local talent displayed. 
 
 The buildings just described stand somewhat apart from the busi- 
 ness portion of the village. On the main street we notice a large white 
 building with a front like an immense sign-board. This building is the 
 town hall. A few rods south stands a small, unpainted structure. A 
 large number of teams are tied near, while the front door often swings 
 open to persons coming and going. We wonder why this dilapidated 
 building is so popular, but our curiosity would be satisfied if we knew 
 that it is the only saloon in town. Farther south, at the point where 
 the west road joins the main street, stands the village blacksmith- 
 shop. Even from where we stand we can hear the faint ring of the 
 anvil. 
 
 Our attention is attracted to a large crowd collected before a build- 
 ing near the river. This is apparently the village store. The men are 
 standing about in groups on the south porch. Now another and 
 another farmer drives up in his sleigh, ties his horses, and joins the 
 crowd. We begin to wonder what this gathering means, when, just as 
 the sun disappears, a black-covered wagon draws up before the store 
 and the driver carries something inside. The crowd follows him. In 
 a few minutes they begin to come out with their mail, and, climbing 
 into their sleighs, they drive swiftly homeward, leaving us alone. — 
 G. I. Bell. 
 
 HOW PETER SOLOMON BROUGHT GLORY TO THE FRESHMAN 
 
 CLASS. 
 
 Peter Solomon was a Freshman in a Western college. He had 
 
 281 
 
unbounded enthusiasm, and prided himself much on his courage and 
 sagacity. The members of the Freshman class saw in him a leader 
 who would bring them glory. So, on the second week of the college 
 year, Peter Solomon was chosen president of the class. 
 
 One of his prerogatives was to call meetings, and this function he 
 proceeded to exercise in a way that suggested the existence of only one 
 class in college. No class in the history of the institution ever had so 
 many meetings. 
 
 This unusual zeal was very annoying to the more dignified Sopho- 
 mores, and they resolved to put a stop to it. The next morning, when 
 this resolution became known, it drew from every Freshman a murmur 
 of indignation. During the day trouble met them on every hand. At 
 class they were nudged or stared at just as they were about to recite. 
 In the hallways they were tripped up or compelled to walk between 
 two long rows of grinning Sophomores. But, worst of all, at the end of 
 the chapel hour their beloved ribbons were stolen from the lapels of 
 their coats. As the day wore on, the poor, persecuted Freshmen 
 became more and more exasperated, and they went to their rooms 
 vowing vengeance. The loudest in protestation was Peter Solomon. 
 He sought his room early that day, and "boned" on his Greek, Latin, 
 and Calculus until he thought he knew the lesson as well as the pro- 
 fessors. Then he put on his double-breasted coat and his "military" 
 cap, took his tin horn from the wall, and selected the heaviest cane 
 from the bundle in the corner. Having made this preparation, he blew 
 out his light and hurried forth to arouse his classmates. Going to each 
 Freshman's room, he summoned them to action, and, with one accord, 
 they meekly obeyed. 
 
 A mass meeting was held in a grove, at which information was 
 solicited as to the probable whereabouts of the Sophomores. After a 
 hurried consultation, Solomon divided his little army into three bands, 
 appointed leaders, and directed them what to do with their captives. 
 The three bands took different directions across the campus, keeping 
 in the darkest places and stealing quietly along. Every object which cast 
 a shadow was at first imagined to harbor a "Soph." After fruitless pass- 
 ings and repassings,two of the bands gave up the search. But not so that 
 led by Peter Solomon. Their valiant leader was determined to find the 
 enemy, and no "Freshie" dared forsake his duty. Back and forth Peter 
 marshalled his little band, at every turn inventing new formations 
 and inspiring it against imaginary foes. At sight of a bush every 
 "Freshie" would tremble, and only through the encouragement of their 
 intrepid leader could they be persuaded to approach. Several of the 
 party were beginning to complain,, when, as they were approaching a 
 grove into which the light of the moon did not penetrate, a Freshman 
 who had been sent forward as a scout, came crawling toward the band, 
 trembling with excitement. "Hist!" he said, "there's about a dozen 
 Sophs over there in the grove." This information caused a panic 
 
 28-2 
 
among Peter Solomon's wa triors, and some were in favor of immediate 
 retreat. But nothing could persuade the dauntless Peter to give up 
 the enterprise. He delivered to them a short speech, in which lie cited 
 their wrongs and the glory that would fall to the class should they be 
 victorious. The heart of every "Freshie" was stirred to the highest 
 pitch of courage and resolution, and they were eager for the advance. 
 Going along the fence a few rods from the place where the guide 
 said that the "Sophs" were concealed, in order to climb without being 
 seen, they leaped the fence, and crept slowly around in the rear of 
 the ambushed foe. When about three rods away they stopped suddenly, 
 for they could dimly see ten dark forms crouching in the tall grass 
 near a little knoll. Summoning all their courage, they raised their 
 canes and advanced pell-mell. Before a single one could escape, fifteen 
 canes descended, and — ten squealing pigs scampered off into the dark- 
 ness. — A. O. Hammond. 
 
 HULDA. 
 
 Hulda, our cook, is a tall, awkward, ungraceful woman about thirty 
 years old. She has light hair, brown eyes, and a beautiful pink com- 
 plexion in spite of the fact that she is constantly sipping coffee through 
 a lump of loaf sugar held between her teeth. Her face is broad and 
 her cheek-bones are high, while there is never an expression of intel- 
 ligence or emotion in her face. When she came to our home she 
 brought with her her wardrobe packed in two dunlap boxes, a part of 
 whose contents were spilled by the expressman between the dray and 
 the house. She aims to appear attractive, yet she looks untidy in 
 her gay dresses and cheap jewelry. Nor has she ever been seen repair- 
 ing her clothes, and her aprons are tied on with wrapping cord. 
 
 Hulda has no idea of order, for the chopping-bowl, cups and 
 saucers, milk-pans, and glasses are a promiscuous heap in the pantry, 
 while the coffee-canister, tea-strainer, and carving-knife wander from 
 shelf to shelf without a resting-place. Inconsistently, she scrubs the 
 kitchen floor in a porcelain-lined kettle, and, when the butler's pantry 
 is being cleaned, she washes the best china in the mop-pail. Buckwheat 
 pancakes are fried in the best table-butter, and the coachman's oatmeal 
 is afloat in the richest cream. W T hen told of her faults, she says only, 
 "Dat so?" or, if the bell rings in the midst of the reproof, "Oh, say, 
 someboding vanta speaken mad you in de tel-e-phone!" and she walks 
 off to allow us to "speaken mad him." 
 
 Evidently Hulda is a social success, for, as she terms it, she receives 
 fourteen "visits" in one day, as many, perhaps, as does the doctor him- 
 self, in whose house she resides. In summer, when everything is left 
 in her charge, she takes delight in serving her "girl" friends to 
 vanilla wafers and coffee in the backyard, as they sit gossiping on 
 laundry benches, broken chairs, and, perchance, an overturned hen- 
 coop. Putting a cooky into "Yms boy's" hand, she sweetly begs him 
 
 283 
 
to "vat effer els he do blie goad an' not tell." Many a time, too, may- 
 be seen on the back-porch railing a broad-shouldered Irishman, with a 
 cigar, cane, silk hat, and patent leather shoes worn out at the toes. 
 But Hulda's most persistent admirer, and an annoyance to the house- 
 hold, is an "ex-coachman," a certain John, who, regardless of weather, 
 appears shod in carpet slippers figured with huge red and green roses. 
 
 Regularly, on Saturday nights, Hulda is kept out till past mid- 
 night to witness the death of a friend or to see a sister off to Sweden 
 until we imagine that her stock of dear ones is almost exhausted. We 
 are awakened on Sunday mornings by Hulda's shrill singing, as she 
 stalks across the kitchen with the coffee-mill under her arm and keeps 
 time with the crank, interrupted only by the falling of the coffee. 
 
 One Thursday, when Hulda was out, a neatly-dressed woman anx- 
 iously inquired for a Mrs. Bergren, for whom she had searched vainly 
 in old haunts. "Hulda is my sister-in-law," she said, "but my brother 
 and one child are dead. Poor little Ellen! She was sent back to 
 Sweden to my folks." Since then Hulda has gone from "place" to 
 "place," seemingly enjoying the changes and daily becoming more 
 proficient in lying. 
 
 Such is the character of one who by her ever innocent face has 
 drawn upon the sympathies of others, yet who has trampled upon all 
 that is dear, and by neglecting a mother's sacred duties has grown so 
 hardened that she actually revels in her evil ways. — Elsie Zaumbrecher. 
 
 SOME MINNESOTA SCENERY. 
 
 Only a few miles from Minneapolis lies the quiet little village of 
 
 J . Perhaps it would resent being called small, for it boasts 
 
 of two large hotels and several business blocks, to say nothing of 
 many fine residences and a band-stand. But one cares nothing for 
 these wonders if he once catches a glimpse beyond the town. On every 
 side stretches the broad prairie with its great waves of golden grain 
 rolling in the autumn breeze. Here and there large patches of dainty 
 "blue-eyed flax flowers" may be seen in pretty contrast with the gold 
 of wheat and oats. Each tiny flower seems to have caught the reflection 
 of the sky in its upturned face and to be saving it for a cloudy day. 
 
 The country road follows the edges of the fields in a straight line 
 until it reaches a hill. From this place on for a long distance the 
 section men have evidently lost all control over it, for zigzagging 
 back and forth, up hill and down again, it reaches a tiny valley through 
 which a noisy creek flows. A rude plank is placed across the creek, 
 and just beyond the road continues its crazy journey upward. Along 
 the banks of the creek are many large trees, but once out of the pic- 
 turesque little valley, the only trees to be seen are those in a stiffly 
 arranged grove belonging to a farm-house near by. 
 
 This farm-house is of the modern country type, having a stiff, set 
 
 284 
 
style of architecture, so common in rural homes of the West. The 
 small front porch has above it an elaborate imitation of the rising 
 sun. The windows are protected by the proverbial green blinds, and a 
 small balcony juts out from the second story on one side of the house. 
 The back door opens on a pleasant porch covered with wild cucum- 
 ber vines. The dark green ivy over the windows, together with the 
 wild cucumber vines, does much to relieve the otherwise stiff effect. 
 
 But riding on and on, sometimes between two immense wheat 
 fields, and again past a large flax field, at last in the distance one 
 sees what seems to be a big grove of trees. The road winds grace- 
 fully down a gradual slope, ending abruptly in a pretty lake. Farther 
 along the banks, where the trees are not so dense, a broad pebbly beach 
 invites the swimmer to a bath. On the opposite shore of the lake is a 
 thick forest, which casts a pleasing shade along the beach. A small 
 island rises above the water, and an old rowboat, more ornamental 
 than useful, is fastened to an over-hanging tree. Nowhere is there a 
 sign of human life. 
 
 To some people, this would seem a lonely spot, but to one who 
 loves woods and solitude it would be a welcome retreat, for Nature 
 herself has made this a garden that would almost put Eden to shame. 
 — Carrie Mason. 
 
 A PLASTER LION. 
 
 You will say that a lion at fifty cents is a bargain, and so it is. 
 But when the Italian bent with his heavy basket had departed, leaving 
 me alone with the lion, I began to regret my purchase, for whether he 
 be of plaster or of flesh and bones, the "king of beasts" is not the most 
 agreeable companion in the world. Then, too, it was a question as to 
 where he could be placed to the best advantage. 
 
 Remembering that "music hath charms" and so forth, I placed 
 him on the piano; but there he was miserable, for he shook at the 
 sound of every heavy chord, and buried himself in the music that lay 
 loose around him. Then I tried the top of the mantel, but that was 
 so high that he could not see into the room, and he grew unhappy 
 and, I am sure, felt very uncomfortable, for he is a sociable beast, 
 and the bust of Schiller that bore him company on the mantel was 
 evidently entirely oblivious to his duty as host, for they looked so 
 out of keeping with each other that I finally took the lion down and 
 placed him on a bookcase, where he remains to this day. This position 
 is in every way more adapted to his comfort, for here he sees all 
 that goes on in our little world, and his views of life had certainly 
 not been limited, for under him in the book-shelves are treats in liter- 
 ature, from Lamb to Kipling! Above him hangs an engraving 
 
 of Lord Tennyson, with whom he must occasionally exchange bits of 
 gossip and tales of long ago, for I have found him sometimes with his 
 
 285 
 
head turned toward the poet as if listening in dignified silence to the 
 words of wisdom that fall from the beautiful lips. A Greek testament 
 lies beside him on the bookcase, and I believe it is respect for this 
 which keeps him in the straight and narrow path. 
 
 There is, however, as with so many of us poor mortals, a serpent 
 in his Eden, and an especially provoking one it seems. It is the 
 grinning face on an old Florentine bronze door-knocker. The impish 
 face seems always to be mocking him, and I can plainly see how 
 irritated he becomes when the knocker is admired by a visitor inter- 
 ested in curios of this sort. 
 
 He stands upright and erect and seems always on the alert, with 
 every muscle strained and head bent forward as if expecting some 
 signal or command which never comes. His magnificent head is set 
 on a pair of shoulders that are symmetrical, and indicate a powerful 
 strength. The heavy mane is thrown back, and his head is raised 
 proudly; one might imagine in his gesture the moment of victory 
 over some enemy of the forest, were it not for the feeling that some 
 provoking taunt of the laughing imp has stung him into this silent 
 but magnificent rage. 
 
 So he stands, untouched by the world or by mortal; for except for 
 the housemaid who dusts him every day he remains untroubled and 
 peaceful — his only enemy, a bronze door-knocker. — Helen Ruth Balmer. 
 
 SUNRISE AS SEEN FROM PIKE'S PEAK. 
 
 The sunrise as seen from Pike's Peak is one of the most beautiful 
 sights in Nature. It is novel as well as awe-inspiring to look down 
 upon the clouds far below as they are spread out over the valley and 
 to watch them as they gradually disperse and melt away into the sun- 
 shine with the dawn of day. 
 
 In the gray light of morning the summit, which we had just 
 reached, appeared very bleak and barren. The whole mountain side 
 seemed to be a huge mass of rocks and bowlders piled in endless 
 confusion upon one another. On the right of the summit was the 
 Bottomless Pit, through which the wind howled and moaned, making 
 the place seem all the more desolate and deserted. 
 
 In front of us were the steep mountain slopes which we had just 
 climbed, and beyond we could discern faintly in the distance the 
 peaks of the adjoining mountain. 
 
 As we looked a faint rim of the sun became visible over this 
 mountain top, and the scene which the golden light disclosed was most 
 beautiful. As the sunshine broke through the purple mist, a veil 
 seemed to be lifted, and we saw far below us the clouds which appeared 
 as the waves of a sea, rolling and tossing and constantly changing 
 their form. 
 
 As the sun rose higher, these clouds appeared to become a sea 
 
 286 
 
til' Are which glistened and sparkled in the rosy Light, assuming the 
 most beautiful shades of red and purple and yellow, and a golden 
 pathway such as one sees on the water at sunset was formed, reaching 
 to the sun. 
 
 This sight lasted fully ten minutes; but as the sun struggled 
 upward and shone with greater brilliancy, the clouds began gradually 
 to disperse and to afford a glimpse of the mountain side and the valley 
 below. 
 
 As the sunlight penetrated farther it illumined the sides of the 
 Bottomless Pit, which were lined with barren and jagged rocks as 
 far down as the eye could reach. On the right, in the dim distance, 
 loomed the snow-capped mountains of the divide, while on the left 
 barren Mt. "Baldy" stood out alone against the sky. At its foot lay 
 Lake Moreen, sparkling in the morning sunshine. 
 
 Looking down the mountain side in front of us, we beheld noth- 
 ing but tall pines growing so densely as to make the lower part of 
 the mountain appear to be one mass of green. 
 
 At our feet lay the valley spread out as far as eye could reach. 
 The sleeping towms appeared as flower beds in an immense garden, 
 while lakes and rivers seemed to be but the smallest of streams. To 
 all this the lights and shadows of the fleeting clouds gave an addi- 
 tional beauty. 
 
 The whole, view formed a most beautiful and fascinating picture, 
 which, once seen,- will not soon be forgotten. — Lilian C. White. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Come up into the library with me. There she is, writing at that 
 low desk. She is a blonde of medium height. Yes, she wears rimless 
 glasses, to adorn her face, I suppose. Now she sees us. She rises, fluffs 
 up her hair, smooths her skirt, and comes toward us in a sprightly 
 manner. She is not beautiful, but how attractive she looks in that 
 neat shirt waist! She smiles, so do you. You can't help it any more 
 than the mirror can. She attends to the work promptly, and, as there 
 are no more who are waiting for books, she is pleased to talk with 
 you. Her conversation shows culture, which she has acquired, not 
 by a college education, but from her companions, the books. Almost 
 every student likes to misunderstand the arrangement of the books 
 and to consult her before he writes his argumentative essay. Not 
 that he supposes that she can give him new arguments. The "bibs" 
 that refer to her rather than to dry books do not expect to find 
 solutions to their problems in theology. She is not troubled about 
 theories and philosophies, nor does she stop to think why she is in 
 this world. She tries to love or rule all she can. Others may try to 
 cut the night which surrounds this world; she enjoys the day at her 
 feet. Her aim is to be a good assistant, to look trim and pretty, to be 
 a good church member, and to increase the number that admire her. 
 
 287 
 
Some distant shining to-morrow will bring the librarian's position, 
 or, what is better, the joy of a beautiful home. She is interested in 
 books, because that is her business. Each new fiction that looks 
 inviting she hails as a pleasure for some "beauless" hour. I didn't say 
 that she was frivolous. She is beyond the age of that. Moreover, such 
 a word would be too strong. She belongs to the church of her parents, 
 and believes the doctrines of her forefathers with simple faith. Her 
 troubles and sins are settled each day. 
 
 Would you know her heart? Look at that little fellow in dirty 
 rags. How willing she is to find the book that will please him! Not 
 only has she sympathy, but she is polite under trying circumstances. 
 This fussy old lady whose husband is a member of the Board of Trade 
 objects to paying a "four-cent" fine, and is sure there is some mistake. 
 This girl wants a book appropriate "for reading under a tree on the 
 shore." This grimy boy who forgets to take off his hat wants "Bunyan's 
 Silver Polish." She waits on them all without a frown or a smile in 
 retort. 
 
 After all, it is best to have such assistants in the library — fair 
 nymphs to allure the youth into the groves of learning, where, even 
 if he gets nothing from the leaves, his heart may be lightened by the 
 ripple of the twinkling stream. — E. S. Brandt. 
 
 288