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The Holy Cross and Other Tales

by Eugene Field · English · Gutenberg #21807 · 288,842 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Holy Cross and Other Tales

Author: Eugene Field


        
Release date: June 11, 2007 [eBook #21807]
                Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

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The Works of Eugene Field

Vol. V

The Writings in Prose and Verse of Eugene Field

THE HOLY CROSS AND OTHER TALES








[Frontispiece: "Presently the whole company was moved by a gentle
pity."  Drawn by S. W. Van Schaik.]




Charles Scribner's Sons
New York
1911

Copyright, 1893, by
Eugene Field.

Copyright, 1896, by
Julia Sutherland Field.




DEDICATED WITH LOVE

AND GRATITUDE TO

ROSWELL MARTIN FIELD




NOTE.

To this volume as it was originally issued have been added five Tales,
beginning with "The Platonic Bassoon," which are characteristic of the
various moods, serious, gay, or pathetic, out of which grew the best
work of the author's later years.




INTRODUCTION

ALAS, POOR YORICK!

In paying a tribute to the mingled mirth and tenderness of Eugene
Field--the poet of whose going the West may say, "He took our daylight
with him"--one of his fellow journalists has written that he was a
jester, but not of the kind that Shakespeare drew in Yorick.  He was
not only,--so the writer implied,--the maker of jibes and fantastic
devices, but the bard of friendship and affection, of melodious lyrical
conceits; he was the laureate of children--dear for his "Wynken,
Blynken and Nod" and "Little Boy Blue"; the scholarly book-lover,
withal, who relished and paraphrased his Horace, who wrote with delight
a quaint archaic English of his special devising; who collected rare
books, and brought out his own "Little Books" of "Western Verse" and
"Profitable Tales" in high-priced limited editions, with broad margins
of paper that moths and rust do not corrupt, but which tempts
bibliomaniacs to break through and steal.

For my own part, I would select Yorick as the very forecast, in
imaginative literature, of our various Eugene.  Surely Shakespeare
conceived the "mad rogue" of Elsinore as made up of grave and gay, of
wit and gentleness, and not as a mere clown or "jig maker."  It is true
that when Field put on his cap and bells, he too was "wont to set the
table on a roar," as the feasters at a hundred tables, from "Casey's
Table d'Hôte" to the banquets of the opulent East, now rise to testify.
But Shakespeare plainly reveals, concerning Yorick, that mirth was not
his sole attribute,--that his motley covered the sweetest nature and
the tenderest heart.  It could be no otherwise with one who loved and
comprehended childhood and whom the children loved.  And what does
Hamlet say?--"He hath borne me upon his back a thousand times . . .
Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft!"  Of what
is he thinking but of his boyhood, before doubts and contemplation
wrapped him in the shadow, and when in his young grief or frolic the
gentle Yorick, with his jest, his "excellent fancy," and his songs and
gambols, was his comrade?

Of all moderns, then, here or in the old world, Eugene Field seems to
be most like the survival, or revival, of the ideal jester of knightly
times; as if Yorick himself were incarnated, or as if a superior bearer
of the bauble at the court of Italy, or of France, or of English King
Hal, had come to life again--as much out of time as Twain's Yankee at
the Court of Arthur; but not out of place,--for he fitted himself as
aptly to his folk and region as Puck to the fays and mortals of a wood
near Athens.  In the days of divine sovereignty, the jester, we see,
was by all odds the wise man of the palace; the real fools were those
he made his butt--the foppish pages, the obsequious courtiers, the
swaggering guardsmen, the insolent nobles, and not seldom majesty
itself.  And thus it is that painters and romancers have loved to draw
him.  Who would not rather be Yorick than Osric, or Touchstone than Le
Beau, or even poor Bertuccio than one of his brutal mockers?  Was not
the redoubtable Chicot, with his sword and brains, the true ruler of
France?  To come to the jesters of history--which is so much less real
than fiction--what laurels are greener than those of Triboulet, and
Will Somers, and John Heywood--dramatist and master of the king's merry
Interludes?  Their shafts were feathered with mirth and song, but
pointed with wisdom, and well might old John Trussell say "That it
often happens that wise counsel is more sweetly followed when it is
tempered with folly, and earnest is the less offensive if it be
delivered in jest."

Yes, Field "caught on" to his time--a complex American, with the
obstreperous _bizarrerie_ of the frontier and the artistic delicacy of
our oldest culture always at odds within him--but he was, above all, a
child of nature, a frolic incarnate, and just as he would have been in
any time or country.  Fortune had given him that unforgettable mummer's
face,--that clean-cut, mobile visage,--that animated natural mask!  No
one else had so deep and rich a voice for the rendering of the music
and pathos of a poet's lines, and no actor ever managed both face and
voice better than he in delivering his own verses merry or sad.  One
night, he was seen among the audience at "Uncut Leaves," and was
instantly requested to do something towards the evening's
entertainment.  As he was not in evening dress, he refused to take the
platform, but stood up in the lank length of an ulster, from his corner
seat, and recited "Dibdin's Ghost" and "Two Opinions" in a manner which
blighted the chances of the readers that came after him.  It is true
that no clown ever equalled the number and lawlessness of his practical
jokes.  Above all, every friend that he had--except the Dean of his
profession, for whom he did exhibit unbounded and filial reverence--was
soon or late a victim of his whimsicality, or else justly distrusted
the measure of Field's regard for him.  Nor was the friendship
perfected until one bestirred himself to pay Eugene back in kind.  As
to this, I am only one of scores now speaking from personal experience.
There seemed to be no doubt in his mind that the victim of his fun,
even when it outraged common sensibilities, _must_ enjoy it as much as
he.  Who but Eugene, after being the welcome guest, at a European
capital, of one of our most ambitious and refined ambassadors, would
have written a lyric, sounding the praises of a German "onion pie,"
ending each stanza with

  Ach, Liebe!  Ach, mein Gott!

and would have printed it in America, with his host's initials affixed?

My own matriculation at Eugene's College of Unreason was in this wise.
In 1887, Mr. Ben Ticknor, the Boston publisher, was complaining that he
needed some new and promising authors to enlarge his book-list.  The
New York "Sun" and "Tribune" had been copying Field's rhymes and prose
extravaganzas--the former often very charming, the latter the broadest
satire of Chicago life and people.  I suggested to Mr. Ticknor that he
should ask the poet-humorist to collect, for publication in book-form,
the choicest of his writings thus far.  To make the story brief, Mr.
Field did so, and the outcome--at which I was somewhat taken aback--was
the remarkable book, "Culture's Garland," with its title imitated from
the sentimental "Annuals" of long ago, and its cover ornamented with
sausages linked together as a coronal wreath!  The symbol certainly
fitted the greater part of the contents, which ludicrously scored the
Chicago "culture" of that time, and made Pullman, Armour, and other
commercial magnates of the Lakeside City special types in illustration.
All this had its use, and many of the sufferers long since became the
_farceur's_ devoted friends.  The Fair showed the country what Chicago
really was and is.  Certainly there is no other American city where the
richest class appear so enthusiastic with respect to art and
literature.  "The practice of virtue makes men virtuous," and even if
there was some pretence and affectation in the culture of ten years
ago, it has resulted in as high standards of taste as can elsewhere be
found.  Moreover, if our own "four hundred" had even affected, or made
it the fashion to be interested in, whatever makes for real culture,
the intellectual life of this metropolis would not now be so far apart
from the "social swim."  There were scattered through "Culture's
Garland" not a few of Field's delicate bits of verse.  In some way he
found that I had instigated Mr. Ticknor's request, and, although I was
thinking solely of the publisher's interests, he expressed unstinted
gratitude.  Soon afterwards I was delighted to receive from him a
quarto parchment "breviary," containing a dozen ballads, long and
short, engrossed in his exquisitely fine handwriting, and illuminated
with colored borders and drawings by the poet himself.  It must have
required days for the mechanical execution, and certainly I would not
now exchange it for its weight in diamonds.  This was the way our
friendship began.  It was soon strengthened by meetings and
correspondence, and never afterwards broken.

Some years ago, however, I visited Chicago, to lecture, at the
invitation of its famous social and literary "Twentieth Century Club."
This was Eugene's opportunity, and I ought not to have been as
dumfounded as I was, one day, when our evening papers copied from the
"Chicago Record" a "very pleasant joke" at the expense of his town and
myself!  It was headed: "Chicago Excited!  Tremendous Preparations for
His Reception," and went on to give the order and route of a procession
that was to be formed at the Chicago station and escort me to my
quarters--stopping at Armour's packing-yards and the art-galleries on
the way.  It included the "Twentieth Century Club" in carriages, the
"Browning Club" in busses, and the "Homer Club" in drays; ten
millionnaire publishers, and as many pork-packers, in a chariot drawn
by white horses, followed by not less than two hundred Chicago poets
afoot!  I have no doubt that Eugene thought I would enjoy this kind of
advertisement as heartily as he did.  If so, he lacked the gift of
putting himself in the other man's place.  But his sardonic face,
a-grin like a school-boy's, was one with two others which shone upon me
when I did reach Chicago, and my pride was not wounded sufficiently to
prevent me from enjoying the restaurant luncheon to which he bore me
off in triumph.  I did promise to square accounts with him, in time,
and this is how I fulfilled my word.  The next year, at a meeting of a
suburban "Society of Authors," a certain lady-journalist was chaffed as
to her acquaintanceship with Field, and accused of addressing him as
"Gene."  At this she took umbrage, saying: "It's true we worked
together on the same paper for five years, but he was always a perfect
gentleman.  I _never_ called him 'Gene.'"  This was reported by the
press, and gave me the refrain for a skit entitled "Katharine and
Eugenio:"

  Five years she sate a-near him
    Within that type-strewn loft;
  She handed him the paste-pot,
    He passed the scissors oft;
  They dipped in the same inkstand
    That crowned their desk between,
  Yet--he never called her Katie,
    She never called him "Gene."

  Though close--ah! close--the droplight
    That classic head revealed,
  She was to him Miss Katharine,
    He--naught but Mister Field;
  Decorum graced his upright brow
    And thinned his lips serene,
  And, though he wrote a poem each hour,
    Why should she call him "Gene?"

  She gazed at his sporadic hair--
    She knew his hymns by rote;
  They longed to dine together
    At Casey's table d'hôte;
  Alas, that Fortune's "hostages"--
    But let us draw a screen!
  He dared not call her Katie;
    How _could_ she call him "Gene?"

I signed my verses "By one of Gene's Victims"; they appeared in _The
Tribune_, and soon were copied by papers in every part of the country.
Other stanzas, with the same refrain, were added by the funny men of
the southern and western press, and it was months before 'Gene' saw the
last of them.  The word "Eugenio," which was the name by which I always
addressed him in our correspondence, left him in no doubt as to the
initiator of the series, and so our "Merry War" ended, I think, with a
fair quittance to either side.

Grieving, with so many others, over Yorick's premature death, it is a
solace for me to remember how pleasant was our last interchange of
written words.  Not long ago, he was laid very low by pneumonia, but
recovered, and before leaving his sickroom wrote me a sweetly serious
letter--with here and there a sparkle in it--but in a tone sobered by
illness, and full of yearning for a closer companionship with his
friends.  At the same time he sent me the first editions, long ago
picked up, of all my earlier books, and begged me to write on their
fly-leaves.  This I did; with pains to gratify him as much as possible,
and in one of the volumes wrote this little quatrain:

  TO EUGENE FIELD

  Death thought to claim you in this year of years,
    But Fancy cried--and raised her shield between--
  "Still let men weep, and smile amid their tears;
    Take any two beside, but spare Eugene!"

In view of his near escape, the hyperbole, if such there was, might
well be pardoned, and it touched Eugene so manifestly that--now that
the eddy indeed has swept him away, and the Sabine Farm mourns for its
new-world Horace--I cannot be too thankful that such was my last
message to him.

Eugene Field was so mixed a compound that it will always be impossible
quite to decide whether he was wont to judge critically of either his
own conduct or his literary creations.  As to the latter, he put the
worst and the best side by side, and apparently cared alike for both.
That he did much beneath his standard, fine and true at times,--is
unquestionable, and many a set of verses went the rounds that harmed
his reputation.  On the whole, I think this was due to the fact that he
got his stated income as a newspaper poet and jester, and had to
furnish his score of "Sharps and Flats" with more or less regularity.
For all this, he certainly has left pieces, compact of the rarer
elements, sufficient in number to preserve for him a unique place among
America's most original characters, scholarly wits, and poets of
brightest fancy.  Yorick is no more!  But his genius will need no
chance upturning of his grave-turf for its remembrance.  When all is
sifted, its fame is more likely to strengthen than to decline.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.


[Originally contributed to the "Souvenir Book" of the N.Y. Hebrew Fair,
December, 1895.]




Contents


THE HOLY CROSS

THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH

THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE

FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND

THE TOUCH IN THE HEART

DANIEL AND THE DEVIL

METHUSELAH

FÉLICE AND PETIT-POULAIN

THE RIVER

FRANZ ABT

MISTRESS MERCILESS

THE PLATONIC BASSOON

HAWAIIAN FOLK TALES

LUTE BAKER AND HIS WIFE EM

JOEL'S TALK WITH SANTA CLAUS

THE LONESOME LITTLE SHOE




THE HOLY CROSS


Whilst the noble Don Esclevador and his little band of venturesome
followers explored the neighboring fastnesses in quest for gold, the
Father Miguel tarried at the shrine which in sweet piety they had hewn
out of the stubborn rock in that strangely desolate spot.  Here, upon
that serene August morning, the holy Father held communion with the
saints, beseeching them, in all humility, to intercede with our beloved
Mother for the safe guidance of the fugitive Cortes to his native
shores, and for the divine protection of the little host, which,
separated from the Spanish army, had wandered leagues to the northward,
and had sought refuge in the noble mountains of an unknown land.  The
Father's devotions were, upon a sudden, interrupted by the approach of
an aged man who toiled along the mountain-side path,--a man so aged and
so bowed and so feeble that he seemed to have been brought down into
that place, by means of some necromantic art, out of distant centuries.
His face was yellow and wrinkled like ancient parchment, and a beard
whiter than Samite streamed upon his breast, whilst about his withered
body and shrunken legs hung faded raiment which the elements had
corroded and the thorns had grievously rent.  And as he toiled along,
the aged man continually groaned, and continually wrung his palsied
hands, as if a sorrow, no lighter than his years, afflicted him.

"In whose name comest thou?" demanded the Father Miguel, advancing a
space toward the stranger, but not in threatening wise; whereat the
aged man stopped in his course and lifted his eyebrows, and regarded
the Father a goodly time, but he spake no word.

"In whose name comest thou?" repeated the priestly man.  "Upon these
mountains have we lifted up the cross of our blessed Lord in the name
of our sovereign liege, and here have we set down a tabernacle to the
glory of the Virgin and of her ever-blessed son, our Redeemer and
thine,--whoso thou mayest be!"

"Who is thy king I know not," quoth the aged man, feebly; "but the
shrine in yonder wall of rock I know; and by that symbol which I see
therein, and by thy faith for which it stands, I conjure thee, as thou
lovest both, give me somewhat to eat and to drink, that betimes I may
go upon my way again, for the journey before me is a long one."

These words spake the old man in tones of such exceeding sadness that
the Father Miguel, touched by compassion, hastened to meet the
wayfarer, and, with his arms about him, and with whisperings of sweet
comfort, to conduct him to a resting-place.  Coarse food in goodly
plenty was at hand; and it happily fortuned, too, that there was a
homely wine, made by Pietro del y Saguache himself, of the wild grapes
in which a neighboring valley abounded.  Of these things anon the old
man partook, greedily but silently, and all that while he rolled his
eyes upon the shrine; and then at last, struggling to his feet, he made
as if to go upon his way.

"Nay," interposed the Father Miguel, kindly; "abide with us a season.
Thou art an old man and sorely spent.  Such as we have thou shalt have,
and if thy soul be distressed, we shall pour upon it the healing balm
of our blessed faith."

"Little knowest thou whereof thou speakest," quoth the old man, sadly.
"There is no balm can avail me.  I prithee let me go hence, ere,
knowing what manner of man I am, thou hatest me and doest evil unto
me."  But as he said these words he fell back again even then into the
seat where he had sat, and, as through fatigue, his hoary head dropped
upon his bosom.

"Thou art ill!" cried the Father Miguel, hastening to his side.  "Thou
shalt go no farther this day!  Give me thy staff,"--and he plucked it
from him.

Then said the old man: "As I am now, so have I been these many hundred
years.  Thou hast heard tell of me,--canst thou not guess my name;
canst thou not read my sorrow in my face and in my bosom?  As thou art
good and holy through thy faith in that symbol in yonder shrine,
hearken to me, for I will tell thee of the wretch whom thou hast
succored.  Then, if it be thy will, give me thy curse and send me on my
way."

Much marvelled the Father Miguel at these words, and he deemed the old
man to be mad; but he made no answer.  And presently the old man,
bowing his head upon his hands, had to say in this wise:--

"Upon a time," he quoth, "I abided in the city of the Great
King,--there was I born and there I abided.  I was of good stature, and
I asked favor of none.  I was an artisan, and many came to my shop, and
my cunning was sought of many,--for I was exceeding crafty in my trade;
and so, therefore, speedily my pride begot an insolence that had
respect to none at all.  And once I heard a tumult in the street, as of
the cries of men and boys commingled, and the clashing of arms and
staves.  Seeking to know the cause thereof, I saw that one was being
driven to execution,--one that had said he was the Son of God and the
King of the Jews, for which blasphemy and crime against our people he
was to die upon the cross.  Overcome by the weight of this cross, which
he bore upon his shoulders, the victim tottered in the street and
swayed this way and that, as though each moment he were like to fall,
and he groaned in sore agony.  Meanwhile about him pressed a multitude
that with vast clamor railed at him and scoffed him and smote him, to
whom he paid no heed; but in his agony his eyes were alway uplifted to
heaven, and his lips moved in prayer for them that so shamefully
entreated him.  And as he went his way to Calvary, it fortuned that he
fell and lay beneath the cross right at my very door, whereupon,
turning his eyes upon me as I stood over against him, he begged me that
for a little moment I should bear up the weight of the cross whilst
that he wiped the sweat from off his brow.  But I was filled with
hatred, and I spurned him with my foot, and I said to him: 'Move on,
thou wretched criminal, move on.  Pollute not my doorway with thy
touch,--move on to death, I command thee!'  This was the answer I gave
to him, but no succor at all.  Then he spake to me once again, and he
said: 'Thou, too, shalt move on, O Jew!  Thou shalt move on forever,
but not to death!'  And with these words he bore up the cross again and
went upon his way to Calvary.

"Then of a sudden," quoth the old man, "a horror filled my breast, and
a resistless terror possessed me.  So was I accursed forevermore.  A
voice kept saying always to me: 'Move on, O Jew! move on forever!'
From home, from kin, from country, from all I knew and loved I fled;
nowhere could I tarry,--the nameless horror burned in my bosom, and I
heard continually a voice crying unto me: 'Move on, O Jew! move on
forever!'  So, with the years, the centuries, the ages, I have fled
before that cry and in that nameless horror; empires have risen and
crumbled, races have been born and are extinct, mountains have been
cast up and time hath levelled them,--still I do live and still I
wander hither and thither upon the face of the earth, and am an
accursed thing.  The gift of tongues is mine,--all men I know, yet
mankind knows me not.  Death meets me face to face, and passes me by;
the sea devours all other prey, but will not hide me in its depths;
wild beasts flee from me, and pestilences turn their consuming breaths
elsewhere.  On and on and on I go,--not to a home, nor to my people,
nor to my grave, but evermore into the tortures of an eternity of
sorrow.  And evermore I feel the nameless horror burn within, whilst
evermore I see the pleading eyes of him that bore the cross, and
evermore I hear his voice crying: 'Move on, O Jew! move on
forevermore!'"

"Thou art the Wandering Jew!" cried the Father Miguel.

"I am he," saith the aged man.  "I marvel not that thou dost revolt
against me, for thou standest in the shadow of that same cross which I
have spurned, and thou art illumined with the love of him that went his
way to Calvary.  But I beseech thee bear with me until I have told thee
all,--then drive me hence if thou art so minded."

"Speak on," quoth the Father Miguel.

Then said the Jew: "How came I here I scarcely know; the seasons are
one to me, and one day but as another; for the span of my life, O
priestly man! is eternity.  This much know you: from a far country I
embarked upon a ship,--I knew not whence 't was bound, nor cared I.  I
obeyed the voice that bade me go.  Anon a mighty tempest fell upon the
ship and overwhelmed it.  The cruel sea brought peace to all but me; a
many days it tossed and buffeted me, then with a cry of exultation cast
me at last upon a shore I had not seen before, a coast far, far
westward whereon abides no human thing.  But in that solitude still
heard I from within the awful mandate that sent me journeying onward,
'Move on, O Jew! move on;' and into vast forests I plunged, and mighty
plains I traversed; onward, onward, onward I went, with the nameless
horror in my bosom, and--that cry, that awful cry!  The rains beat upon
me; the sun wrought pitilessly with me; the thickets tore my flesh; and
the inhospitable shores bruised my weary feet,--yet onward I went,
plucking what food I might from thorny bushes to stay my hunger, and
allaying my feverish thirst at pools where reptiles crawled.  Sometimes
a monster beast stood in my pathway and threatened to devour me; then
would I spread my two arms thus, and welcome death, crying: 'Rend thou
this Jew in twain, O beast! strike thy kindly fangs deep into this
heart,--be not afeard, for I shall make no battle with thee, nor any
outcry whatsoever!'  But, lo, the beast would cower before me and skulk
away.  So there is no death for me; the judgment spoken is irrevocable;
my sin is unpardonable, and the voice will not be hushed!"

Thus and so much spake the Jew, bowing his hoary head upon his hands.
Then was the Father Miguel vastly troubled; yet he recoiled not from
the Jew,--nay, he took the old man by the hand and sought to soothe him.

"Thy sin was most heinous, O Jew!" quoth the Father; "but it falleth in
our blessed faith to know that whoso repenteth of his sin, what it
soever may be, the same shall surely be forgiven.  Thy punishment hath
already been severe, and God is merciful, for even as we are all his
children, even so his tenderness to us is like unto the tenderness of a
father unto his child--yea, and infinitely tenderer and sweeter, for
who can estimate the love of our heavenly Father?  Thou didst deny thy
succor to the Nazarene when he besought it, yet so great compassion
hath he that if thou but callest upon him he will forget thy
wrong,--leastwise will pardon it.  Therefore be thou persuaded by me,
and tarry here this night, that in the presence of yonder symbol and
the holy relics our prayers may go up with thine unto our blessed
Mother and to the saints who haply shall intercede for thee in
Paradise.  Rest here, O sufferer,--rest thou here, and we shall
presently give thee great comfort."  The Jew, well-nigh fainting with
fatigue, being persuaded by the holy Father's gentle words, gave
finally his consent unto this thing, and went anon unto the cave beyond
the shrine, and entered thereinto, and lay upon a bed of skins and
furs, and made as if to sleep.  And when he slept his sleep was
seemingly disturbed by visions, and he tossed as doth an one that sees
full evil things, and in that sleep he muttered somewhat of a voice he
seemed to hear, though round about there was no sound whatsoever, save
only the soft music of the pine-trees on the mountain-side.  Meanwhile
in the shrine, hewn out of those rocks, did the Father Miguel bow
before the sacred symbol of his faith and plead for mercy for that same
Jew that slumbered anear.  And when, as the deepening blue mantle of
night fell upon the hilltops and obscured the valleys round about, Don
Esclevador and his sturdy men came clamoring along the mountain-side,
the holy Father met them a way off and bade them have regard to the
aged man that slept in yonder cave.  But when he told them of that Jew
and of his misery and of the secret causes thereof, out spake the noble
Don Esclevador, full hotly,--

"By our sweet Christ," he cried, "shall we not offend our blessed faith
and do most impiously in the Virgin's sight if we give this harbor and
this succor unto so vile a sinner as this Jew that hath denied our dear
Lord!"

Which words had like to wrought great evil with the Jew, for instantly
the other men sprang forward as if to awaken the Jew and drive him
forth into the night.  But the Father Miguel stretched forth his hands
and commanded them to do no evil unto the Jew, and so persuasively did
he set forth the godliness and the sweetness of compassion that
presently the whole company was moved with a gentle pity toward that
Jew.  Therefore it befell anon, when night came down from the skies and
after they had feasted upon their homely food as was their wont, that
they talked of the Jew, and thinking of their own hardships and
misfortunes (whereof it is not now to speak), they had all the more
compassion to that Jew, which spake them passing fair, I ween.

Now all this while lay the Jew upon the bed of skins and furs within
the cave, and though he slept (for he was exceeding weary), he tossed
continually from side to side, and spoke things in his sleep, as if his
heart were sorely troubled, and as if in his dreams he beheld grievous
things.  And seeing the old man, and hearing his broken speech, the
others moved softly hither and thither and made no noise soever lest
they should awaken him.  And many an one--yes, all that valiant company
bowed down that night before the symbol in the shrine, and with sweet
reverence called upon our blessed Virgin to plead in the cause of that
wretched Jew.  Then sleep came to all, and in dreams the noble Don
Esclevador saw his sovereign liege, and kneeled before his throne, and
heard his sovereign liege's gracious voice; in dreams the heartweary
soldier sailed the blue waters of the Spanish main, and pressed his
native shore, and beheld once again the lovelight in the dark eyes of
her that awaited him; in dreams the mountain-pines were kissed of the
singing winds, and murmured drowsily and tossed their arms as do little
children that dream of their play; in dreams the Jew swayed hither and
thither, scourged by that nameless horror in his bosom, and seeing the
pleading eyes of our dying Master, and hearing that awful mandate:
"Move on, O Jew! move on forever!"  So each slept and dreamed his
dreams,--all slept but the Father Miguel, who alone throughout the
night kneeled in the shrine and called unto the saints and unto our
Mother Mary in prayer.  And his supplication was for that Jew; and the
mists fell upon that place and compassed it about, and it was as if the
heavens had reached down their lips to kiss the holy shrine.  And
suddenly there came unto the Jew a quiet as of death, so that he tossed
no more in his sleep and spake no word, but lay exceeding still,
smiling in his sleep as one who sees his home in dreams, or his mother,
or some other such beloved thing.

It came to pass that early in the morning the Jew came from the cavern
to go upon his way, and the Father Miguel besought him to take with him
a goodly loaf in his wallet as wise provision against hunger.  But the
Jew denied this, and then he said: "Last night while I slept methought
I stood once more in the city of the Great King,--ay, in that very
doorway where I stood, swart and lusty, when I spurned him that went
his way to Calvary.  In my bosom burned the terror as of old, and my
soul was consumed of a mighty anguish.  None of those that passed in
that street knew me; centuries had ground to dust all my kin.  'O God!'
I cried in agony, 'suffer my sin to be forgotten,--suffer me to sleep,
to sleep forever beneath the burden of the cross I sometime spurned!'
As I spake these words there stood before me one in shining raiment,
and lo! 't was he who bore the cross to Calvary!  His eyes that had
pleaded to me on a time now fell compassionately upon me, and the voice
that had commanded me move on forever, now broke full sweetly on my
ears: 'Thou shalt go on no more, O Jew, but as thou hast asked, so
shall it be, and thou shalt sleep forever beneath the cross.'  Then
fell I into a deep slumber, and, therefrom but just now awaking, I feel
within me what peace bespeaketh pardon for my sin.  This day am I
ransomed; so suffer me to go my way, O holy man."

So went the Jew upon his way, not groaningly and in toilsome wise, as
was his wont, but eagerly, as goeth one to meet his bride, or unto some
sweet reward.  And the Father Miguel stood long, looking after him and
being sorely troubled in mind; for he knew not what interpretation he
should make of all these things.  And anon the Jew was lost to sight in
the forest.

But once, a little space thereafter, while that José Conejos, the
Castilian, clambered up the yonder mountain-side, he saw amid the
grasses there the dead and withered body of an aged man, and thereupon
forthwith made he such clamor that Don Esclevador hastened thither and
saw it was the Jew; and since there was no sign that wild beasts had
wrought evil with him, it was declared that the Jew had died of age and
fatigue and sorrow, albeit on the wrinkled face there was a smile of
peace that none had seen thereon while yet the Jew lived.  And it was
accounted to be a most wondrous thing that, whereas never before had
flowers of that kind been seen in those mountains, there now bloomed
all round about flowers of the dye of blood, which thing the noble Don
Esclevador took full wisely to be a symbol of our dear Lord's most
precious blood, whereby not only you and I but even the Jew shall be
redeemed to Paradise.

Within the spot where they had found the Jew they buried him, and there
he sleeps unto this very day.  Above the grave the Father Miguel said a
prayer; and the ground of that mountain they adjudged to be holy
ground; but over the grave wherein lay the Jew they set up neither
cross nor symbol of any kind, fearing to offend their holy faith.

But that very night, when that they were returned unto their camp half
a league distant, there arose a mighty tempest, and there was such an
upheaval and rending of the earth as only God's hand could make; and
there was a crashing and a groaning as if the world were smitten in
twain, and the winds fled through the valleys in dismay, and the trees
of the forest shrieked in terror and fell upon their faces.  Then in
the morning when the tempest ceased and all the sky was calm and
radiant they saw that an impassable chasm lay between them and that
mountain-side wherein the Jew slept the sleep of death; that God had
traced with his finger a mighty gulf about that holy ground which held
the bones of the transgressor.  Between heaven and earth hung that
lonely grave, nor could any foot scale the precipice that guarded it;
but one might see that the spot was beautiful with kindly mountain
verdure and that flowers of blood-red dye bloomed in that lonely place.

This was the happening in a summer-time a many years ago; to the mellow
grace of that summer succeeded the purple glory of the autumn, and then
came on apace the hoary dignity of winter.  But the earth hath its
resurrection too, and anon came the beauteous spring-time with warmth
and scents and new life.  The brooks leapt forth once more from their
hiding-places, the verdure awaked, and the trees put forth their
foliage.  Then from the awful mountain peaks the snow silently and
slowly slipped to the valleys, and in divers natural channels went
onward and ever downward to the southern sea, and now at last 't was
summer-time again and the mellow grace of August brooded over the
earth.  But in that yonder mountain-side had fallen a symbol never to
be removed,--ay, upon that holy ground where slept the Jew was
stretched a cross, a mighty cross of snow on which the sun never fell
and which no breath of wind ever disturbed.  Elsewhere was the tender
warmth of verdure and the sacred passion of the blood-red flowers, but
over that lonely grave was stretched the symbol of him that went his
way to Calvary, and in that grave slept the Jew.

Mightily marvelled Don Esclevador and his warrior host at this thing;
but the Father Miguel knew its meaning; for he was minded of that
vision wherein it was foretold unto the Jew that, pardoned for his sin,
he should sleep forever under the burden of the cross he spurned.  All
this the Father Miguel showed unto Don Esclevador and the others, and
he said: "I deem that unto all ages this holy symbol shall bear witness
of our dear Christ's mercy and compassion.  Though we, O exiled
brothers, sleep in this foreign land in graves which none shall know,
upon that mountain height beyond shall stretch the eternal witness to
our faith and to our Redeemer's love, minding all that look thereon,
not of the pains and the punishments of the Jew, but of the exceeding
mercy of our blessed Lord, and of the certain eternal peace that cometh
through his love!"

How long ago these things whereof I speak befell, I shall not say.
They never saw--that Spanish host--they never saw their native land,
their sovereign liege, their loved ones' faces again; they sleep, and
they are dust among those mighty mountains in the West.  Where is the
grave of the Father Miguel, or of Don Esclevador, or of any of the
valiant Spanish exiles, it is not to tell; God only knoweth, and the
saints: all sleep in the faith, and their reward is certain.  But where
sleepeth the Jew all may see and know; for on that awful mountain-side,
in a spot inaccessible to man, lieth the holy cross of snow.  The winds
pass lightly over that solemn tomb, and never a sunbeam lingereth
there.  White and majestic it lies where God's hands have placed it,
and its mighty arms stretch forth as in a benediction upon the fleeting
dust beneath.

So shall it bide forever upon that mountain-side, and the memory of the
Jew and of all else human shall fade away and be forgotten in the
surpassing glory of the love and the compassion of him that bore the
redeeming burden to Calvary.




THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH

There was none other in the quiet valley so happy as the
rose-tree,--none other so happy unless perchance it was the thrush who
made his home in the linden yonder.  The thrush loved the rose-tree's
daughter, and he was happy in thinking that some day she would be his
bride.  Now the rose-tree had many daughters, and each was beautiful;
but the rose whom the thrush loved was more beautiful than her sisters,
and all the wooers came wooing her until at last the fair creature's
head was turned, and the rose grew capricious and disdainful.  Among
her many lovers were the south wind and the fairy Dewlove and the
little elf-prince Beambright and the hoptoad, whom all the rest called
Mr. Roughbrown.  The hoptoad lived in the stone-wall several yards
away; but every morning and evening he made a journey to the rose-tree,
and there he would sit for hours gazing with tender longings at the
beautiful rose, and murmuring impassioned avowals.  The rose's disdain
did not chill the hoptoad's ardor.  "See what I have brought you, fair
rose," he would say.  "A beautiful brown beetle with golden wings and
green eyes!  Surely there is not in all the world a more delicious
morsel than a brown beetle!  Or, if you but say the word, I will fetch
you a tender little fly, or a young gnat,--see, I am willing to undergo
all toils and dangers for your own sweet sake."

Poor Mr. Roughbrown!  His wooing was very hopeless.  And all the time
he courted the imperious rose, who should be peeping at him from her
home in the hedge but as plump and as sleek a little Miss Dormouse as
ever you saw, and her eyes were full of envy.

"If Mr. Roughbrown had any sense," she said to herself, "he would waste
no time on that vain and frivolous rose.  He is far too good a catch
for _her_."

The south wind was forever sighing and sobbing about.  He lives, you
know, very many miles from here.  His home is beyond a great sea; in
the midst of a vast desert there is an oasis, and it is among the
palm-trees and the flowers of this oasis that the south wind abides.
When spring calls from the North, "O south wind, where are you?  Come
hither, my sunny friend!" the south wind leaps from his couch in the
far-off oasis, and hastens whither the spring-time calls.  As he speeds
across the sea the mermaids seek to tangle him in their tresses, and
the waves try to twine their white arms about him; but he shakes them
off and laughingly flies upon his way.  Wheresoever he goes he is
beloved.  With their soft, solemn music the pine-trees seek to detain
him; the flowers of earth lift up their voices and cry, "Abide with us,
dear spirit,"--but to all he answers: "The spring-time calls me in the
North, and I must hasten whither she calls."  But when the south wind
came to the rose-tree he would go no farther; he loved the rose, and he
lingered about her with singing and sighing and protestations.

It was not until late in the evening that Dewlove and the elf-prince
appeared.  Just as the moon rolled up in the horizon and poured a broad
streak of silver through the lake the three crickets went "Chirp-chirp,
chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp," and then out danced Dewlove and Beambright
from their hiding-places.  The cunning little fairy lived under the
moss at the foot of the oak-tree; he was no bigger than a cambric
needle,--but he had two eyes, and in this respect he had quite the
advantage of the needle.  As for the elf-prince, his home was in the
tiny, dark subterranean passage which the mole used to live in; he was
plump as a cupid, and his hair was long and curly, although if you
force me to it I must tell you that the elf-prince was really no larger
than your little finger,--so you will see that so far as physical
proportions were concerned Dewlove and Beambright were pretty well
matched.  Merry, merry fellows they were, and I should certainly fail
most lamentably did I attempt to tell you how prettily they danced upon
the greensward of the meadowlands throughout the summer nights.
Sometimes the other fairies and elves joined them,--delicate little
lady fairies with gossamer wings, and chubby little lady elves clad in
filmy spider webs,--and they danced and danced and danced, while the
three crickets went "Chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp," all night
long.  Now it was very strange--was it not?--that instead of loving one
of these delicate little lady fairies, or one of these chubby little
lady elves, both Dewlove and Beambright loved the rose.  Yet, she was
indeed very beautiful.

The thrush did not pester the rose with his protestations of love.  He
was not a particularly proud fellow, but he thought too much of the
rose to vex her with his pleadings.  But all day long he would perch in
the thicket and sing his songs as only a thrush can sing to the
beautiful rose he loves.  He sung, we will say, of the forests he had
explored, of the famous river he had once seen, of the dew which the
rose loved, of the storm-king that slew the old pine and made his cones
into a crown,--he sung of a thousand things which we might not
understand, but which pleased the rose because she understood them.
And one day the thrush swooped down from the linden upon a monstrous
devil's darning-needle that came spinning along and poised himself to
stab the beautiful rose.  Yes, like lightning the thrush swooped down
on this murderous monster, and he bit him in two, and I am glad of it,
and so are you if your heart be not wholly callous.

"How comes it," said the rose-tree to the thrush that day,--"how comes
it that you do not woo my daughter?  You have shown that you love her;
why not speak to her?"

"No, I will wait," answered the thrush.  "She has many wooers, and each
wooes her in his own way.  Let me show her by my devotion that I am
worthy of her, and then perchance she will listen kindly to me when I
speak to her."

The rose-tree thought very strange of this; in all her experience of
bringing out her fair daughters into society she had never before had
to deal with so curious a lover as the thrush.  She made up her mind to
speak for him.

"My daughter," said she to the rose, "the thrush loves you; of all your
wooers he is the most constant and the most amiable.  I pray that you
will hear kindly to his suit."

The rose laughed carelessly,--yes, merrily,--as if she heeded not the
heartache which her indifference might cause the honest thrush.

"Mother," said the rose, "these suitors are pestering me beyond all
endurance.  How can I have any patience with the south wind, who is
forever importuning me with his sentimental sighs and melancholy
wheezing?  And as for that old hoptoad, Mr. Roughbrown,--why, it is a
husband I want, not a father!"

"Prince Beambright pleases you, then?" asked the rose-tree.

"He is a merry, capering fellow," said the daughter, "and so is his
friend Dewlove; but I do not fancy either.  And as for the thrush who
sends you to speak for him,--why, he is quite out of the question, I
assure you.  The truth is, mother, that I am to fill a higher station
than that of bride to any of these simple rustic folk.  Am I not more
beautiful than any of my companions, and have I not ambitions above all
others of my kind?"

"Whom have you seen that you talk so vain-gloriously?" cried the
rose-tree in alarm.  "What flattery has instilled into you this fatal
poison?"

"Have you not seen the poet who comes this way every morning?" asked
the rose.  "His face is noble, and he sings grandly to the pictures
Nature spreads before his eyes.  I should be his bride.  Some day he
will see me; he will bear me away upon his bosom; he will indite to me
a poem that shall live forever!"

These words the thrush heard, and his heart sank within him.  If his
songs that day were not so blithe as usual it was because of the words
that the rose had spoken.  Yet the thrush sang on, and his song was
full of his honest love.

It was the next morning that the poet came that way.  He lived in the
city, but each day he stole away from the noise and crowd of the city
to commune with himself and with Nature in the quiet valley where
bloomed the rose-tree, where the thrush sung, and where dwelt the fays
and the elves of whom it has been spoken.  The sun shone fiercely;
withal the quiet valley was cool, and the poet bared his brow to the
breeze that swept down the quiet valley from the lake over yonder.

"The south wind loves the rose!  Aha, aha, foolish brother to love the
rose!"

This was what the breeze said, and the poet heard it.  Then his eyes
fell upon the rose-tree and upon her blooming daughters.

"The hoptoad loves the rose!  Foolish old Roughbrown to love the rose,
aha, aha!"

There was a malicious squeakiness in this utterance,--of course it came
from that envious Miss Dormouse, who was forever peeping out of her
habitation in the hedge.

"What a beautiful rose!" cried the poet, and leaping over the old
stone-wall he plucked the rose from the mother-tree,--yes, the poet
bore away this very rose who had hoped to be the poet's bride.

Then the rose-tree wept bitterly, and so did her other daughters; the
south wind wailed, and the old hoptoad gave three croaks so dolorous
that if you had heard them you would have said that his heart was truly
broken.  All were sad,--all but the envious dormouse, who chuckled
maliciously, and said it was no more than they deserved.

The thrush saw the poet bearing the rose away, yet how could the
fluttering little creature hope to prevail against the cruel invader?
What could he do but twitter in anguish?  So there are tragedies and
heartaches in lives that are not human.

As the poet returned to the city he wore the rose upon his breast.  The
rose was happy, for the poet spoke to her now and then, and praised her
loveliness, and she saw that her beauty had given him an inspiration.

"The rose despised my brother!  Aha, aha, foolish rose,--but she shall
wither!"

It was the breeze that spake; far away from the lake in the quiet
valley its voice was very low, but the rose heard and trembled.

"It's a lie," cried the rose.  "I shall not die.  The poet loves me,
and I shall live forever upon his bosom."

Yet a singular faintness--a faintness never felt before--came upon the
rose; she bent her head and sighed.  The heat--that was all--was very
oppressive, and here at the entrance to the city the tumult aroused an
aggravating dust.  The poet seemed suddenly to forget the rose.  A
carriage was approaching, and from the carriage leaned a lady, who
beckoned to the poet.  The lady was very fair, and the poet hastened to
answer her call.  And as he hastened the rose fell from his bosom into
the hot highway, and the poet paid no heed.  Ascending into the
carriage with the lady (I am sure she must have been a princess!) the
poet was whirled away, and there in the stifling dust lay the fainting
rose, all stained and dying.

The sparrows flew down and pecked at her inquisitively; the cruel
wagons crushed her beneath their iron wheels; careless feet buffeted
her hither and thither.  She was no longer a beautiful rose; no, nor
even a reminiscence of one,--simply a colorless, scentless, ill-shapen
mass.

But all at once she heard a familiar voice, and then she saw familiar
eyes.  The voice was tender and the eyes were kindly.

"O honest thrush," cried the rose, "is it you who have come to reproach
me for my folly?"

"No, no, dear rose," said the thrush, "how should I speak ill to you?
Come, rest your poor head upon my breast, and let me bear you home."

"Let me rather die here," sighed the rose, "for it was here that my
folly brought me.  How could I go back with you whom I never so much as
smiled upon?  And do they not hate and deride me in the valley?  I
would rather die here in misery than there in shame!"

"Poor, broken flower, they love you," urged the thrush.  "They grieve
for you; let me bear you back where the mother-tree will shade you, and
where the south wind will nurse you--for--for he loves you."

So the thrush bore back the withering rose to her home in the quiet
valley.

"So she has come back, has she?" sneered the dormouse.  "Well, she has
impudence, if nothing else!"

"She was pretty once," said the old hoptoad; "but she lost her
opportunity when I made up my mind to go wooing a certain glossy damsel
in the hedge."

The rose-tree reached out her motherly arms to welcome her dying
daughter, and she said: "Rest here, dear one, and let me rock you to
repose."

It was evening in the quiet valley now.  Where was the south wind that
he came not with his wooing?  He had flown to the North, for that day
he had heard the spring-time's voice a-calling, and he went in answer
to its summons.  Everything was still.  "Chirp-chirp,  chirp-chirp,
chirp-chirp," piped the three crickets, and forthwith the fairy boy and
the elf-prince danced from their habitations.  Their little feet
tinkled over the clover and the daisies.

"Hush, little folk," cried the rose-tree.  "Do not dance to-night,--the
rose is dying."

But they danced on.  The rose did not hear them; she heard only the
voice of the thrush, who perched in the linden yonder, and, with a
breaking heart, sung to the dying flower.




THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE[1]

It is to tell of Harold, the son of Egbert, the son of Ib; comely was
he to look upon, and a braver than he lived not in these islands, nor
one more beloved of all people.  But it chanced upon a time, while he
was still in early manhood, that a grievous sorrow befell him; for on a
day his mother Eleanor came to her end in this full evil wise.  It was
her intent to go unto the neighboring island, where grazed the goats
and the kine, and it fortuned that, as she made her way thither in the
boat, she heard sweet music, as if one played upon a harp in the
waters, and, looking over the side of the boat, she beheld down in the
waters a sea-maiden making those exceeding pleasant sounds.  And the
sea-maiden ceased to play, and smiled up at Eleanor, and stretched up
her hands and besought Eleanor to pluck her from the sea into the boat,
which seeking to do, Eleanor fell headlong into the waters, and was
never thereafter seen either alive or dead by any of her kin.  Now
under this passing heavy grief Egbert, the son of Ib, being old and
spent by toil, brake down, and on a night died, making with his latest
breath most heavy lamentation for Eleanor, his wife; so died he, and
his soul sped, as they tell, to that far northern land where the souls
of the departed make merry all the night, which merriment sendeth forth
so vast and so beautiful a light that all the heavens are illumined
thereby.  But Harold, the son of Egbert and of Eleanor, was left alone,
having neither brother, nor sister, nor any of kin, save an uncle
abiding many leagues distant in Jutland.  Thereupon befell a wonderful
thing; if it had not happened it would not be told.  It chanced that,
on a certain evening in the summer-time, Harold walked alone where a
Druid circle lay coiled like a dark serpent on a hillside; his heart
was filled with dolor, for he thought continually of Eleanor, his
mother, and he wept softly to himself through love of that dear mother.
While thus he walked in vast heaviness of soul, he was beheld of
Membril, the fairy that with her goodly subjects dwelt in the ruin of
the Pict's house hard by the Druid circle.  And Membril had compassion
upon Harold, and upon the exceeding fine down of a tiny sea-bird she
rode out to meet him, and it was before his eyes as if a star shined
out of a mist in his pathway.  So it was that Membril the fairy made
herself known to him, and having so done, she said and she sung:

  I am Membril, queen of Fay,
  That would charm thy grief away!
  Thou art like the little bark
  Drifting in the cold and dark,--
  Drifting through the tempest's roar
  To a rocky, icy shore;
  All the torment dost thou feel
  Of the spent and fearful seal
  Wounded by the hunter's steel.
  I am Membril,--hark to me:
  Better times await on thee!
  Wouldst thou clasp thy mother dear,--
  Strange things see and stranger hear?
  Straight betake thee to thy boat
  And to yonder haven float,--
  Go thy way, and silent be,--
  It is Membril counsels thee;
  Go thy way, and thou shalt see!


Great marvel had Harold to this thing; nevertheless he did the bidding
of Membril the fairy, and it was full wisely done.  And presently he
came to where his boat lay, half on the shore and half in the waters,
and he unloosed the thong that held it, and entered into the boat; but
he put neither hand to the oars thereof, for he was intent to do the
bidding of Membril the fairy.  Then as if of its own accord, or as if
the kindly waves themselves bore it along, the boat moved upon the
waters and turned toward the yonder haven whereof it was said and sung.
Fair shone the moon, and the night was passing fair; the shadows fell
from the hilltops in their sleep and lay, as they had been little weary
children, in the valleys and upon the shore, and they were rocked in
the cradles of those valleys, and the waters along the shore sung
softly to them.  Upon the one side lay the island where grazed the
goats and the kine, and upon the other side lay the island where Harold
and other people abode; between these islands crept the sea with its
gentle murmurings, and upon this sea drifted the boat bearing Harold to
the yonder haven.  Now the haven whereunto the course lay brooded
almost beneath the shadow of the Stennis stones, and the waters thereof
were dark, as if, forsooth, the sea frowned whensoever it saw those
bloody stones peering down into its tranquil bosom.  And some said that
the place was haunted, and that upon each seventh night came thereunto
the spirits of them that had been slain upon those stones, and waved
their ghostly arms and wailed grievously; but of latter times none
believeth this thing to be true.

It befell that, coming into the haven and bearing toward the shore
thereof, Harold was 'ware of sweet music, and presently he saw figures
as of men and women dancing upon the holm; but neither could he see who
these people were, nor could he tell wherefrom the music came.  But
such fair music never had he heard before, and with great marvel he
came from the boat into the cluster of beech-trees that stood between
the haven and that holm where the people danced.  Then of a sudden
Harold saw twelve skins lying upon the shore in the moonlight; and they
were the comeliest and most precious sealskins that ever he saw, and he
coveted them.  So presently he took up one of the sealskins and bore it
with him into his boat, and pushed the boat from the shore into the
waters of the haven again, and, so doing, there was such plashing of
the waters that those people dancing upon the fair green holm became
'ware of Harold's presence, and were afeared, so that, ceasing from
their sport, they made haste down to the shore and did on the skins and
dived into the waters with shrill cries.  But there was one of them
that could not do so, because Harold bore off that skin wherewith she
was wont to begird herself, and when she found it not she wailed and
wept and besought Harold to give her that skin again,--and, lo! it was
Eleanor, the wife of Egbert!  Now when Harold saw that it was his
mother that so entreated him he was filled with wonder, and he drew
nearer the shore to regard her and to hear her words, for he loved her
passing well.  But he denied her that skin, knowing full well that so
soon as she possessed it she would leave him and he should never again
behold her.  Then Eleanor related to him how that she had been drowned
in the sea through treachery of the harp-maiden, and how that the souls
of drowned people entered into the bodies of seals, nor were permitted
to return to earth, save only one night in every month, at which time
each recovered his human shape and was suffered to dance in the
moonlight upon the fair green holm from the hour of sunset unto the
hour of sunrise.

"Give me the skin, I pray thee," she cried, "for if the sun came upon
me unawares I should crumble into dust before thine eyes, and that
moment would a curse fall upon you.  I am happy as I am; the sea and
those who dwell therein are good to me,--give me the skin, I beseech
thee, that I may return whence I came, and thereby shall a great
blessing accrue to thee and thine."

But Harold said: "Nay, mother, I were a fool to part so cheerfully with
one whom I love dearer than life itself!  I shall not let you go so
easily; you shall come with me to our home, where I have lived alone
too long already.  I shall be alone no longer,--come with me, I say,
for I will not deliver up this skin, nor shall any force wrest it from
me!"

Then Eleanor, his mother, reasoned a space with him, and anon she
showed him the folly of his way; but still he hung his head upon his
breast and was loath to do her bidding, until at last she sware unto
him that if he gave to her that skin he should, upon the next dancing
night, have to wife the most beautiful maiden in the world, and
therefore should be alone in the world no more.  To this presently
Harold gave assent, and then Eleanor, his mother, bade him come to that
same spot one month hence, and do what she should then bid him do.
Receiving, therefore, the skin from him, she folded it about her and
threw herself into the sea, and Harold betook himself unto his home.

Now wit ye well that full wearily dragged the days and the nights until
that month was spent; but now at last it was the month of August, and
upon the night of the seventh day thereof ended the season of waiting.
It is to tell that upon that night came Harold, the son of Egbert, from
his hut, and stood on the threshold thereof, and awaited the rising of
the moon from out the silver waters yonder.  While thus he stood there
appeared unto him Membril the fairy, and smiling upon him she said and
she sung:--

  I am Membril, queen of Fay,
  Come to urge thee on thy way;
  Haste to yonder haven-side
  Where awaits thy promised bride;
  Daughter of a king is she,--
  Many leagues she comes to thee,
  Thine and only thine to be.
  Haste and see, then come again
  To thy pretty home, and, when
  Smiles the sun on earth once more,
  Will come knocking at thy door;
  Open then, and to thy breast
  Clasp whom thou shalt love the best!
  It is Membril counsels thee,--
  Haste and see what thou shalt see!


Now by this thing was Harold mightily rejoiced, and he believed it to
be truth that great good was in store for him; for he had seen pleasant
things in the candle a many nights, and the smoke from his fire blew
cheerily and lightly to the westward, and a swan had circled over his
house that day week, and in his net each day for twice seven days had
he drawn from the sea a fish having one golden eye and one silver eye:
which things, as all men know, portend full goodly things, or else they
portend nothing at all whatsoever.  So, being pleasantly minded, Harold
returned in kind unto Membril, the fairy queen, that bespoke him so
courteously, and to her and to them that bore her company he said and
he sung:--

  Welcome, bonnie queen of Fay!
    For thou speakest pleasing words;
  Thou shalt have a gill of whey
    And a thimblefull of curds;
  In this rose is honey-dew
  That a bee hath brought for you!

  Welcome, bonnie queen of Fay!
    Call thy sisters from the gloam,
  And, whilst I am on my way,
    Feast and frolic in my home,--
  Kiss the moonbeams, blanching white,
  Shrinking, shivering with affright!

  Welcome, all, and have no fear,--
    There is flax upon the sill,
  No foul sprite can enter here,--
    Feast and frolic as you will;
  Feast and frisk till break of day,--
  Welcome, little folk of Fay!


Thus having said and thus having sung, Harold went upon his way, and
came to his boat and entered into it and journeyed to the haven where
some time he had seen and discoursed with Eleanor, his mother.  His
course to this same haven lay, as before, over the waters that stole in
between the two islands from the great sea beyond.  Fair shone the
moon, and the night was passing fair; the shadows rolled from the
hilltops in their sleep and lay like little weary children in the
valleys and upon the shore, and they were rocked in the cradles of
those valleys, and the waters along the shore sung softly to them.
Upon this hand lay the island where the goats and the kine found sweet
pasturage, and upon the other hand stretched the island where people
abode, and where the bloody Stennis stones rebuked the smiling sky, and
where ghosts walked and wailed and waved their white arms in the
shadows of those haunted ruins where once upon a time the Picts had
dwelt.  And Harold's heart was full of joy, the more in especial when,
as he bore nigh unto the haven, he heard sweet music and beheld a
goodly company of people that danced in the moonlight upon the fair
green holm.  Then, when presently his boat touched the inner shore of
the haven, and he departed therefrom and drew the boat upon the shore,
he saw wherefrom issued the beautiful music to which the people danced;
he saw that the waters reached out their white fingers and touched the
kale and the fair pebbles and the brittle shells and the moss upon the
beach, and these things gave forth sweet sounds, which were as if a
thousand attuned harps vied with the singing of the summer-night winds.
Then, as before, Harold saw sealskins lying upon the shore, and
presently came Eleanor, his mother, and pointing to a certain fair
velvet skin, she said: "Take that fair velvet skin into thy boat and
speed with all haste to thy home.  To-morrow at sunrise thy bride shall
come knocking at thy door.  And so, farewell, my son,--oh, Harold, my
only son!"  Which saying, Eleanor, the wife of Egbert, drew a skin
about her and leapt into the sea; nor was she ever thereafter beholden
of human eyes.

Then Harold took up the fair velvet skin to which his mother had
directed him, and he bore it away with him in his boat.  So softly went
he upon the waters that none of them that danced upon the fair green
holm either saw or heard him.  Still danced they on to the sweet music
made by the white fingers of the waves, and still shone the white moon
upon the fair green holm where they so danced.

Now when came Harold to his home, bearing the precious skin with him,
he saw the fairies at play upon the floor of his hut, and they feared
no evil, for there was barley strewn upon the sill so that no wicked
sprite could enter there.  And when Membril, the fairy queen, saw him
bringing the skin that he had found upon the shore, she bade him good
welcome, and she said and she sung:--

  I am Membril, queen of Fay,--
  Ponder well what words I say;
  Hide that fair and velvet skin
  Some secluded spot within;
  In the tree where ravens croak,--
  In the hollow of the oak,
  In the cave with mosses lined,
  In the earth where none may find;
  Hide it quick and hide it deep,--
  So secure shall be thy sleep,
  Thine shall bride and blessings be,
  Thine a fair posterity,--
  So doth Membril counsel thee!


So, pondering upon this counsel and thinking well of it, Harold took
the fair velvet skin and hid it, and none knew where it was hid,--none
save only the raven that lived in the hollow oak.  And when he had so
done he returned unto his home and lay upon his bed and slept.  It came
to pass that early upon the morrow, when the sun made all the eastward
sky blush for the exceeding ardor of his morning kiss, there came a
knocking at the door of Harold's hut, and Harold opened the door, and
lo! there stood upon the threshold the fairest maiden that eyes ever
beheld.  Unlike was she to maidens dwelling in those islands, for her
hair was black as the waters of the long winter night, and her eyes
were as the twin midnight rocks that look up from the white waves of
the moonlit sea in yonder reef; withal was she most beautiful to look
upon, and her voice was as music that stealeth to one over pleasant
waters.

The maiden's name was Persis, and she was the daughter of a Pagan king
that ruled in a country many, many--oh, many leagues to the southward
of these islands, in a country where unicorns and dragons be, and where
dwelleth the phoenix and hippogriffins and the cockatrix, and where
bloometh a tree that runneth blood, and where mighty princes do
wondrous things.  Now it fortuned that the king was minded to wed his
daughter Persis unto a neighboring prince, a high and mighty prince,
but one whom Persis loved not, neither could she love.  So for the
first time Persis said, "Nay, I will not," unto her father's mandate,
whereat the king was passing wroth, and he put his daughter in a place
that was like a jail to her, for it was where none might see her, and
where she might see none,--none but those that attended upon her.  This
much told Persis, the Pagan princess, unto Harold, and then,
furthermore, she said: "The place wherein I was put by the king, my
father, was hard by the sea, and oftentimes I went thereon in my little
boat, and once, looking down from that boat into the sea, I saw the
face of a fair young man within a magic mirror that was held up in the
waters of the sea by two ghostly hands, and the fair young man moved
his lips and smiled at me, and methought I heard him say: 'Come, be my
bride, O fair and gentle Persis!'  But, vastly afeared, I cried out and
put back again to shore.  Yet in my dreams I saw that face and heard
that voice, nor could I find any rest until I came upon the sea again
in hope to see the face and hear the voice once more.  Then, that
second time, as I looked into the sea, another face came up from below
and lifted above the waters, and a woman's voice spake thus to me: 'I
am mother of him that loveth thee and whom thou lovest; his face hast
thou seen in the mirror, and of thee I have spoken to him; come, let me
bear thee as a bride to him!'  And in that moment a faintness came upon
me and I fell into her arms, and so was I drowned (as men say), and so
was I a seal a little space until last dancing night, when, lo! some
one brought me to life again, and one that said her name was Membril
showed me the way unto thy door.  And now I look upon thy face in
truth, and thou art he who shall have me to his wife, for thou art he
whose face I saw within the mirror which the ghostly hands bore up to
me that day upon the sea!"

Great then was Harold's joy, and he folded her in his arms, and he
spake sweet words to her, and she was content.  So they were wed that
very day, and there came to do them honor all the folk upon these
islands: Dougal and Tam and Ib and Robbie and Nels and Gram and Rupert
and Rolf and many others and all their kin, and they made merry, and it
was well.  And never spake the Pagan princess of that soft velvet skin
which Harold had hid away,--never spake she of it to him or to any
other one.

It is to tell that to Harold and to Persis were born these children,
and in this order: Egbert and Ib (that was nicknamed the Strong) and
Harold and Joan and Tam and Annie and Rupert the Fair and Flocken and
Elsa and Albert and Theodoric,--these eleven children were born unto
them in good time; and right fair children were they to see, comely and
stout, yet sweetly minded withal.  And prosperous times continually
befell Harold; his herds multiplied, and the fish came into his nets,
so that presently there was none other richer than he in all that
country, and he did great good with his riches, for he had compassion
to the poor.  So Harold was beloved of all, and all spake full fairly
of his wife,--how that she cared for his little ones, and kept the
house, and did deeds of sweet charity among the needy and
distressed,--ay, so was Persis, the wife of Harold, beloved of all, and
by none other more than by Harold, who was wont to say that Persis had
brought him all he loved best: his children, his fortune, his
happiness, and, best of all, herself.  So now they were wed twice seven
years, and in that time was Persis still as young and fair to look upon
as when she came to Harold's door for the first time and knocked.  This
I account to be a marvel, but still more a marvel was it that in all
these years spake she never a word of that soft velvet skin which
Harold took and hid,--never a word to him nor to any one else.  But the
soft velvet skin lay meanwhile in the hollow of the oak, and in the
branches of that tree perched a raven that croaked and croaked and
croaked.

Now it befell upon a time that a ship touched at that island, and there
came therefrom men that knelt down upon the shore and made strange
prayers to a strange God, and forthwith uplifted in that island a
symbol of wood in the similitude of a cross.  Straightway went Harold
with the rest to know the cause thereof, being fearful lest for this
impiety their own gods, whom they served diligently, should send hail
and fire upon them and their herds.  But those that had come in the
ship spake gently with them and showed themselves to be peaceful folk
whose God delighted not in wars, but rather in gentleness and love.
How it was, I, knowing not, cannot say, but presently the cause of that
new God, whose law was gentleness and love, waxed mightily, and the
people came from all around to kiss that cross and worship it.  And
among them came Harold, for in his heart had dawned the light of a new
wisdom, and he knew the truth as we know it, you and I.  So Harold was
baptized in the Christian faith, he and his children; but Persis, his
wife, was not baptized, for she was the daughter of a Pagan king, and
she feared to bring evil upon those she loved by doing any blasphemous
thing.  Right sorely grieved was Harold because of this, and oftentimes
he spake with her thereof, and oftentimes he prayed unto his God and
ours to incline her mind toward the cross, which saveth all alike.  But
Persis would say: "My best beloved, let me not do this thing in haste,
for I fear to vex thy God since I am a Pagan and the daughter of a
Pagan king, and therefore have not within me the light that there is in
thee and thy kind.  Perchance (since thy God is good and gracious) the
light will come to me anon, and shine before mine eyes as it shineth
before thine.  I pray thee, let me bide my time."  So spake Persis, and
her life ever thereafter was kind and charitable, as, soothly, it had
ever before been, and she served Harold, her husband, well, and she was
beloved of all, and a great sweetness came to all out of her daily life.

It fortuned, upon a day whilst Harold was from home, there was knocking
at the door of their house, and forthwith the door opened and there
stood in the midst of them one clad all in black and of rueful
countenance.  Then, as if she foresaw evil, Persis called unto her
little ones and stood between them and that one all in black, and she
demanded of him his name and will.  "I am the Death-Angel," quoth he,
"and I come for the best-beloved of thy lambs!"

Now Theodoric was that best-beloved; for he was her very little one,
and had always slept upon her bosom.  So when she heard those words she
made a great outcry, and wrestled with the Death-Angel, and sought to
stay him in his purpose.  But the Death-Angel chilled her with his
breath, and overcame her, and prevailed against her; and he reached
into the midst of them and took Theodoric in his arms and folded him
upon his breast, and Theodoric fell asleep there, and his head dropped
upon the Death-Angel's shoulder.  But in her battle for the child,
Persis catched at the chain about the child's neck, and the chain brake
and remained in her hand, and upon the chain was the little cross of
fair alabaster which an holy man had put there when Theodoric was
baptized.  So the Death-Angel went his way with that best-beloved lamb,
and Persis fell upon her face and wailed.

The years went on and all was well upon these islands.  Egbert became a
mighty fisherman, and Ib (that was nicknamed the Strong) wrought
wondrous things in Norroway, as all men know; Joan was wed to Cuthbert
the Dane, and Flocken was wooed of a rich man's son of Scotland.  So
were all things for good and for the best, and it was a marvel to all
that Persis, the wife of Harold, looked still to be as young and
beautiful as when she came from the sea to be her husband's bride.  Her
life was full of gentleness and charity, and all folk blessed her.  But
never in all these years spake she aught to any one of the fair velvet
skin; and through all the years that skin lay hid in the hollow of the
oak-tree, where the raven croaked and croaked and croaked.

At last upon a time a malady fell upon Persis, and a strange light came
into her eyes, and naught they did was of avail to her.  One day she
called Harold to her, and said: "My beloved, the time draweth near when
we twain must part.  I pray thee, send for the holy man, for I would
fain be baptized in thy faith and in the faith of our children."  So
Harold fetched the holy man, and Persis, the daughter of the Pagan
king, was baptized, and she spake freely and full sweetly of her love
to Jesus Christ, her Saviour, and she prayed to be taken into his rest.
And when she was baptized, there was given to her the name of Ruth,
which was most fairly done, I trow, for soothly she had been the friend
of all.

Then, when the holy man was gone, she said to her husband: "Beloved, I
beseech thee go to yonder oak-tree, and bring me from the hollow
thereof the fair velvet skin that hath lain therein so many years."

Then Harold marvelled, and he cried: "Who told thee that the fair
velvet skin was hidden there?"

"The raven told me all," she answered; "and had I been so minded I
might have left thee long ago,--thee and our little ones.  But I loved
thee and them, and the fair velvet skin hath been unseen of me."

"And wouldst thou leave us now?" he cried.  "Nay, it shall not be!
Thou shalt not see that fair velvet skin, for this very day will I cast
it into the sea!"

But she put an arm about his neck and said: "This night, dear one, we
part; but whether we shall presently be joined together in another life
I know not, neither canst thou say; for I, having been a Pagan and the
daughter of a Pagan king, may by my birth and custom have so grievously
offended our true God that even in his compassion and mercy he shall
not find pardon for me.  Therefore I would have thee fetch--since I
shall die this night and do require of thee this last act of
kindness--I would have thee fetch that same fair velvet skin from
yonder oak-tree, and wrap me therein, and bear me hence, and lay me
upon the green holm by the farther haven, for this is dancing night,
and the seal-folk shall come from the sea as is their wont.  Thou shalt
lay me, so wrapped within that fair velvet skin, upon that holm, and
thou shalt go a space aside and watch throughout the night, coming not
anear me (as thou lovest me!) until the dawn breaks, nor shalt thou
make any outcry, but thou shalt wait until the night is sped.  Then,
when thou comest at daybreak to the holm, if thou findest me in the
fair velvet skin thou shalt know that my sin hath been pardoned; but if
I be not there thou may'st know that, being a Pagan, the seal-folk have
borne me back into the sea unto my kind.  Thus do I require of thee;
swear so to do, and let thy beloved bless thee."

So Harold swore to do, and so he did.  Straightway he went to the
oak-tree and took from the hollow thereof the fair velvet skin; seeing
which deed, the raven flew away and was never thereafter seen in these
islands.  And with a heavy heart, and with full many a caress and word
of love, did Harold bind his fair wife in that same velvet skin, and he
bore her to his boat, and they went together upon the waters; for he
had sworn so to do.  His course unto the haven lay as before over the
waters that stole in between the two islands from the great troubled
sea beyond.  Fair shone the moon, and the night was passing fair; the
shadows lay asleep, like little weary children, in the valleys, and the
waters moaned, and the winds rebuked the white fingers that stretched
up from the waves to clutch them.  And when they were come to the inner
shore of the haven, Harold took his wife and bore her up the bank and
laid her where the light came down from the moon and slept full sweetly
upon the fragrant sward.  Then, kissing her, he went his way and sat
behind the Stennis stones a goodly space beyond, and there he kept his
watch, as he had sworn to do.

Now wit ye well a grievous heavy watch it was that night, for his heart
yearned for that beloved wife that lay that while upon the fair green
holm,--ay, never before had night seemed so long to Harold as did that
dancing night when he waited for the seal-folk to come where the
some-time Pagan princess lay wrapped in the fair velvet skin.  But
while he watched and waited, Membril, the fairy queen, came and brought
others of her kind with her, and they made a circle about Harold, and
threw around him such a charm that no evil could befall him from the
ghosts and ghouls that in their shrouds walked among those bloody
stones and wailed wofully and waved their white arms.  For Membril,
coming to Harold in the similitude of a glow-worm, made herself known
to him, and she said and she sung:

  Loving heart, be calm a space
  In this gloomy vigil place;
  Though these confines haunted be
  Naught of harm can come to thee--
  Nothing canst thou see or hear
  Of the ghosts that stalk anear,
  For around thee Membril flings
  Charms of Fay and fairy rings.


Nothing daunted was Harold by thoughts of evil monsters, and naught
recked he of the uncanny dangers of that haunted place; but he
addressed these words to Membril and her host, and he said and he sung:

  Tell me if thy piercing eyes
    See the inner haven shore.
  There my Own Beloved lies,
    With the cowslips bending o'er:
  Speed, O gentle folk of Fay!
  And in guise of cowslips say
  I shall love my love for aye!


Even so did Membril and the rest; and presently they returned, and they
brought these words unto Harold, saying and singing them:--

  We as cowslips in that place
  Clustered round thy dear one's face,
  And we whispered to her there
  Those same words we went to bear;
  And she smiled and bade us then
  Bear these words to thee again:
  "Die we shall, and part we may,--
  Love is love and lives for aye!"


Then of a sudden there was a tumult upon the waters, as if the waters
were troubled, and there came up out of the waters a host of seals that
made their way to the shore and cast aside their skins and came forth
in the forms of men and of women, for they were the drowned folk that
were come, as was their wont, to dance in the moonlight upon the fair
green holm.  At that moment the waters stretched out their white
fingers and struck the kale and the pebbles and the soft moss upon the
beach, for they sought to make music for the seal-folk to dance
thereby; but the music that was made was not merry nor gleeful, but was
passing gruesome and mournful.  And presently the seal-folk came where
lay the wife of Harold wrapped in the fair velvet skin, and they knew
her of old, and they called her by what name she was known to them,
"Persis!  Persis!" over and over again, and there was great wailing
among the seal-folk for a mighty space; and the seal-folk danced never
at all that night, but wailed about the wife of Harold, and called
"Persis!  Persis!" over and over again, and made great moan.  And at
last all was still once more, for the seal-folk, weeping and clamoring
grievously, went back into the sea, and the sea sobbed itself to sleep.

Mindful of the oath he swore, Harold dared not go down to that shore,
but he besought Membril, the queen of Fay, to fetch him tidings from
his beloved, whether she still lay upon the holm, or whether the
seal-folk had borne her away with them into the waters of the deep.
But Membril might not go, nor any of her host, for already the dawn was
in the east and the kine were lowing on yonder slope.  So Harold was
left alone a tedious time, until the sun looked upon the earth, and
then, with clamoring heart, Harold came from the Stennis stones and
leapt downward to the holm where his beloved had lain that weary while.
Then he saw that the fair velvet skin was still there, and presently he
saw that within the skin his beloved still reposed.  He called to her,
but she made no answer; with exceeding haste he kneeled down and did
off the fair velvet skin, and folded his beloved to his breast.  The
sun shone full upon her glorious face and kissed away the dew that
clung to her white cheeks.

"Thou art redeemed, O my beloved!" cried Harold; but her lips spake
not, and her eyes opened not upon him.  Yet on the dead wife's face was
such a smile as angels wear, and it told him that they should meet
again in a love that knoweth no fear of parting.  And as Harold held
her to his bosom and wailed, there fell down from her hand what she had
kept with her to the last, and it lay upon the fair green holm,--the
little alabaster cross which she had snatched from Theodoric's neck
that day the Death-Angel bore the child away.

It was to tell of Harold, the son of Egbert, the son of Ib, and of
Persis, his wife, daughter of the Pagan king; and it hath been told.
And there is no more to tell, for the tale is ended.



[1] Orkney Folk-Lore.




FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND

My quondam friends, Flail, Trask, and Bisland, are no more; they are
dead, and with them has gone out of existence as gross an imposition as
the moral cowardice of man were capable of inventing, constructing, and
practising.

When Alice became my wife she knew that I was a lover and collector of
books, but, being a young thing, she had no idea of the monstrous
proportions which bibliomania, unchecked, is almost certain to acquire.
Indeed, the dear girl innocently and rapturously encouraged this
insidious vice.  "Some time," she used to say, "we shall have a house
of our own, and then your library shall cover the whole top-floor, and
the book-cases shall be built in the walls, and there shall be a lovely
blue-glass sky-light," etc.  Moreover, although she could not tell the
difference between an Elzevir and a Pickering, or between a folio and
an octavo, Alice was very proud of our little library, and I recall now
with real delight the times I used to hear her showing off those
precious books to her lady callers.  Alice made up for certain
inaccuracies of information with a distinct enthusiasm and garrulity
that never failed to impress her callers deeply.  I was mighty proud of
Alice; I was prepared to say, paraphrasing Sam Johnson's remark about
the Scotchman, "A wife can be made much of, if caught young."

It was not until after little Grolier and little Richard de Bury were
born to us that Alice's regard for my pretty library seemed to abate.
I then began to realize the truth of what my bachelor friend Kinzie had
often declared,--namely, that the chief objection to children was that
they weaned the collector from his love of books.  Grolier was a
mischievous boy, and I had hard work trying to convince his mother that
he should by no means be allowed to have his sweet but destructive will
with my Bewicks and Bedfords.  Thumb and finger marks look well enough
in certain places, but I protested that they did not enhance the quaint
beauty of an old wood-cut, a delicate binding, or a wide margin.  And
Richard de Bury--a lovely little 16mo of a child--was almost as
destructive as his older brother.  The most painful feature of it all
to me then was that their mother actually protected the toddling knaves
in their vandalism.  I never saw another woman change so as Alice did
after those two boys came to us.  Why, she even suggested to me one day
that when we did build our new house we should devote the upper story
thereof not to library but to nursery purposes!

Things gradually got to the pass that I began to be afraid to bring
books into the house.  At first Alice used to reproach me indirectly by
eying the new book jealously, and hinting in a subtle, womanly way that
Grolier needed new shoes, or that Richard was sadly in need of a new
cap.  Presently, encouraged by my lamb-like reticence, Alice began to
complain gently of what she termed my extravagance, and finally she
fell into the pernicious practice of berating me roundly for neglecting
my family for the selfish--yes, the cruel--gratification of a foolish
fad, and then she would weep and gather up the two boys and wonder how
soon we should all be in the poorhouse.

I have spoken of my bachelor friend, Kinzie; there was a philosopher
for you, and his philosophy was all the sweeter because it had never
been embittered by marital experience.  I had confidence in Kinzie, and
I told him all about the dilemma I was in.  He pitied me and condoled
with me, for he was a sympathetic man, and he was, too, as consistent a
bibliomaniac as I ever met with.  "Be of good cheer," said he, "we
shall find a way out of all this trouble."  And he suggested a way.  I
seized upon it as the proverbial drowning man is supposed to clutch at
the proverbial straw.

The next time I took a bundle of books home I marched into the house
boldly with them.  Alice fetched a deep sigh.  "Ah, been buying more
books, have you?" she asked in a despairing tone.

"No, indeed," I answered triumphantly, "they were given to me,--a
present from judge Trask.  I'm in great luck, ain't I?"

Alice was almost as pleased as I was.  The interest with which she
inspected the lovely volumes was not feigned.  "But who is Judge
Trask?" she asked, as she read the autographic lines upon a flyleaf in
each book.  I explained glibly that the judge was a wealthy and
cultured citizen who felt somewhat under obligation to me for certain
little services I had rendered him one time and another.  I was not to
be trapped or cornered.  I had learned my sinful lesson perfectly.
Alice never so much as suspected me of evil.

The scheme worked so well that I pursued it with more or less
diligence.  I should say that about twice a week on an average a bundle
of books came to the house "with the compliments" of either Judge Trask
or Colonel Flail or Mr. Bisland.  You can understand that I could not
hope to play the Trask deception exclusively and successfully.  I
invented Colonel Flail and Mr. Bisland, and I contrived to render them
quite as liberal in their patronage as the mythical Judge Trask
himself.  Occasionally a donation came in, by way of variety, from
Smeaton and Holbrook and Caswell and other solitary creations of my
mendacious imagination, when I used to blind poor dear Alice to the
hideous truth.  Touching myself, I gave it out that I had abandoned
book-buying, was convinced of the folly of the mania, had reformed, and
was repentant.  Alice loved me all the better for that, and she became
once more the sweetest, most amiable little woman in all the world.
She was inexpressibly happy in the fond delusion that I had become
prudent and thrifty, and was putting money in bank for that home we
were going to buy--sometime.

Meanwhile the names of Flail, Trask, and Bisland became household words
with us.  Occasionally Smeaton and Holbrook and Caswell were mentioned
gratefully as some fair volume bearing their autograph was inspected;
but, after all, Flail, Trask, and Bisland were the favorites, for it
was from them that most of my beloved books came.  Yes, Alice gradually
grew to love those three myths; she loved them because they were good
to me.

Alice had, like most others of her sex, a strong sense of duty.  She
determined to do something for my noble friends, and finally she
planned a lovely little dinner whereat Judge Trask and Colonel Flail
and Mr. Bisland were to be regaled with choicest viands of Alice's
choice larder and with the sweetest speeches of Alice's graceful heart.
I was authorized only to convey the invitations to this delectable
banquet, and here was a pretty plight for a man to be in, surely
enough!  But my bachelor friend Kinzie (ough, the Mephisto!) helped me
out.  I reported back to Alice that Judge Trask was out of town, that
Colonel Flail was sick abed with grip, and that Mr. Bisland was
altogether too shy a man to think of venturing out to a dinner alone.
Alice was dreadfully disappointed.  Still there was consolation in
feeling that she had done her duty in trying to do it.

Well, this system of deception and perjury went on a long time, Alice
never suspecting any evil, but perfectly happy in my supposed reform
and economy, and in the gracious liberality of those three
Maecenas-like friends, Flail, Trask, and Bisland, who kept pouring in
rare and beauteous old tomes upon me.  She was joyous, too, in the
prospect of that new house which we would soon be able to build, now
that I had so long quit the old ruinous mania for book-buying!  And
I--wretch that I was--I humored her in this conceit; I heaped perjury
upon perjury; lying and deception had become my second nature.  Yet I
loathed myself and I hated those books; they reproached me every time I
came into their presence.  So I was miserable and helpless; how hard it
is to turn about when one once gets into the downward path!  The shifts
I was put to, and the desperate devices which I was forced to
employ,--I shudder to recall them!  Life became a constant, terrifying
lie.

Thank Heaven, it is over now, and my face is turned the right way.  A
third little son was born to us.  Alice was, oh! so very ill.  When she
was convalescing she said to me one day: "Hiram, I have been thinking
it all over, and I've made up my mind that we must name the baby Trask
Flail Bisland, after our three good friends."

I did n't make any answer, went out into the hall, and communed awhile
with my own hideous, tormented self.  How my soul revolted against the
prospect of giving to that innocent babe a name that would serve simply
to scourge me through the rest of my wicked life!  No, I could not
consent to that.  I would be a coward no longer!

I went back into Alice's room, and sat upon the bed beside her, and
took one of Alice's dear little white hands in mine, and told her
everything, told Alice the whole truth,--all about my wickedness and
perjuries and deceptions; told her what a selfish, cruel monster I had
been; dispelled all the sinful delusion about Flail, Trask, and
Bisland; threw myself, penitent and hopeless, upon my deceived,
outraged little wife's mercy.  Was it a mean advantage to take of a
sick woman?

I fancied she would reproach me, for I knew that her heart was set upon
that new house she had talked of so often; I told her that the savings
she had supposed were in bank, were in reality represented only by and
in those stately folios and sumptuous quartos which the mythical Flail,
Trask, and Bisland had presumably donated.  "But," I added, "I shall
sell them now, and with the money I shall build the home in which we
may be happy again,--a lovely home, sweetheart, with no library at all,
but all nursery if you wish it so!"

"No," said Alice, when I had ended my blubbering confession, "we shall
not part with the books; they have caused you more suffering than they
have me, and, moreover, their presence will have a beneficial effect
upon you.  Furthermore, I myself have become attached to them,--you
know I thought they were given to you, and so I have learned to care
for them.  Poor Judge Trask and Colonel Flail and Mr. Bisland,--so they
are only myths?  Dear Hiram," she added with a sigh, "I can forgive you
for everything except for taking those three good men out of our lives!"

After all this I have indeed reformed.  I have actually become prudent,
and I have a bank-account that is constantly increasing.  I do not hate
books; I simply do not buy them.  And I eschew that old sinner, Kinzie,
and all the sinister influences he represents.  As for our third little
boy, we have named him Reform Meigs, after Alice's mother's
grandfather, who built the first saw-mill in what is now the State of
Ohio, and was killed by the Indians in 1796.




THE TOUCH IN THE HEART

Old Abel Dunklee was delighted, and so was old Abel's wife, when little
Abel came.  For this coming they had waited many years.  God had
prospered them elsewise; this one supreme blessing only had been
withheld.  Yet Abel had never despaired.  "I shall some time have a
son," said he.  "I shall call him Abel.  He shall be rich; he shall
succeed to my business; my house, my factory, my lands, my
fortune,--all shall be his!"  Abel Dunklee felt this to be a certainty,
and with this prospect constantly in mind he slaved and pinched and
bargained.  So when at last the little one did come it was as heir to a
considerable property.

The joy in the house of Dunklee was not shared by the community at
large.  Abel Dunklee was by no means a popular man.  Folk had the
well-defined opinion that he was selfish, miserly, and hard.  If he had
not been actually bad, he had never been what the world calls a good
man.  His methods had been of the grinding, sordid order.  He had
always been scrupulously honest in the payment of his debts, and in
keeping his word; but his sense of duty seemed to stop there: Abel's
idea of goodness was to owe no man any money.  He never gave a penny to
charities, and he never spent any time sympathizing with the
misfortunes or distresses of other people.  He was narrow, close,
selfish, and hard, so his neighbors and the community at large said,
and I shall not deny that the verdict was a just one.

When a little one comes into this world of ours, it is the impulse of
the people here to bid it welcome, and to make its lot pleasant.  When
little Abel was born no such enthusiasm obtained outside the austere
Dunklee household.  Popular sentiment found vent in an expression of
the hope that the son and heir would grow up to scatter the dollars
which old man Dunklee had accumulated by years of relentless avarice
and unflagging toil.  But Dr. Hardy--he who had officiated in an
all-important capacity upon that momentous occasion in the Dunklee
household--Dr. Hardy shook his head wisely, and perhaps sadly, as if he
were saying to himself: "No, the child will never do either what the
old folk or what the other folk would have him do; he is not long for
here."

Had you questioned him closely, Dr. Hardy would have told you that
little Abel was as frail a babe as ever did battle for life.  Dr. Hardy
would surely never have dared say that to old Dunklee; for in his
rapture in the coming of that little boy old Dunklee would have smote
the offender who presumed even to intimate that the babe was not the
most vigorous as well as the most beautiful creature upon earth.  The
old man was simply assotted upon the child,--in a selfish way,
undoubtedly, but even this selfish love of that puny little child
showed that the old man was capable of somewhat better than his past
life had been.  To hear him talk you might have fancied that Mrs.
Dunklee had no part or parcel or interest in their offspring.  It was
always "my little boy,"--yes, old Abel Dunklee's money had a rival in
the old man's heart at last, and that rival was a helpless, shrunken,
sickly little babe.

Among his business associates Abel Dunklee was familiarly known as Old
Growly, for the reason that his voice was harsh and discordant, and
sounded for all the world like the hoarse growling of an ill-natured
bear.  Abel was not a particularly irritable person, but his slavish
devotion to money-getting, his indifference to the amenities of life,
his entire neglect of the tender practices of humanity, his rough,
unkempt personality, and his deep, hoarse voice,--these things combined
to make that sobriquet of "Old Growly" an exceedingly appropriate one.
And presumably Abel never thought of resenting the slur implied therein
and thereby; he was too shrewd not to see that, however disrespectful
and evil-intentioned the phrase might be, it served him to good
purpose; for it conduced to that very general awe, not to say terror,
which kept people from bothering him with their charitable and
sentimental schemes.

Yes, I think we can accept it as a fact that Abel liked that sobriquet;
it meant more money in his pocket, and fewer demands upon his time and
patience.

But Old Growly abroad and Old Growly at home were two very different
people.  Only the voice was the same.  The homely, furrowed, wizened
face lighted up, and the keen, restless eyes lost their expression of
shrewdness, and the thin, bony hands that elsewhere clutched and
clutched and pinched and pinched for possession unlimbered themselves
in the presence of little Abel, and reached out their long fingers
yearningly and caressingly toward the little child.  Then the hoarse
voice would growl a salutation that was full of tenderness, for it came
straight from the old man's heart; only, had you not known how much he
loved the child, you might have thought otherwise, for the old man's
voice was always hoarse and discordant, and that was why they called
him Old Growly.  But what proved his love for that puny babe was the
fact that every afternoon, when he came home from the factory, Old
Growly brought his little boy a dime; and once, when the little fellow
had a fever on him from teething, Old Growly brought him a dollar!
Next day the tooth came through and the fever left him, but you could
not make the old man believe but what it was the dollar that did it
all.  That was natural, perhaps; for his life had been spent in
grubbing for money, and he had not the soul to see that the best and
sweetest things in human life are not to be had by riches alone.

As the doctor had in one way and another intimated would be the case,
the child did not wax fat and vigorous.  Although Old Growly did not
seem to see the truth, little Abel grew older only to become what the
doctor had foretold,--a cripple.  A weakness of the spine was
developed, a malady that dwarfed the child's physical growth, giving to
his wee face a pinched, starved look, warping his emaciated body, and
enfeebling his puny limbs, while at the same time it quickened the
intellectual faculties to the degree of precocity.  And so two and
three and four years went by, little Abel clinging to life with
pathetic heroism, and Old Growly loving that little cripple with all
the violence of his selfish nature.  Never once did it occur to the
father that his child might die, that death's seal was already set upon
the misshapen little body; on the contrary, Old Growly's thoughts were
constantly of little Abel's famous future, of the great fortune he was
to fall heir to, of the prosperous business career he was to pursue, of
the influence he was to wield in the world,--of dollars, dollars,
dollars, millions of them which little Abel was some time to possess;
these were Old Growly's dreams, and he loved to dream them!

Meanwhile the world did well by the old man; despising him,
undoubtedly, for his avarice and selfishness, but constantly pouring
wealth, and more wealth, and even more wealth into his coffers.  As for
the old man, he cared not for what the world thought or said, so long
as it paid tribute to him; he wrought on as of old, industriously,
shrewdly, hardly, but with this new purpose: to make his little boy
happy and great with riches.

Toys and picture-books were vanities in which Old Growly never
indulged; to have expended a farthing for chattels of that character
would have seemed to Old Growly like sinful extravagance.  The few
playthings which little Abel had were such as his mother
surreptitiously bought; the old man believed that a child should be
imbued with a proper regard for the value of money from the very start,
so his presents were always cash in hand, and he bought a large tin
bank for little Abel, and taught the child how to put the copper and
silver pieces into it, and he labored diligently to impress upon the
child of how great benefit that same money would be to him by and by.
Just picture to yourself, if you can, that fond, foolish old man
seeking to teach this lesson to that wan-eyed, pinched-face little
cripple!  But little Abel took it all very seriously, and was so apt a
pupil that Old Growly made great joy and was wont to rub his bony hands
gleefully and say to himself, "He has great genius,--this boy of
mine,--great genius for finance!"

But on a day, coming from his factory, Old Growly was stricken with
horror to find that during his absence from home a great change had
come upon his child.  The doctor said it was simply the progress of the
disease; that it was a marvel that little Abel had already held out so
long; that from the moment of his birth the seal of death had been set
upon him in that cruel malady which had drawn his face and warped his
body and limbs.  Then all at once Old Growly's eyes seemed to be opened
to the truth, and like a lightning flash it came to him that perhaps
his pleasant dreams which he had dreamed of his child's future could
never be realized.  It was a bitter awakening, yet amid it all the old
man was full of hope, determination, and battle.  He had little faith
in drugs and nursing and professional skill; he remembered that upon
previous occasions cures had been wrought by means of money; teeth had
been brought through, the pangs of colic beguiled, and numerous other
ailments to which infancy is heir had by the same specific been
baffled.  So now Old Growly set about wooing his little boy from the
embrace of death,--sought to coax him back to health with money, and
the dimes became dollars, and the tin bank was like to burst of
fulness.  But little Abel drooped and drooped, and he lost all interest
in other things, and he was content to lie, drooping-eyed and listless,
in his mother's arms all day.  At last the little flame went out with
hardly so much as a flutter, and the hope of the house of Dunklee was
dissipated forever.  But even in those last moments of the little
cripple's suffering the father struggled to call back the old look into
the fading eyes, and the old smile into the dear, white face.  He
brought treasure from his vaults and held it up before those fading
eyes, and promised it all, all, all--everything he possessed, gold,
houses, lands--all he had he would give to that little child if that
little child would only live.  But the fading eyes saw other things,
and the ears that were deaf to the old man's lamentations heard voices
that soothed the anguish of that last solemn hour.  And so little Abel
knew the Mystery.

Then the old man crept away from that vestige of his love, and stood
alone in the night, and lifted up his face, and beat his bosom, and
moaned at the stars, asking over and over again why he had been so
bereaved.  And while he agonized in this wise and cried there came to
him a voice,--a voice so small that none else could hear, a voice
seemingly from God; for from infinite space beyond those stars it sped
its instantaneous way to the old man's soul and lodged there.

"Abel, I have touched thy heart!"

And so, having come into the darkness of night, old Dunklee went back
into the light of day and found life beautiful; for the touch was in
his heart.

After that, Old Growly's way of dealing with the world changed.  He had
always been an honest man, honest as the world goes.  But now he was
somewhat better than honest; he was kind, considerate, merciful.
People saw and felt the change, and they knew why it was so.  But the
pathetic part of it all was that Old Growly would never admit--no, not
even to himself--that he was the least changed from his old grinding,
hard self.  The good deeds he did were not his own; they were his
little boy's,--at least so he said.  And it was his whim when doing
some kind and tender thing to lay it to little Abel, of whom he always
spoke as if he were still living.  His workmen, his neighbors, his
townsmen,--all alike felt the graciousness of the wondrous change, and
many, ah! many a lowly sufferer blessed that broken old man for succor
in little Abel's name.  And the old man was indeed much broken: not
that he had parted with his shrewdness and acumen, for, as of old, his
every venture prospered; but in this particular his mind seemed
weakened; that, as I have said, he fancied his child lived, that he was
given to low muttering and incoherent mumblings, of which the burden
seemed to be that child of his, and that his greatest pleasure appeared
now to be watching other little ones at their play.  In fact, so
changed was he from the Old Growly of former years, that, whereas he
had then been wholly indifferent to the presence of those little ones
upon earth, he now sought their company, and delighted to view their
innocent and mirthful play.  And so, presently, the children, from
regarding him at first with distrust, came to confide in and love him,
and in due time the old man was known far and wide as Old Grampa
Growly, and he was pleased thereat.  It was his wont to go every fair
day, of an afternoon, into a park hard by his dwelling, and mingle with
the crowd of little folk there; and when they were weary of their
sports they used to gather about him,--some even clambering upon his
knees,--and hear him tell his story, for he had only one story to tell,
and that was the story that lay next his heart,--the story ever and
forever beginning with, "Once ther' wuz a littl' boy."  A very tender
little story it was, too, told very much more sweetly than I could ever
tell it; for it was of Old Grampa Growly's own little boy, and it came
from that heart in which the touch--the touch of God Himself--lay like
a priceless pearl.

So you must know that the last years of the old man's life made full
atonement for those that had gone before.  People forgot that the old
man had ever been other than he was now, and of course the children
never knew otherwise.  But as for himself, Old Grampa Growly grew
tenderer and tenderer, and his goodness became a household word, and he
was beloved of all.  And to the very last he loved the little ones, and
shared their pleasures, and sympathized with them in their griefs, but
always repeating that same old story, beginning with "Once ther' wuz a
littl' boy."

The curious part of it was this: that while he implied by his
confidences to the children that his own little boy was dead, he never
made that admission to others.  On the contrary, it was his wont, as I
have said, to speak of little Abel as if that child still lived, and,
humoring him in this conceit, it was the custom of the older ones to
speak always of that child as if he lived and were known and beloved of
all.  In this custom the old man had great content and solace.  For it
was his wish that all he gave to and did for charity's sake should be
known to come, not from him, but from Abel, his son, and this was his
express stipulation at all such times.  I know whereof I speak, for I
was one of those to whom the old man came upon a time and said: "My
little boy--Abel, you know--will give me no peace till I do what he
requires.  He has this sum of money which he has saved in his bank,
count it yourselves, it is $50,000, and he bids me give it to the
townsfolk for a hospital, one for little lame boys and girls.  And I
have promised him--my little boy, Abel, you know--that I will give
$50,000 more.  You shall have it when that hospital is built."  Surely
enough, in eighteen months' time the old man handed us the rest of the
money, and when we told him that the place was to be called the Abel
Dunklee hospital he was sorely distressed, and shook his head, and
said: "No, no,--not _my_ name!  Call it the _Little_ Abel hospital, for
little Abel--my boy, you know--has done it all."

The old man lived many years,--lived to hear tender voices bless him,
and to see pale faces brighten at the sound of his footfall.  Yes, for
many years the quaint, shuffling figure moved about our streets, and
his hoarse but kindly voice--oh, very kindly now!--was heard repeating
to the children that pathetic old story of "Once ther' wuz a littl'
boy."  And where the dear old feet trod the grass grew greenest, and
the sunbeams nestled.  But at last there came a summons for the old
man,--a summons from away off yonder,--and the old man heard it and
went thither.

The doctor--himself hoary and stooping now--told me that toward the
last Old Grampa Growly sunk into a sort of sleep, or stupor, from which
they could not rouse him.  For many hours he lay like one dead, but his
thin, creased face was very peaceful, and there was no pain.  Children
tiptoed in with flowers, and some cried bitterly, while others--those
who were younger--whispered to one another: "Hush, let us make no
noise; Old Grampa Growly is sleeping."

At last the old man roused up.  He had lain like one dead for many
hours, but now at last he seemed to wake of a sudden, and, seeing
children about him, perhaps he fancied himself in that pleasant park,
under the trees, where so very often he had told his one pathetic story
to those little ones.  Leastwise he made a feeble motion as if he would
have them gather nearer, and, seeming to know his wish, the children
came closer to him.  Those who were nearest heard him say with the
ineffable tenderness of old, "Once ther' wuz a littl' boy--"

And with those last sweet words upon his lips, and with the touch in
his heart, the old man went down into the Valley.




DANIEL AND THE DEVIL

Daniel was a very wretched man.  As he sat with his head bowed upon his
desk that evening he made up his mind that his life had been a failure.
"I have labored long and diligently," said he to himself, "and although I
am known throughout the city as an industrious and shrewd business man, I
am still a poor man, and shall probably continue so to the end of my days
unless--unless--"

Here Daniel stopped and shivered.  For a week or more he had been
brooding over his unhappy lot.  There seemed to be but one way out of his
trouble, yet his soul revolted from taking that step.  That was why he
stopped and shivered.

"But," he argued, "I _must_ do something!  My nine children are growing
up into big boys and girls.  They must have those advantages which my
limited means will not admit of!  All my life so far has been pure,
circumspect, and rigid; poverty has at last broken my spirit.  I give up
the fight,--I am ready to sell my soul to the Devil!"

"The determination is a wise one," said a voice at Daniel's elbow.
Daniel looked up and beheld a grim-visaged stranger in the chair beside
him.  The stranger was arrayed all in black, and he exhaled a distinct
odor of sulphur.

"Am I to understand," asked the stranger, "that you are prepared to enter
into a league with the Devil?"

"Yes," said Daniel, firmly; and he set his teeth together after the
fashion of a man who is not to be moved from his purpose.

"Then I am ready to treat with you," said the stranger.

"Are you the Devil?" asked Daniel, eying the stranger critically.

"No, but I am authorized to enter into contracts for him," explained the
stranger.  "My name is Beelzebub, and I am my master's most trusted
agent."

"Sir," said Daniel, "you must pardon me (for I am loath to wound your
feelings), but one of the rules governing my career as a business man has
been to deal directly with principals, and never to trust to the offices
of middle-men.  The affair now in hand is one concerning the Devil and
myself, and between us two and by us two only can the preliminaries be
adjusted."

"As it so happens," explained Beelzebub, "this is Friday,--commonly
called hangman's day,--and that is as busy a time in our particular
locality as a Monday is in a laundry, or as the first of every month is
at a book-keeper's desk.  You can understand, perhaps, that this is the
Devil's busy day; therefore be content to make this deal with me, and you
will find that my master will cheerfully accept any contract I may enter
into as his agent and in his behalf."

But no,--Daniel would not agree to this; with the Devil himself, and only
the Devil himself, would he treat.  So he bade Beelzebub go to the Devil
and make known his wishes.  Beelzebub departed, much chagrined.
Presently back came the Devil, and surely it _was_ the Devil this
time,--there could be no mistake about it; for he wore a scarlet cloak,
and had cloven feet, and carried about with him as many suffocating
smells as there are kinds of brimstone, sulphur, and assafoetida.

The two talked over all Daniel's miseries; the Devil sympathized with
Daniel, and ever and anon a malodorous, gummy tear would trickle down the
Devil's sinister nose and drop off on the carpet.

"What you want is money," said the Devil.  "That will give you the
comfort and the contentment you crave."

"Yes," said Daniel; "it will give me every opportunity to do good."

"To do good!" repeated the Devil.  "To do good, indeed!  Yes, it's many a
good time we shall have together, friend Daniel!  Ha, ha, ha!"  And the
Devil laughed uproariously.  Nothing seemed more humorous than the
prospect of "doing good" with the Devil's money!  But Daniel failed to
see what the Devil was so jolly about.  Daniel was not a humorist; he
was, as we have indicated, a plain business man.

It was finally agreed that Daniel should sell his soul to the Devil upon
condition that for the space of twenty-four years the Devil should serve
Daniel faithfully, should provide him with riches, and should do
whatsoever he was commanded to do; then, at the end of the twenty-fourth
year, Daniel's soul was to pass into the possession of the Devil, and was
to remain there forever, without recourse or benefit of clergy.  Surely a
more horrible contract was never entered into!

"You will have to sign your name to this contract," said the Devil,
producing a sheet of asbestos paper upon which all the terms of the
diabolical treaty were set forth exactly.

"Certainly," replied Daniel.  "I have been a business man long enough to
know the propriety and necessity of written contracts.  And as for you,
you must of course give a bond for the faithful execution of your part of
this business."

"That is something I have never done before," suggested the Devil.

"I shall insist upon it," said Daniel, firmly.  "This is no affair of
sentiment; it is strictly and coldly business: you are to do certain
service, and are to receive certain rewards therefor--"

"Yes, your soul!" cried the Devil, gleefully rubbing his callous hands
together.  "Your soul in twenty-four years!"

"Yes," said Daniel.  "Now, no contract is good unless there is a quid pro
quo."

"That's so," said the Devil, "so let's get a lawyer to draw up the paper
for me to sign."

"Why a lawyer?" queried Daniel.  "A contract is a simple instrument; I,
as a business man, can frame one sufficiently binding."

"But I prefer to have a lawyer do it," urged the Devil.

"And _I_ prefer to do it myself," said Daniel.

When a business man once gets his mind set, not even an Archimedean lever
could stir it.  So Daniel drew up the bond for the Devil to sign, and
this bond specified that in case the Devil failed at any time during the
next twenty-four years to do whatso Daniel commanded him, then should the
bond which the Devil held against Daniel become null and void, and upon
that same day should a thousand and one souls be released forever from
the Devil's dominion.  The Devil winced; he hated to sign this agreement,
but he had to.  An awful clap of thunder ratified the abominable treaty,
and every black cat within a radius of a hundred leagues straightway fell
to frothing and to yowling grotesquely.

Presently Daniel began to prosper; the Devil was a faithful slave, and he
served Daniel so artfully that no person on earth suspected that Daniel
had leagued with the evil one.  Daniel had the finest house in the city,
his wife dressed magnificently, and his children enjoyed every luxury
wealth could provide.  Still, Daniel was content to be known as a
business man; he deported himself modestly and kindly; he pursued with
all his old-time diligence the trade which in earlier days he had found
so unproductive of riches.  His indifference to the pleasures which money
put within his reach was passing strange, and it caused the Devil vast
uneasiness.

"Daniel," said the Devil, one day, "you're not getting out of this thing
all the fun there is in it.  You go poking along in the same old rut with
never a suspicion that you have it in your power to enjoy every pleasure
of human life.  Why don't you break away from the old restraints?  Why
don't you avail yourself of the advantages at your command?"

"I know what you 're driving at," said Daniel, shrewdly, "Politics!"

"No, not at all," remonstrated the Devil.  "What I mean is fun,--gayety.
Why not have a good time, Daniel?"

"But I am having a good time," said Daniel.  "My business is going along
all right, I am rich.  I 've got a lovely home; my wife is happy; my
children are healthy and contented; I am respected,--what more could I
ask?  What better time could I demand?"

"You don't understand me," explained the Devil.  "What I mean by a good
time is that which makes the heart merry and keeps the soul youthful and
buoyant,--wine, Daniel!  Wine and the theatre and pretty girls and fast
horses and all that sort of happy, joyful life!"

"Tut, tut, tut!" cried Daniel; "no more of that, sir!  I sowed my wild
oats in college.  What right have I to think of such silly follies,--I,
at forty years of age, and a business man too?"

So not even the Devil himself could persuade Daniel into a life of
dissipation.  All you who have made a study of the business man will
agree that of all human beings he is the hardest to swerve from
conservative methods.  The Devil groaned and began to wonder why he had
ever tied up to a man like Daniel,--a business man.

Pretty soon Daniel developed an ambition.  He wanted reputation, and he
told the Devil so.  The Devil's eyes sparkled.  "At last," murmured the
Devil, with a sigh of relief,--"at last."

"Yes," said Daniel, "I want to be known far and wide.  You must build a
church for me."

"What!" shrieked the Devil.  And the Devil's tail stiffened up like a
sore thumb.

"Yes," said Daniel, calmly; "you must build a church for me, and it must
be the largest and the handsomest church in the city.  The sittings shall
be free, and you shall provide the funds for its support forever."

The Devil frothed at his mouth, and blue fire issued from his ears and
nostrils.  He was the maddest devil ever seen on earth.

"I won't do it!" roared the Devil.  "Do you suppose I'm going to spend my
time building churches and stultifying myself just for the sake of
gratifying your idle whims?  I won't do it,--never!"

"Then the bond I gave is null and void," said Daniel.

"Take your old bond," said the Devil, petulantly.

"But the bond you gave is operative," continued Daniel.  "So release the
thousand and one souls you owe me when you refuse to obey me."

"Oh, Daniel!" whimpered the Devil, "how can you treat me so?  Have n't I
always been good to you?  Have n't I given you riches and prosperity?
Does no sentiment of friendship--"

"Hush," said Daniel, interrupting him.  "I have already told you a
thousand times that our relations were simply those of one business man
with another.  It now behooves you to fulfil your part of our compact;
eventually I shall fulfil mine.  Come, now, to business!  Will you or
will you not keep your word and save your bond?"

The Devil was sorely put to his trumps.  But when it came to releasing a
thousand and one souls from hell,--ah, that staggered him!  He had to
build the church, and a noble one it was too.  Then he endowed the
church, and finally he built a parsonage; altogether it was a stupendous
work, and Daniel got all the credit for it.  The preacher whom Daniel
installed in this magnificent temple was severely orthodox, and one of
the first things he did was to preach a series of sermons upon the
personality of the Devil, wherein he inveighed most bitterly against that
person and his work.

By and by Daniel made the Devil endow and build a number of hospitals,
charity schools, free baths, libraries, and other institutions of similar
character.  Then he made him secure the election of honest men to office
and of upright judges to the bench.  It almost broke the Devil's heart to
do it, but the Devil was prepared to do almost anything else than forfeit
his bond and give up those one thousand and one souls.  By this time
Daniel came to be known far and wide for his philanthropy and his piety.
This gratified him of course; but most of all he gloried in the
circumstance that he was a business man.

"Have you anything for me to do today?" asked the Devil, one morning.  He
had grown to be a very meek and courteous devil; steady employment in
righteous causes had chastened him to a degree and purged away somewhat
of the violence of his nature.  On this particular morning he looked
haggard and ill,--yes, and he looked, too, as blue as a whetstone.

"I am not feeling robust," explained the Devil.  "To tell the truth, I am
somewhat ill."

"I am sorry to hear it," said Daniel; "but as I am not conducting a
sanitarium, I can do nothing further than express my regret that you are
ailing.  Of course our business relations do not contemplate any
interchange of sympathies; still I'll go easy with you to-day.  You may
go up to the house and look after the children; see that they don't smoke
cigarettes, or quarrel, or tease the cat, or do anything out of the way."

Now that was fine business for the Devil to be in; but how could the
Devil help himself?  He was wholly at Daniel's mercy.  He went groaning
about the humiliating task.

The crash came at last.  It was when the Devil informed Daniel one day
that he was n't going to work for him any more.

"You have ruined my business," said the Devil, wearily.  "A committee of
imps waited upon me last night and told me that unless I severed my
connection with you a permanent suspension of my interests down yonder
would be necessitated.  While I have been running around doing your
insane errands my personal business has gone to the dogs--I would n't be
at all surprised if I were to have to get a new plant altogether.
Meanwhile my reputation has suffered; I am no longer respected, and the
number of my recruits is daily becoming smaller.  I give up,--I can make
no further sacrifice."

"Then you are prepared to forfeit your bond?" asked Daniel.

"Not by any means," replied the Devil.  "I propose to throw the matter
into the courts."

"That will hardly be to your interest," said Daniel, "since, as you well
know, we have recently elected honest men to the bench, and, as I
recollect, most of our judges are members in good standing of the church
we built some years ago!"

The Devil howled with rage.  Then, presently, he began to whimper.

"For the last time," expostulated Daniel, "let me remind you that
sentiment does not enter into this affair at all.  We are simply two
business parties coöperating in a business scheme.  Our respective duties
are exactly defined in the bonds we hold.  You keep your contract and
I'll keep mine.  Let me see, I still have a margin of thirteen years."

The Devil groaned and writhed.

"They call me a dude," whimpered the Devil.

"Who do?" asked Daniel.

"Beelzebub and the rest," said the Devil.  "I have been trotting around
doing pious errands so long that I 've lost all my sulphur-and-brimstone
flavor, and now I smell like spikenard and myrrh."

"Pooh!" said Daniel.

"Well, I do," insisted the Devil.  "You've humiliated me so that I hain't
got any more ambition.  Yes, Daniel, you've worked me shamefully hard!"

"Well," said Daniel, "I have a very distinct suspicion that when,
thirteen years hence, I fall into your hands I shall not enjoy what might
be called a sedentary life."

The Devil plucked up at this suggestion.  "Indeed you shall not," he
muttered.  "I'll make it hot for you!"

"But come, we waste time," said Daniel.  "I am a man of business, and I
cannot fritter away the precious moments parleying with you.  I have
important work for you.  Tomorrow is Sunday; you are to see that all the
saloons are kept closed."

"I sha'n't--I won't!" yelled the Devil.

"But you must," said Daniel, firmly.

"Do you really expect me to do _that_?" roared the Devil.  "Do you fancy
that I am so arrant a fool as to shut off the very feeders whereby my
hungry hell is supplied?  That would be suicidal!"

"I don't know anything about that," said Daniel; "I am a business man,
and by this business arrangement of ours it is explicitly stipulated--"

"I don't care what the stipulations are!" shrieked the Devil.  "I'm
through with you, and may I be consumed by my own fires if ever again I
have anything to do with a business man!"

The upshot of it all was that the Devil forfeited his bond, and by this
act Daniel was released from every obligation unto the Devil, and one
thousand and one souls were ransomed from the torture of the infernal
fires.




METHUSELAH

The discussion now going on between our clergymen and certain
unbelievers touching the question of Cain and his wife will surely
result beneficially, for it will set everybody to reading his Bible
more diligently.  Still, the biography of Cain is one that we could
never become particularly interested in; in short, of all the Old
Testament characters none other interests us so much as does
Methuselah, the man who lived 969 years.  Would it be possible to find
in all history another life at once so grand and so pathetic?  One can
get a faint idea of the awful magnitude of Methuselah's career by
pausing to recollect that 969 years represent 9.69 centuries, 96
decades, 11,628 months, 50,388 weeks, 353,928 days, 8,494,272 hours,
521,656,320 minutes, and 36,299,879,200 seconds!

How came he to live so long?  Ah, that is easily enough explained.  He
loved life and the world,--both were beautiful to him.  And one day he
spoke his wish in words.  "Oh, that I might live a thousand years!" he
cried.

Then looking up straightway he beheld an angel, and the angel said:
"Wouldst thou live a thousand years?"

And Methuselah answered him, saying: "As the Lord is my God, I would
live a thousand years."

"It shall be even so," said the angel; and then the angel departed out
of his sight.  So Methuselah lived on and on, as the angel had promised.

How sweet a treasure the young Methuselah must have been to his parents
and to his doting ancestors; with what tender solicitude must the old
folks have watched the child's progress from the innocence of his first
to the virility of his later centuries.  We can picture the happy
reunions of the old Adam family under the domestic vines and fig-trees
that bloomed near the Euphrates.  When Methuselah was a mere toddler of
nineteen years, Adam was still living, and so was his estimable wife;
the possibility is that the venerable couple gave young Methuselah a
birthday party at which (we can easily imagine) there were present
these following, to-wit: Adam, aged 687; Seth, aged 557; Enos, aged
452; Cainan, aged 362; Mahalaleel, aged 292; Jared, aged 227; Enoch,
aged 65, and his infant boy Methuselah, aged 19.  Here were represented
eight direct generations, and there were present, of course,
the wives and daughters; so that, on the whole, the gathering
must have been as numerous as it was otherwise remarkable.
Nowhere in any of the vistas of history, of romance, or of
mythology were it possible to find a spectacle more imposing than
that of the child Methuselah surrounded by his father Enoch,
his grandfather Jared, his great-grandfather Mahalaleel, his
great-great-grandfather Cainan, his great-great-great-grandfather
Enos, his great-great-great-great-grandfather Seth, and his
great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Adam, as well as by his
great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Eve, and her feminine
posterity for (say) four centuries!  How pretty and how kindly dear old
grandma Eve must have looked on that gala occasion, attired, as she
must have been, in all the quaint simplicity of that primeval period;
and how must the dear old soul have fretted through fear that little
Methuselah would eat too many papaws, or drink too much goat's milk.
It is a marvel, we think, that in spite of the indulgence and the
petting in which he was reared, Methuselah grew to be a good, kind man.

Profane historians agree that just about the time he reached the age of
ninety-four Methuselah became deeply enamoured of a comely and
sprightly damsel named Mizpah,--a young thing scarce turned
seventy-six.  Up to this period of adolescence his cautious father
Enoch had kept Methuselah out of all love entanglements, and it is
probable that he would not have approved of this affair with Mizpah had
not Jared, the boy's grandfather, counselled Enoch to give the boy a
chance.  But alas and alackaday for the instability of youthful
affection!  It befell in an evil time that there came over from the
land of Nod a frivolous and gorgeously apparelled beau, who, with
finely wrought phrases, did so fascinate the giddy Mizpah that
incontinently she gave Methuselah the mitten, and went with the dashing
young stranger of 102 as his bride.

This shocking blow so grievously affected Methuselah that for some time
(that is to say, for a period of ninety-one years) he shunned female
society.  But having recovered somewhat from the bitterness of that
great disappointment received in the callowness of his ninth decade, he
finally met and fell in love with Adah, a young woman of 148, and her
he married.  The issue of this union was a boy whom they named Lamech,
and this child from the very hour of his birth gave his father vast
worriment, which, considering the disparity in their ages, is indeed
most shocking of contemplation.  The tableau of a father (aged 187)
vainly coddling a colicky babe certainly does not call for our
enthusiasm.  Yet we presume to say that Methuselah bore his trials
meekly, that he cherished and adored the baby, and that he spent weeks
and months playing peek-a-boo and ride-a-cock-horse.  In all our
consideration of Methuselah we must remember that the mere matter of
time was of no consequence to him.

Lamech grew to boyhood, involving his father in all those ridiculous
complications which parents nowadays do not heed so much, but which
must have been of vast annoyance to a man of Methuselah's advanced age
and proper notions.  Whittling with the old gentleman's razor, hooking
off from school, trampling down the neighbors' rowen, tracking mud into
the front parlor--these were some of Lamech's idiosyncrasies, and of
course they tormented Methuselah, who recalled sadly that boys were no
longer what they used to be when he was a boy some centuries previous.
But when he got to be 182 years old Lamech had sowed all his wild oats,
and it was then he married a clever young girl of 98, who bore him a
son whom they called Noah.  Now if Methuselah had been worried and
plagued by Lamech, he was more than compensated therefor by this baby
grandson, whom he found to be, aside from all prejudices, the prettiest
and the smartest child he had ever seen.  Old father Adam, who was now
turned of his ninth century, tottered over to see the baby, and he,
too, allowed that it was an uncommonly bright child.  And dear old
grandma Eve declared that there was an expression about the upper part
of the little Noah's face that reminded her very much of the soft-eyed
boy she lost 800 years ago.  And dear old grandma Eve used to rock
little Noah and sing to him, and cry softly to herself all the while.

Now, in good time, Noah grew to lusty youth, and although he was, on
the whole, a joy to his grandsire Methuselah, he developed certain
traits and predilections that occasioned the old gentleman much
uneasiness.  At the tender age of 265 Noah exhibited a strange passion
for aquatics, and while it was common for other boys of that time to
divert themselves with the flocks and herds, with slingshots and
spears, with music and dancing, Noah preferred to spend his hours
floating toy-ships in the bayous of the Euphrates.  Every day he took
his little shittim-wood boats down to the water, tied strings to them,
and let them float hither and thither on the crystal bosom of the tide.
Naturally enough these practices worried the grandfather mightily.

"May not the crocodiles compass him round about?" groaned Methuselah.
"May not behemoth prevail against him?  Or, verily, it may befall that
the waves shall devour him.  Woe is me and lamentation unto this
household if destruction come to him through the folly of his fathers!"

So Methuselah's age began to be full of care and trouble, and many a
time he felt weary of living, and sometimes--yes, sometimes--he wished
he were dead.  People in those times were not afraid to die; they
believed in the second and better life, because God spoke with them and
told them it should be.

The last century of this good man's sojourn upon earth was
particularly pathetic.  His ancestors were all dead; he alone
remained the last living reminiscence of a time that but for him
would have been forgotten.  Deprived of the wise counsels of his
great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Adam and of the gentle
admonitions of his great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Eve,
Methuselah felt not only lonesome but even in danger of wrong-doing, so
precious to him had been the teachings of these worthy progenitors.
And what particularly disturbed Methuselah were the dreadful changes
that had taken place in society since he was a boy.  Dress, speech,
customs, and morals were all different now from what they used to be.

When Methuselah was a boy,--ah, he remembered it well,--people went
hither and thither clad only in simple fig-leaf garb; and they were
content therewith.

When Methuselah was a boy, people spoke a plain, direct language,
strong in its truth, its simplicity, and its honest vigor.

When Methuselah was a boy, manners were open and unaffected, and morals
were pure and healthy.

But now all these things were changed.  An evil called fashion had
filled the minds of men and women with vanity.  From the sinful land of
Nod and from other pagan countries came divers tradesmen with purples
and linens and fine feathers, whereby a wicked pride was engendered,
and from these sinful countries, too, came frivolous manners that
supplanted the guileless etiquette of the past.

Moreover, traffic and intercourse with the subtle heathen had corrupted
and perverted the speech of Adam's time: crafty phrases and false
rhetorics had crept in, and the grand old Edenic idioms either were
fast being debased or had become wholly obsolete.  Such new-fangled
words as "eftsoon," "albeit," "wench," "soothly," "zounds," "whenas,"
and "sithence" had stolen into common usage, making more direct and
simpler speech a jest and a byword.

Likewise had prudence given way to extravagance, abstemiousness to
intemperance, dignity to frivolity, and continence to lust; so that by
these evils was Methuselah grievously tormented, and it repented him
full sore that he had lived to see such exceeding wickedness upon
earth.  But in the midst of all these follies did Methuselah maintain
an upright and godly life, and continually did he bless God for that he
had held him in the path of rectitude.

Now when Methuselah was in the 964th summer of his sojourn he was
called upon to mourn the death of his son Lamech, whom an inscrutable
Providence had cut off in what in those days was considered the flower
of a man's life,--namely, the eighth century thereof.  Lamech's
untimely decease was a severe blow to his doting father, who,
forgetting all his son's boyish indiscretions, remembered now only
Lamech's good and lovable traits and deeds.  It is reasonable to
suppose, however, that the old gentleman was somewhat beguiled from his
grief by the lively dispositions and playful antics of Lamech's
grandsons, Noah's sons, and his own great-grandsons,--Shem, Ham, and
Japheth,--who at this time had attained to the frolicsome ages of
ninety-five, ninety-two, and ninety-one, respectively.  These boys
inherited from their father a violent penchant for aquatics, and
scarcely a day passed that they did not paddle around the bayous and
sloughs of the Euphrates in their gopher-wood canoes.

"Gran'pa," Noah used to say, "the conduct of those boys causes me
constant vexation.  I have no time to follow them around, and I am
haunted continually by the fear that they will be drowned, or that the
crocodiles will get them if they don't watch out!"

But Methuselah would smiling answer: "Possess thy soul in patience and
thy bowels in peace; for verily is it not written 'boys will be boys!'"

Now Shem, Ham, and Japheth were very fond of their great-grandpa, and
to their credit be it said that next to paddling over the water
privileges of the Euphrates they liked nothing better than to sit in
the old gentleman's lap, and to hear him talk about old times.
Marvellous tales he told them, too; for his career of nine and a half
centuries had been well stocked with incident, as one would naturally
suppose.  Howbeit, the admiration which these callow youths had for
Methuselah was not shared by a large majority of the people then on
earth.  On the contrary, we blush to admit it, Methuselah was held in
very trifling esteem by his frivolous fellow-citizens, who habitually
referred to him as an "old 'wayback," "a barnacle," an "old fogy," a
"mossback," or a "garrulous dotard," and with singular irreverence they
took delight in twitting him upon his senility and in pestering him
with divers new-fangled notions altogether distasteful, not to say
shocking, to a gentleman of his years.

It was perhaps, however, at the old settlers' picnics, which even then
were of annual occurrence, that Methuselah most enjoyed himself; for on
these occasions he was given the place of prominence and he was
deferred to in everything, since he antedated all the others by at
least three centuries.  The historians and the antiquarians of the time
found him of much assistance to them in their labors, since he was
always ready to provide them with dates touching incidents of the
remote period from which he had come down unscathed.  He remembered
vividly how, when he was 186 years of age, the Euphrates had frozen
over to a depth of seven feet; the 209th winter of his existence he
referred to as "the winter of the deep snow;" he remembered that
when he was a boy the women had more character than the women
of these later years; he had a vivid recollection of the great
plague that prevailed in the city of Enoch during his fourth
century; he could repeat, word for word, the address of welcome
his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Adam delivered to an
excursion party that came over from the land of Nod one time when
Methuselah was a mere child of eighty-seven,--oh, yes, poor old
Methuselah was full of reminiscence, and having crowded an active
career into the brief period of 969 years, it can be imagined that
ponderous tomes would not hold the tales he told whenever he was
encouraged.

One day, however, Methuselah's grandson Noah took the old gentleman
aside and confided into his ear-trumpet a very solemn secret which must
have grieved the old gentleman immensely, for he gnashed his gums and
wrung his thin, bony hands and groaned dolorously.

"The end of all flesh is at hand," said Noah.  "The earth is filled
with violence through them, and God will destroy them with the earth.
I will make an ark of gopher-wood, the length thereof 300 cubits, the
breadth of it 50 cubits, and the height of it 30 cubits, and I will
pitch it within and without with pitch.  Into the ark will I come, and
my sons and my wife, and my sons' wives, and certain living beasts
shall come, and birds of the air, and we and they shall be saved.  Come
thou also, for thou art an austere man and a just."

But as Methuselah sate alone upon his couch that night he thought of
his life: how sweet it had been,--how that, despite the evil now and
then, there had been more of happiness than of sorrow in it.  He even
forgot the wickedness of the world and remembered only its good and its
sunshine, its kindness and its love.  He blessed God for it all, and he
prayed for the death-angel to come to him ere he beheld the destruction
of all he so much loved.

Then the angel came and spread his shadow about the old man.

And the angel said: "Thy prayer is heard, and God doth forgive thee the
score-and-ten years of the promised span of thy life."

And Methuselah gathered up his feet into the bed, and prattling of the
brooks, he fell asleep; and so he slept with his fathers.




FÉLICE AND PETIT-POULAIN

The name was singularly appropriate, for assuredly Félice was the
happiest of all four-footed creatures.  Her nature was gentle; she was
obedient, long-suffering, kind.  She had known what it was to toil and
to bear burdens; sometimes she had suffered from hunger and from
thirst; and before she came into the possession of Jacques she had been
beaten, for Pierre, her former owner, was a hard master.  But Félice
was always a kind, faithful, and gentle creature; presumably that was
why they named her that pretty name, Félice.  She may not have been
happy when Pierre owned and overworked and starved and beat her; that
does not concern us now, for herein it is to tell of that time when she
belonged to Jacques, and Jacques was a merciful man.

Jacques was a farmer; he lived a short distance from Cinqville, which,
as you are probably aware, is a town of considerable importance upon
what used to be the boundary line between France and Germany.  The
country round about is devoted to agriculture.  You can fancy that,
with its even roads, leafy woods, quiet lanes, velvety paddocks, tall
hedges, and bountiful fields, this country was indeed as pleasant a
home as Félice--or, for that matter, any other properly minded
horse--could hope for.  Toward the southern horizon there were hills
that looked a grayish blue from a distance; upon these hills were
vineyards, and the wine that came therefrom is very famous wine, as
your uncle, if he be a club man, will very truly assure you.  There was
a pretty little river that curled like a silver snake through the
fertile meadows, and lost its way among the hills, and there were many
tiny brooks that scampered across lots and got tangled up with that
pretty little river in most bewildering fashion.  So, as you can
imagine, this was a fair country, and you do not wonder that, with so
merciful a master as Jacques, our friend Félice was happy.

But what perfected her happiness was the coming of her little colt, as
cunning and as blithe a creature as ever whisked a tail or galloped on
four legs.  I do not know why they called him by that name, but
Petit-Poulain was what they called him, and that name seemed to please
Félice, for when farmer Jacques came thrice a day to the stile and
cried, "Petit-Poulain, petit, petit, Petit-Poulain!" the kind old
mother would look up fondly, and, with doting eyes, watch her dainty
little colt go bounding toward his calling master.  And he was indeed a
lovely little fellow.  The curé, the holy père François, predicted that
in due time that colt would make a great name for himself and a great
fortune for his owner.  The holy père knew whereof he spake, for in his
youth he had tasted of the sweets of Parisian life, and upon one
memorable occasion had successfully placed ten francs upon the winner
of le grand prix.  We can suppose that Félice thought well of the holy
père.  He never came down the road that she did not thrust her nose
through the hedge and give a mild whinny of recognition, as if she fain
would say: "Pray stop a moment and see Petit-Poulain and his old
mother!"

What happy days those were for Félice and her darling colt.  With what
tenderness they played together in the paddock; or, when the sky was
overcast and a storm came on, with what solicitude would the old mother
lead the way into the thatched stable, where there was snug protection
against the threatening element.  There are those who say that none but
humankind is immortal,--that none but man has a soul.  I do not make or
believe that claim.  There is that within me which tells me that no
thing in this world and life of ours which has felt the grace of
maternity shall utterly perish.  And this I say in all reverence, and
with the hope that I offend neither God nor man.

You are to know that old Félice's devotion to Petit-Poulain was human
in its tenderness.  As readily, as gladly, and as surely as your dear
mother would lay down her life for you would old Félice have yielded up
her life for her innocent, blithe darling.  So old Félice was happy
that pleasant time in that fair country, and Petit-Poulain waxed hale
and evermore blithe and beautiful.

Happy days, too, were those for that peaceful country and the other
dwellers therein.  There was no thought of evil there; the seasons were
propitious, the vineyards thrived, the crops were bountiful; as far as
eye could see all was prosperity and contentment.  But one day the holy
Father François came hurrying down the road, and it was too evident
that he brought evil tidings.  Félice thought it very strange that he
paid no heed to her when, as was her wont, she thrust her nose through
the hedge and gave a mild whinny of welcome.  Anon she saw that he
talked long and earnestly with her master Jacques, and presently she
saw that Jacques went into the cottage and came again therefrom with
his wife Justine and kissed her, and then went away with Père François
toward the town off yonder.  Félice saw that Justine was weeping, and
with never a suspicion of impending evil, she wondered why Justine
should weep when all was so prosperous and bright and fair and happy
about her.  Félice saw and wondered, and meanwhile Petit-Poulain
scampered gayly about that velvety paddock.

That night the vineyard hills, bathed in the mellow grace of moonlight,
saw a sight they had never seen before.  From the east an army came
riding and marching on,--an army of strange, determined men, speaking a
language before unheard in that fair country and threatening things of
which that peaceful valley had never dreamed.  You and I, of course,
know that these were the Germans advancing upon France,--a nation of
immortals eager to destroy the possessions and the human lives of
fellow-immortals!  But old Félice, hearing the din away off
yonder,--the unwonted noise of cavalry and infantry advancing with
murderous intent,--she did not understand it all, she did not even
suspect the truth.  You cannot wonder, for what should a soulless beast
know of the noble, the human privilege of human slaughter?  Old Félice
heard that strange din, and instinct led her to coax her little colt
from the pleasant paddock into that snug and secure retreat, the
thatched stable, and there, in the early morning, they found her,
Petit-Poulain pulling eagerly at her generous dugs.

Those who came riding up were strangers in those parts; they were
ominously accoutred and they spoke words that old Félice had never
heard before.  Yes, as you have already guessed, they were German
cavalry-men.  A battle was impending, and they needed more horses.

"Old enough; but in lieu of a better, she will do."  That was what they
said.  They approached her carefully, for they suspected that she might
be vicious.  Poor old Félice, she had never harmed even the flies that
pestered her.  "They are going to put me at the plough," she thought.
"It is a long time since I did work of any kind,--nothing, in fact,
since Petit-Poulain was born.  Poor Petit-Poulain will miss me; but I
will soon return."  With these thoughts she turned her head fondly and
caressed her pretty colt.

"The colt must be tied in the stall or he will follow her."  So said
the cavalrymen.  They threw a rope about his neck and made him fast in
the stable.  Petit-Poulain was very much surprised, and he remonstrated
vainly with his fierce little heels.

They put a halter upon old Félice.  Justine, the farmer's wife, met
them in the yard, and reproached them wildly in French.  They laughed
boisterously, and answered her in German.  Then they rode away, leading
old Félice, who kept turning her head and whinnying pathetically, for
she was thinking of Petit-Poulain.

Of peace I know and can speak,--of peace, with its solace of love,
plenty, honor, fame, happiness, and its pathetic tragedy of poverty,
heartache, disappointment, tears, bereavement.  Of war I know nothing,
and never shall know; it is not in my heart of for my hand to break
that law which God enjoined from Sinai and Christ confirmed in Galilee.
I do not know of war, nor can I tell you of that battle which men with
immortal souls fought one glorious day in a fertile country with
vineyard hills all round about.  But when night fell there was
desolation everywhere and death.  The Eden was a wilderness; the
winding river was choked with mangled corpses; shell and shot had mowed
down the acres of waving grain, the exuberant orchards, the gardens and
the hedgerows; black, charred ruins, gaunt and ghostlike, marked the
spots where homes had stood.  The vines had been cut and torn away, and
the despoiled hills seemed to crouch down like bereaved mothers under
the pitiless gaze of the myriad eyes of heaven.

The victors went their way; a greater triumph was in store for them; a
mighty capital was to be besieged; more homes were to be
desolated,--more blood shed, more hearts broken.  So the victors went
their way, their hands red and their immortal souls elated.

In the early dawn a horse came galloping homeward.  It is Félice, old
Félice, riderless, splashed with mud, wild-eyed, sore with fatigue!
Félice, Félice, what horrors hast thou not seen!  If thou couldst
speak, if that tongue of thine could be loosed, what would it say of
those who, forgetful of their souls, sink lower than the soulless
brutes!  Better it is thou canst not speak; the anguish in thine eyes,
the despair in thy honest heart, the fear, the awful fear in thy mother
breast,--what tongue could utter them?

Adown the road she galloped,--the same road she had traversed, perhaps,
a thousand times before, yet it was so changed now she hardly knew it.
Twenty-four hours had ruthlessly levelled the noble trees, the
hedgerows, and the fields of grain.  Twenty-four hours of battle had
done all this and more.  In all those ghastly hours, one thought had
haunted Félice; one thought alone,--the thought of Petit-Poulain!  She
pictured him tied in that far-away stall, wondering why she did not
come.  He was hungry, she knew; her dugs were full of milk and they
pained her; how sweet would be her relief when her Petit-Poulain broke
his long fast.  Petit-Poulain, Petit-Poulain, Petit-Poulain,--this one
thought and this alone had old Félice throughout those hours of battle
and of horror.

Could this have been the farm-house?  It was a ruin now.  Shells had
torn it apart.  Where was the good master Jacques; had he gone with the
curé to the defence of the town?  And Justine,--where was she?  Bullets
had cut away the rose-trees and the smoke-bush; the garden was no more.
The havoc, the desolation, was complete.  The cote, which had
surmounted the pole around which an ivy twined, had been swept away.
The pigeons now circled here and there bewildered; wondering, perhaps,
why Justine did not come and call to them and feed them.

To this seared, scarred spot came old Félice.  He that had ridden her
into battle lay with his face downward near those distant vineyard
hills.  His blood had stained Félice's neck; a bullet had grazed her
flank, but that was a slight wound,--riderless, she turned and came
from the battle-field and sought her Petit-Poulain once again.

Hard by the ruins of cottage, of garden, and of cote, she came up
standing; she was steaming and breathless.  She rolled her eyes wildly
around,--she looked for the stable where she had left Petit-Poulain.
She trembled as if an overwhelming apprehension of disaster suddenly
possessed her.  She gave a whinny, pathetic in its tenderness.  She was
calling Petit-Poulain.  But there was no answer.

Petit-Poulain lay dead in the ruins of the stable.  His shelter had not
escaped the fury of the battle.  He could not run away, for they had
tied him fast when they carried his old mother off.  So now he lay amid
that debris, his eyes half open in death and his legs stretched out
stark and stiff.

And old Félice,--her udder bursting with the maternal grace he never
again should know, and her heart breaking with the agony of sudden and
awful bereavement,--she staggered, as if blinded by despair, toward
that vestige of her love, and bent over him and caressed her
Petit-Poulain.




THE RIVER

Once upon a time a little boy came, during his play, to the bank of a
river.  The waters of the river were very dark and wild, and there was
so black a cloud over the river that the little boy could not see the
further shore.  An icy wind came up from the cloud and chilled the
little boy, and he trembled with cold and fear as the wind smote his
cheeks and ran its slender icicle fingers through his yellow curls.  An
old man sat on the bank of the river; he was very, very old; his head
and shoulders were covered with a black mantle; and his beard was white
as snow.

"Will you come with me, little boy?" asked the old man.

"Where?" inquired the little boy.

"To yonder shore," replied the old man.

"Oh, no; not to that dark shore," said the little boy.  "I should be
afraid to go."

"But think of the sunlight always there," said the old man, "the birds
and flowers; and remember there is no pain, nor anything of that kind
to vex you."

The little boy looked and saw the dark cloud hanging over the waters,
and he felt the cold wind come up from the river; moreover, the sight
of the strange man terrified him.  So, hearing his mother calling him,
the little boy ran back to his home, leaving the old man by the river
alone.

Many years after that time the little boy came again to the river; but
he was not a little boy now,--he was a big, strong man.

"The river is the same," said he; "the wind is the same cold, cutting
wind of ice, and the same black cloud obscures yonder shore.  I wonder
where the strange old man can be."

"I am he," said a solemn voice.

The man turned and looked on him who spoke, and he saw a warrior clad
in black armor and wielding an iron sword.

"No, you are not he!" cried the man.  "You are a warrior come to do me
harm."

"I am indeed a warrior," said the other.  "Come with me across the
river."

"No," replied the man, "I will not go with you.  Hark, I hear the
voices of my wife and children calling to me,--I will return to them!"

The warrior strove to hold him fast and bear him across the river to
the yonder shore, but the man prevailed against him and returned to his
wife and little ones, and the warrior was left upon the river-bank.

Then many years went by and the strong man became old and feeble.  He
found no pleasure in the world, for he was weary of living.  His wife
and children were dead, and the old man was alone.  So one day in those
years he came to the bank of the river for the third time, and he saw
that the waters had become quiet and that the wind which came up from
the river was warm and gentle and smelled of flowers; there was no dark
cloud overhanging the yonder shore, but in its place was a golden mist
through which the old man could see people walking on the yonder shore
and stretching out their hands to him, and he could hear them calling
him by name.  Then he knew they were the voices of his dear ones.

"I am weary and lonesome," cried the old man.  "All have gone before
me: father, mother, wife, children,--all whom I have loved.  I see them
and hear them on yonder shore, but who will bear me to them?"

Then a spirit came in answer to this cry.  But the spirit was not a
strange old man nor yet an armored warrior; but as he came to the
river's bank that day he was a gentle angel, clad in white; his face
was very beautiful, and there was divine tenderness in his eyes.

"Rest thy head upon my bosom," said the angel, "and I will bear thee
across the river to those who call thee."

So, with the sweet peace of a little child sinking to his slumbers, the
old man drooped in the arms of the angel and was borne across the river
to those who stood upon the yonder shore and called.




FRANZ ABT

Many years ago a young composer was sitting in a garden.  All around
bloomed beautiful roses, and through the gentle evening air the
swallows flitted, twittering cheerily.  The young composer neither saw
the roses nor heard the evening music of the swallows; his heart was
full of sadness and his eyes were bent wearily upon the earth before
him.

"Why," said the young composer, with a sigh, "should I be doomed to all
this bitter disappointment?  Learning seems vain, patience is
mocked,--fame is as far from me as ever."

The roses heard his complaint.  They bent closer to him and whispered,
"Listen to us,--listen to us."  And the swallows heard him, too, and
they flitted nearer him; and they, too, twittered, "Listen to
us,--listen to us."  But the young composer was in no mood to be
beguiled by the whisperings of the roses and the twitterings of the
birds; with a heavy heart and sighing bitterly he arose and went his
way.

It came to pass that many times after that the young composer came at
evening and sat in the garden where the roses bloomed and the swallows
twittered; his heart was always full of disappointment, and often he
cried out in anguish against the cruelty of fame that it came not to
him.  And each time the roses bent closer to him, and the swallows flew
lower, and there in the garden the sweet flowers and little birds
cried, "Listen to us,--listen to us, and we will help you."

And one evening the young composer, hearing their gentle pleadings,
smiled sadly, and said: "Yes, I will listen to you.  What have you to
say, pretty roses?"

"Make your songs of us," whispered the roses,--"make your songs of us."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the composer.  "A song of the roses would be very
strange, indeed!  No, sweet flowers,--it is fame I seek, and fame would
scorn even the beauty of your blushes and the subtlety of your
perfumes."

"You are wrong," twittered the swallows, flying lower.  "You are wrong,
foolish man.  Make a song for the heart,--make a song of the swallows
and the roses, and it will be sung forever, and your fame shall never
die."

But the composer laughed louder than before; surely there never had
been a stranger suggestion than that of the roses and the swallows!
Still, in his chamber that night the composer thought of what the
swallows had said, and in his dreams he seemed to hear the soft tones
of the roses pleading with him.  Yes, many times thereafter the
composer recalled what the birds and flowers had said, but he never
would ask them as he sat in the garden at evening how he could make the
heart-song of which they chattered.  And the summer sped swiftly by,
and one evening when the composer came into the garden the roses were
dead, and their leaves lay scattered on the ground.  There were no
swallows fluttering in the sky, and the nests under the eaves were
deserted.  Then the composer knew his little friends were beyond
recall, and he was oppressed by a feeling of loneliness.  The roses and
the swallows had grown to be a solace to the composer, had stolen into
his heart all unawares,--now that they were gone, he was filled with
sadness.

"I will do as they counselled," said he; "I will make a song of
them,--a song of the swallows and the roses.  I will forget my greed
for fame while I write in memory of my little friends."

Then the composer made a song of the swallows and the roses, and, while
he wrote, it seemed to him that he could hear the twittering of the
little birds all around him, and scent the fragrance of the flowers,
and his soul was warmed with a warmth he had never felt before, and his
tears fell upon his manuscript.

When the world heard the song which the composer had made of the
swallows and the roses, it did homage to his genius.  Such sentiment,
such delicacy, such simplicity, such melody, such heart, such
soul,--ah, there was no word of rapturous praise too good for the
composer now: fame, the sweetest and most enduring kind of fame, had
come to him.

And the swallows and the roses had done it all.  Their subtle
influences had filled the composer's soul with a great inspiration,--by
means like this God loves to speak to the human heart.

"We told you so," whispered the roses when they came again in the
spring.  "We told you that if you sang of us the world would love your
song."

Then the swallows, flying back from the south, twittered: "We told you
so; sing the songs the heart loves, and you shall live forever."

"Ah, dear ones," said the composer, softly; "you spoke the truth.  He
who seeks a fame that is immortal has only to reach and abide in the
human heart."

The lesson he learned of the swallows and the roses he never forgot.
It was the inspiration and motive of a long and beautiful life.  He
left for others that which some called a loftier ambition.  He was
content to sit among the flowers and hear the twitter of birds and make
songs that found an echo in all breasts.  Ah, there was such a
beautiful simplicity,--such a sweet wisdom in his life!  And where'er
the swallows flew, and where'er the roses bloomed, he was famed and
revered and beloved, and his songs were sung.

Then his hair grew white at last, and his eyes were dim and his steps
were slow.  A mortal illness came upon him, and he knew that death was
nigh.

"The winter has been long," said he, wearily.  "Open the window and
raise me up that I may see the garden, for it must be that spring is
come."

It was indeed spring, but the roses had not yet bloomed.  The swallows
were chattering in their nests under the eaves or flitting in the mild,
warm sky.

"Hear them," he said faintly.  "How sweetly they sing.  But alas! where
are the roses?"

Where are the roses?  Heaped over thee, dear singing heart; blooming on
thy quiet grave in the Fatherland, and clustered and entwined all in
and about thy memory, which with thy songs shall go down from heart to
heart to immortality.




MISTRESS MERCILESS

This is to tell of our little Mistress Merciless, who for a season
abided with us, but is now and forever gone from us unto the far-off
land of Ever-Plaisance.  The tale is soon told; for it were not seemly
to speak all the things that are in one's heart when one hath to say of
a much-beloved child, whose life here hath been shortened so that, in
God's wisdom and kindness, her life shall be longer in that garden that
bloometh far away.

You shall know that all did call her Mistress Merciless; but her
mercilessness was of a sweet, persuasive kind: for with the beauty of
her face and the music of her voice and the exceeding sweetness of her
virtues was she wont to slay all hearts; and this she did unwittingly,
for she was a little child.  And so it was in love that we did call her
Mistress Merciless, just as it was in love that she did lord it over
all our hearts.

Upon a time walked she in a full fair garden, and there went with her
an handmaiden that we did call in merry wise the Queen of Sheba; for
this handmaiden was in sooth no queen at all, but a sorry and
ill-favored wench; but she was assotted upon our little Mistress
Merciless and served her diligently, and for that good reason was
vastly beholden of us all.  Yet, in a jest, we called her the Queen of
Sheba; and I make a venture that she looked exceeding fair in the eyes
of our little Mistress Merciless: for the eyes of children look not
upon the faces but into the hearts and souls of others.  Whilst these
two walked in the full fair garden at that time they came presently
unto an arbor wherein there was a rustic seat, which was called the
Siege of Restfulness; and hereupon sate a little sick boy that, from
his birth, had been lame, so that he could not play and make merry with
other children, but was wont to come every day into this full fair
garden and content himself with the companionship of the flowers.  And,
though he was a little lame boy, he never trod upon those flowers; and
even had he done so, methinks the pressure of those crippled feet had
been a caress, for the little lame boy was filled with the spirit of
love and tenderness.  As the tiniest, whitest, shrinking flower
exhaleth the most precious perfume, so in and from this little lame
boy's life there came a grace that was hallowing in its beauty.

Since they never before had seen him, they asked him his name; and he
answered them that of those at home he was called Master Sweetheart, a
name he could not understand: for surely, being a cripple, he must be a
very sorry sweetheart; yet, that he was a sweetheart unto his mother at
least he had no doubt, for she did love to hold him in her lap and call
him by that name; and many times when she did so he saw that tears were
in her eyes,--a proof, she told him when he asked, that Master
Sweetheart was her sweetheart before all others upon earth.

It befell that our little Mistress Merciless and Master Sweetheart
became fast friends, and the Queen of Sheba was handmaiden to them
both; for the simple, loyal creature had not a mind above the artless
prattle of childhood, and the strange allegory of the lame boy's speech
filled her with awe, even as the innocent lisping of our little
Mistress Merciless delighted her heart and came within the
comprehension of her limited understanding.  So each day, when it was
fair, these three came into the full fair garden, and rambled there
together; and when they were weary they entered into the arbor and sate
together upon the Siege of Restfulness.  Wit ye well there was not a
flower or a tree or a shrub or a bird in all that full fair garden
which they did not know and love, and in very sooth every flower and
tree and shrub and bird therein did know and love them.

When they entered into the arbor, and sate together upon the Siege of
Restfulness, it was Master Sweetheart's wont to tell them of the land
of Ever-Plaisance, for it was a conceit of his that he journeyed each
day nearer and nearer to that land, and that his journey thitherward
was nearly done.  How came he to know of that land I cannot say, for I
do not know; but I am fain to believe that, as he said, the exceeding
fair angels told him thereof when by night, as he lay sleeping, they
came singing and with caresses to his bedside.

I speak now of a holy thing, therefore I speak truth when I say that
while little children lie sleeping in their beds at night it pleaseth
God to send His exceeding fair angels with singing and caresses to bear
messages of His love unto those little sleeping children.  And I have
seen those exceeding fair angels bend with folded wings over the little
cradles and the little beds, and kiss those little sleeping children
and whisper God's messages of love to them, and I knew that those
messages were full of sweet tidings; for, even though they slept, the
little children smiled.  This have I seen, and there is none who loveth
little children that will deny the truth of this thing which I have now
solemnly declared.

Of that land of Ever-Plaisance was our little Mistress Merciless ever
fain to hear tell.  But when she beset the rest of us to speak thereof
we knew not what to say other than to confirm such reports as Master
Sweetheart had already made.  For when it cometh to knowing of that
far-off land,--ah me, who knoweth more than the veriest little child?
And oftentimes within the bosom of a little, helpless, fading one there
bloometh a wisdom which sages cannot comprehend.  So when she asked us
we were wont to bid her go to Master Sweetheart, for he knew the truth
and spake it.

It is now to tell of an adventure which on a time befell in that full
fair garden of which you have heard me speak.  In this garden lived
many birds of surpassing beauty and most rapturous song, and among them
was one that they called Joyous, for that he did ever carol forth so
joyously, it mattered not what the day soever might be.  This bird
Joyous had his home in the top of an exceeding high tree, hard by the
pleasant arbor, and here did he use to sit at such times as the little
people came into that arbor, and then would he sing to them such songs
as befitted that quiet spot, and them that came thereto.  But there was
a full evil cat that dwelt near by, and this cruel beast found no
pleasure in the music that Joyous did make continually; nay, that music
filled this full evil cat with a wicked thirst for the blood of that
singing innocent, and she had no peace for the malice that was within
her seeking to devise a means whereby she might comprehend the bird
Joyous to her murderous intent.  Now you must know that it was the wont
of our little Mistress Merciless and of Master Sweetheart to feed the
birds in that fair garden with such crumbs as they were suffered to
bring with them into the arbor, and at such times would those birds fly
down with grateful twitterings and eat of those crumbs upon the
greensward round about the arbor.  Wit ye well, it was a merry sight to
see those twittering birds making feast upon the good things which
those children brought, and our little Mistress Merciless and little
Master Sweetheart had sweet satisfaction therein.  But, on a day,
whilst thus those twittering birds made great feasting, lo! on a sudden
did that full evil cat whereof I have spoken steal softly from a
thicket, and with one hideous bound make her way into the very midst of
those birds and seize upon that bird Joyous, that was wont to sing so
merrily from the tree hard by the arbor.  Oh, there was a mighty din
and a fearful fluttering, and the rest flew swiftly away, but Joyous
could not do so, because the full evil cat held him in her cruel fangs
and claws.  And I make no doubt that Joyous would speedily have met his
death, but that with a wrathful cry did our little Mistress Merciless
hasten to his rescue.  And our little Mistress belabored that full evil
cat with Master Sweetheart's crutch, until that cruel beast let loose
her hold upon the fluttering bird and was full glad to escape with her
aching bones into the thicket again.  So it was that Joyous was
recovered from death; but even then might it have fared ill with him,
had they not taken him up and dressed his wounds and cared for him
until duly he was well again.  And then they released him to do his
plaisance, and he returned to his home in the tree hard by the arbor
and there he sung unto those children more sweetly than ever before;
for his heart was full of gratitude to our little Mistress Merciless
and Master Sweetheart.

Now, of the dolls that she had in goodly number, that one which was
named Beautiful did our little Mistress Merciless love best.  Know well
that the doll Beautiful had come not from oversea, and was neither of
wax nor of china; but she was right ingeniously constructed of a
bed-key that was made of wood, and unto the top of this bed-key had the
Queen of Sheba superadded a head with a fair face, and upon the body
and the arms of the key had she hung passing noble raiment.  Unto this
doll Beautiful was our little Mistress Merciless vastly beholden, and
she did use to have the doll Beautiful lie by her side at night whilst
she slept, and whithersoever during the day she went, there also would
she take the doll Beautiful, too.  Much sorrow and lamentation,
therefore, made our little Mistress Merciless when on an evil day the
doll Beautiful by chance fell into the fish-pond, and was not rescued
therefrom until one of her beauteous eyes had been devoured of the
envious water; so that ever thereafter the doll Beautiful had but one
eye, and that, forsooth, was grievously faded.  And on another evil day
came a monster ribald dog pup and seized upon the doll Beautiful whilst
she reposed in the arbor, and bore her away, and romped boisterously
with her upon the sward, and tore off her black-thread hair, and sought
to destroy her wholly, which surely he would have done but for the
Queen of Sheba, who made haste to rescue the doll Beautiful, and
chastise that monster ribald dog pup.

Therefore, as you can understand, the time was right busily spent.  The
full fair garden, with its flowers and the singing birds and the
gracious arbor and the Siege of Restfulness, found favor with those
children, and amid these joyous scenes did Master Sweetheart have to
tell each day of that far-off land of Ever-Plaisance, whither he said
he was going.  And one day, when the sun shone very bright, and the
full fair garden joyed in the music of those birds, Master Sweetheart
did not come, and they missed the little lame boy and wondered where he
was.  And as he never came again they thought at last that of a surety
he had departed into that country whereof he loved to tell.  Which
thing filled our little Mistress Merciless with wonder and inquiry; and
I think she was lonely ever after that,--lonely for Master Sweetheart.

I am thinking now of her and of him; for this is the Christmas
season,--the time when it is most meet to think of the children and
other sweet and holy things.  There is snow everywhere, snow and cold.
The garden is desolate and voiceless: the flowers are gone, the trees
are ghosts, the birds have departed.  It is winter out there, and it is
winter, too, in this heart of mine.  Yet in this Christmas season I
think of them, and it pleaseth me--God forbid that I offend with much
speaking--it pleaseth me to tell of the little things they did and
loved.  And you shall understand it all if, perchance, this sacred
Christmas time a little Mistress Merciless of your own, or a little
Master Sweetheart, clingeth to your knee and sanctifieth your
hearthstone.

When of an evening all the joy of day was done, would our little
Mistress Merciless fall aweary; and then her eyelids would grow
exceeding heavy and her little tired hands were fain to fold.  At such
a time it was my wont to beguile her weariness with little tales of
faery, or with the gentle play that sleepy children like.  Much was her
fancy taken with what I told her of the train that every night whirleth
away to Shut-Eye Town, bearing unto that beauteous country sleepy
little girls and boys.  Nor would she be content until I told her
thereof,--yes, every night whilst I robed her in her cap and gown would
she demand of me that tale of Shut-Eye Town, and the wonderful train
that was to bear her thither.  Then would I say in this wise:--


At Bedtime-ville there is a train of cars that waiteth for you, my
sweet,--for you and for other little ones that would go to quiet,
slumbrous Shut-Eye Town.

But make no haste; there is room for all.  Each hath a tiny car that is
snug and warm, and when the train starteth each car swingeth soothingly
this way and that way, this way and that way, through all the journey
of the night.

Your little gown is white and soft; your little cap will hold those
pretty curls so fast that they cannot get away.  Here is a curl that
peepeth out to see what is going to happen.  Hush, little curl! make no
noise; we will let you peep out at the wonderful sights, but you must
not tell the others about it; let them sleep, snuggled close together.

The locomotive is ready to start.  Can you not hear it?

"Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!"  That is what the locomotive is
saying, all to itself.  It knoweth how pleasant a journey it is about
to make.

"Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!"

Oh, many a time hath it proudly swept over prairie and hill, over river
and plain, through sleeping gardens and drowsy cities, swiftly and
quietly, bearing the little ones to the far, pleasant valley where
lieth Shut-Eye Town.

"Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!"

So sayeth the locomotive to itself at the station in Bedtime-ville; for
it knoweth how fair and far a journey is before it.

Then a bell soundeth.  Surely my little one heareth the bell!

"Ting-long!  Ting-a-long!  Ting-long!"

So soundeth the bell, and it seemeth to invite you to sleep and dreams.

"Ting-long!  Ting-a-long!  Ting-long!"

How sweetly ringeth and calleth that bell.

"To sleep--to dreams, O little lambs!" it seemeth to call.  "Nestle
down close, fold your hands, and shut your dear eyes!  We are off and
away to Shut-Eye Town!  Ting-long!  Ting-a-long!  Ting-long!  To
sleep--to dreams, O little cosset lambs!"

And now the conductor calleth out in turn.  "All aboard!" he calleth,
"All aboard for Shut-Eye Town!" he calleth in a kindly tone.

But, hark ye, dear-my-soul, make thou no haste; there is room for all.
Here is a cosey little car for you.  How like your cradle it is, for it
is snug and warm, and it rocketh this way and that way, this way and
that way, all night long, and its pillows caress you tenderly.  So step
into the pretty nest, and in it speed to Shut-Eye Town.

"Toot!  Toot!"

That is the whistle.  It soundeth twice, but it must sound again before
the train can start.  Now you have nestled down, and your dear hands
are folded; let your two eyes be folded, too, my sweet; for in a moment
you shall be rocked away, and away, away into the golden mists of Balow!

"Ting-long!  Ting-a-long!  Ting-long!"

"All aboard!"

"Toot!  Toot!  Toot!"

And so my little golden apple is off and away for Shut-Eye Town!

Slowly moveth the train, yet faster by degrees.  Your hands are folded,
my beloved, and your dear eyes they are closed; and yet you see the
beauteous sights that skirt the journey through the mists of Balow.
And it is rockaway, rockaway, rockaway, that your speeding cradle
goes,--rockaway, rockaway, rockaway, through the golden glories that
lie in the path that leadeth to Shut-Eye Town.

"Toot!  Toot!"

So crieth the whistle, and it is "down-brakes," for here we are at
Ginkville, and every little one knoweth that pleasant waking-place,
where mother with her gentle hands holdeth the gracious cup to her
sleepy darling's lips.

"Ting-long!  Ting-a-long!  Ting-long!" and off is the train again.  And
swifter and swifter it speedeth,--oh, I am sure no other train speedeth
half so swiftly!  The sights my dear one sees!  I cannot tell of
them--one must see those beauteous sights to know how wonderful they
are!

"Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!"

On and on and on the locomotive proudly whirleth the train.

"Ting-long!  Ting-a-long!  Ting-long!"

The bell calleth anon, but fainter and evermore fainter; and fainter
and fainter groweth that other calling--"Toot!  Toot!  Toot!"--till
finally I know that in that Shut-Eye Town afar my dear one dreameth the
dreams of Balow.


This was the bedtime tale which I was wont to tell our little Mistress
Merciless, and at its end I looked upon her face to see it calm and
beautiful in sleep.

Then was I wont to kneel beside her little bed and fold my two
hands,--thus,--and let my heart call to the host invisible: "O guardian
angels of this little child, hold her in thy keeping from all the
perils of darkness and the night!  O sovereign Shepherd, cherish Thy
little lamb and mine, and, Holy Mother, fold her to thy bosom and thy
love!  But give her back to me,--when morning cometh, restore ye unto
me my little one!"

But once she came not back.  She had spoken much of Master Sweetheart
and of that land of Ever-Plaisance whither he had gone.  And she was
not afeared to make the journey alone; so once upon a time when our
little Mistress Merciless bade us good-by, and went away forever, we
knew that it were better so; for she was lonely here, and without her
that far-distant country whither she journeyed were not content.
Though our hearts were like to break for love of her, we knew that it
were better so.

The tale is told, for it were not seemly to speak all the things that
are in one's heart when one hath to say of a much-beloved child whose
life here hath been shortened so that, in God's wisdom and kindness,
her life shall be longer in that garden that bloometh far away.

About me are scattered the toys she loved, and the doll Beautiful hath
come down all battered and grim,--yet, oh! so very precious to me, from
those distant years; yonder fareth the Queen of Sheba in her service as
handmaiden unto me and mine,--gaunt and doleful-eyed, yet stanch and
sturdy as of old.  The garden lieth under the Christmas snow,--the
garden where ghosts of trees wave their arms and moan over the graves
of flowers; the once gracious arbor is crippled now with the
infirmities of age, the Siege of Restfulness fast sinketh into decay,
and long, oh! long ago did that bird Joyous carol forth his last sweet
song in the garden that was once so passing fair.

And amid it all,--this heartache and the loneliness which the years
have brought,--cometh my Christmas gift to-day: the solace of a vision
of that country whither she--our little Mistress Merciless--hath gone;
a glimpse of that far-off land of Ever-Plaisance.




THE PLATONIC BASSOON

All who knew the beautiful and accomplished Aurora wondered why she did
not marry.  She had now reached the mature age of twenty-five years,
and was in full possession of those charms which are estimated by all
men as the choicest gifts a woman can possess.  You must know that
Aurora had a queenly person, delightful manners, an extensive
education, and an amiable disposition; and, being the only child of
wealthy parents, she should not have lacked the one thing that seemed
necessary to perfect and round out her usefulness as a member of
society.

The truth was, Aurora did not fancy the male sex.  She regarded men as
conveniences that might come handy at times when an escort to the
theatre was required, or when a partner in a dance was demanded, when a
fan was to be picked up, or when an errand was to be run; but the idea
of marrying any man was as distasteful to Aurora as the proposition to
marry a hat-rack or any other piece of household furniture would have
been.

The secret of this strange aversion might have been traced to Aurora's
maiden aunt Eliza, who had directed Aurora's education, and had from
her niece's early youth instilled into Aurora's mind very distinct
notions touching the masculine sex.

Aurora had numerous admirers among the young gentlemen who moved in the
same elevated social circle as herself and frequently called at her
father's house.  Any one of them would gladly have made her his wife,
and many of them had expressed a tender yearning for her life
companionship.  But Aurora was quick to recognize in each suitor some
objectionable trait or habit or feature which her aunt Eliza had told
about, and which imperatively prohibited a continuance of the young
gentleman's attentions.

Aurora's father could not understand why his daughter was so
hypercritical and fastidious in a matter which others of her sex were
so apt to accept with charitable eyes.  "They are bright, honest
fellows," he urged, "worthy of any girl's love.  Receive their advances
kindly, my child, and having chosen one among them, you will be the
happier for it."

"Never mind, Aurora," said Aunt Eliza.  "Men are all alike.  They show
their meanness in different ways, but the same spirit of evil is in 'em
all.  I have lived in this world forty-six years, and during that time
I have found men to be the most unfeeling and most untrustworthy of
brutes."

So it was that at the age of twenty-five Aurora was found beautiful,
amiable, and accomplished, but thoroughly and hopelessly a man-hater.
And it was about this time that she became involved in that unhappy
affair which even to this day is talked of by those who knew her then.

On the evening of a certain day Aurora attended the opera with her
father and mother and Morgan Magnus, the young banker.  Their box at
the opera was so close to the orchestra that by reaching out her hand
Aurora could have touched several of the instruments.  Now it happened
that a bassoon was the instrument nearest the box in which Aurora sat,
and it was natural therefore that the bassoon attracted more of
Aurora's attention than any other instrument in the orchestra.  If you
have never beheld or heard a bassoon you are to understand that it is
an instrument of wood, of considerable more length than breadth,
provided with numerous stops and keys, and capable of producing an
infinite variety of tones, ranging from the depth of lugubriousness to
the highest pitch of vivacity.  This particular bassoon was of an
appearance that bordered upon the somber, the polished white of his
keys emphasizing the solemn black of his long, willowy body.  And, as
he loomed up above the serene bald head of the musician that played
him, Aurora thought she had never seen a more distingué object.

The opera was "Il Trovatore," a work well calculated to call in play
all that peculiar pathos of which the bassoon is capable.  When Aurora
saw the player raise the bassoon and apply the tiny tube thereunto
appertaining to his lips, and heard him evoke from the innermost
recesses of the bassoon tones that were fairly reeking with tears and
redolent of melancholy, she felt a curious sentiment of pity awakened
in her bosom.

Aurora had seen many an agonized swain at her feet, and had heard his
impassioned pleadings for mercy; she had perused many a love missive
wherein her pity was eloquently implored, but never had she experienced
the tender, melting sentiment that percolated through her breast when
she heard the bassoon mingling his melancholy tones with Manrico's
plaints.  The tears welled up into Aurora's eyes, her bosom heaved
convulsively, and the most subtile emotions thrilled her soul.

In vain did young Magnus, the banker, seek to learn the cause of her
agitation, and it seemed like a cruel mockery when Aurora's mother
said: "You must remember, dear, that it is not real; it is only a
play."  After this memorable evening, wherein an unexpected and
indescribable sweetness had crept into the young woman's life, Aurora
more frequently insisted upon going to the opera.  A strange
fascination attracted her thither, and on each succeeding evening she
found some new beauty in the bassoon, some new phase in his
kaleidoscopic character to wonder at, some new accomplishment to
admire.  On one occasion--it was at the opera bouffe--this musical
prodigy exhibited a playfulness and an exuberance of wit and humor that
Aurora had never dreamed of.  He ran the gamut of vocal conceit, and
the polyglot fertility of his fancy simply astounded his rapt auditor.
She was dazed, enchanted, spellbound.  So here we find the fair Aurora
passing from the condition of pity into the estate of admiration.

And now, having first conceived a wondrous pity for the bassoon, and
then having become imbued with an admiration of his wit, sarcasm,
badinage, repartee, and humor, it followed naturally and logically that
Aurora should fall desperately in love with him; for pity and
admiration are but the forerunners of the grand passion.

"Aunt Eliza," said Aurora one day, "you have instilled into my
sensitive nature an indelible aversion to men, compared with which all
such deleble passions as affection and love are as inconsequential as
summer zephyrs.  I believe men to be by nature and practice gross,
vulgar, sensual, and unworthy; and from this opinion I feel that I
shall never recede.  Yet such a clinging and fragile thing is woman's
heart that it must needs have some object about which it may twine,
even as the gentle ivy twines about the oak.  Now, as you know, some
women there are who, convinced of the utter worthlessness of the
opposite sex, dedicate their lives to the adoration of some art or
science, lavishing thereupon that love which women less prudent
squander upon base men and ungrateful children; in the painting of
pictures, devotion to the drama, the cultivation of music, pursuit of
trade, or the exclusive attention to a profession, some women find the
highest pleasure.  But you and I, dear aunt, who are directed by even
higher and purer motives than these women, scorn the pursuits of the
arts and sciences, the professions and trades, and lay our hearts as
willing sacrifices upon the altars of a tabby cat and a bassoon.  What
could be purer or more exalted than a love of that kind?"

Having uttered this eloquent preface, which was, indeed, characteristic
of the fair creature, Aurora told Aunt Eliza of the bassoon, and as she
spoke of his versatile accomplishments and admirable qualities her eyes
glowed with an unwonted animation, and a carmine hue suffused her
beautiful cheeks.  It was plain that Aurora was deeply in love, and
Aunt Eliza was overjoyed.

"It is gratifying," said Aunt Eliza, "to find that my teachings promise
such happy results, that the seeds I have so carefully sown already
show signs of a glorious fruition.  Now, while it is true that I cannot
conceive of a happier love than that which exists between my own dear
tabby cat and myself, it is also true that I recognize your bassoon as
an object so much worthier of adoration than mankind in general, and
your male acquaintances in particular, that I most heartily felicitate
you upon the idol you have chosen for your worship.  Bassoons do not
smoke, nor chew tobacco, nor swear, nor bet on horse-races, nor play
billiards, nor do any of those horrid things which constitute the
larger part of a man's ambitions and pursuits.  You have acted wisely,
my dear, and heaven grant you may be as happy in his love as I am in
tabby's."

"I feel that I shall be," murmured Aurora; "already my bassoon is very
precious to me."

With the dawn of this first passion a new motive seemed to come into
Aurora's life--a gentle melancholy, a subdued sentiment whose
accompaniments were sighings and day-dreamings and solitary tears and
swoonings.

Quite naturally Aurora sought Aunt Eliza's society more than ever now,
and her conversation and thoughts were always on the bassoon.  It was
very beautiful.

But late one night Aurora burst into Aunt Eliza's room and threw
herself upon Aunt Eliza's bed, sobbing bitterly.  Aunt Eliza was
inexpressibly shocked, and under a sudden impulse of horror the tabby
sprang to her feet, arched her back, bristled her tail, and uttered
monosyllables of astonishment.

"Why, Aurora, what ails you?" inquired Aunt Eliza, kindly.

"Oh, auntie, my heart is broken, I know it is," wailed Aurora.

"Come, come, my child," said Aunt Eliza, soothingly, "don't take on so.
Tell auntie what ails you."

"He was harsh and cruel to me to-night, and oh!  I loved him so!"
moaned Aurora.

"A lovers' quarrel, eh?" thought Aunt Eliza; and she got up, slipped
her wrapper on, and brewed Aurora a big bowl of boneset tea.  Oh, how
nice and bitter and fragrant it was, and how Aunt Eliza's nostrils
sniffed, and how her eyes sparkled as she sipped the grateful beverage.

"There, drink that, my dear," said Aunt Eliza, "and then tell me all
about it."

Aurora quaffed the bowl of boneset tea, and the wholesome draught
seemed to give her fortitude, for now she told Aunt Eliza the whole
story.  It seems that Aurora had been to the opera as usual, not for
the purpose of hearing and seeing the performance, but simply for the
sake of being where the beloved bassoon was.  The opera was Wagner's
"Die Walküre," and the part played by the bassoon in the orchestration
was one of conspicuous importance.  Fully appreciating his importance,
the bassoon conducted himself with brutal arrogance and
superciliousness on this occasion.  His whole nature seemed changed;
his tones were harsh and discordant, and with malevolent obstinacy he
led all the other instruments in the orchestra through a seemingly
endless series of musical pyrotechnics.  There never was a more
remarkable exhibition of stubbornness.  When the violins and the
'cellos, the hautboys and the flutes, the cornets and the trombones,
said "Come, let us work together in G minor," or "Let us do this
passage in B flat," the bassoon would lead off with a wild shriek in D
sharp or some other foreign key, and maintain it so lustily that the
other instruments--e. g., the violins, the 'cellos, the hautboys, and
all--were compelled to back, switch, and wheel into the bassoon's lead
as best they could.

But no sooner had they come into harmony than the bassoon--oh,
melancholy perversity of that instrument--would strike off into another
key with a ribald snicker or coarse guffaw, causing more turbulence and
another stampede.  And this preposterous condition of affairs was kept
up the whole evening, the bassoon seeming to take a fiendish delight in
his riotous, brutal conduct.

At first Aurora was mortified; then her mortification deepened into
chagrin.  In the hope of touching his heart she bestowed upon him a
look of such tender supplication that, had he not been the most callous
creature in the world, he must have melted under it.  To his eternal
shame, let it be said, the bassoon remained as impervious to her
beseeching glances as if he had been a sphinx or a rhinoceros.  In
fact, Aurora's supplicating eyes seemed to instigate him to further and
greater madness, for after that he became still more riotous, and at
many times during the evening the crisis in the orchestra threatened
anarchy and general disintegration.

Aurora's humiliation can be imagined by those only who have experienced
a like bitterness--the bitterness of awakening to a realization of the
cruelty of love.  Aurora loved the bassoon tenderly, deeply,
absorbingly.  The sprightliness of his lighter moods, no less than the
throbbing pathos of his sadder moments, had won her heart.  She had
given him her love unreservedly, she fairly worshipped him, and now she
awakened, as it were, from a golden dream, to find her idol clay!  It
was very sad.  Yet who that has loved either man or bassoon does not
know this bitterness?

"He will be gentler hereafter," said Aunt Eliza, encouragingly.  "You
must always remember that we should be charitable and indulgent with
those we love.  Who knows why the bassoon was harsh and wayward and
imperious to-night?  Let us not judge him till we have heard the whys
and wherefores.  He may have been ill; depend upon it, my dear, he had
cause for his conduct."

Aunt Eliza's prudent words were a great solace to Aurora.  And she
forgave the bassoon all the pain he had inflicted when she went to the
opera the next night and heard him in "I Puritani," a work in which the
grand virility of his nature, its vigor and force, came out with
telling effect.  There was not a trace of the insolence he had
manifested in "Die Walküre," nor of the humorous antics he had
displayed in "La Grande Duchesse"; divested of all charlatanism, he was
now a magnificent, sonorous, manly bassoon, and you may depend upon it
Aurora was more in love with him than ever.

It was about this time that, perceiving a marked change in his
daughter's appearance and demeanor, Aurora's father began to question
her mother about it all, and that good lady at last made bold to tell
the old gentleman the whole truth of the matter, which was simply that
Aurora cherished a passion for the bassoon.  Now the father was an
exceedingly matter-of-fact, old-fashioned man, who possessed not the
least bit of sentiment, and when he heard that his only child had
fallen in love with a bassoon, his anger was very great.  He summoned
Aurora into his presence, and regarded her with an austere countenance.

"Girl," he said, in icy tones, "is it true that you have been flirting
with a bassoon?"

"Father," replied Aurora, with dignity, "I have never flirted with
anybody, and you grievously wrong the bassoon when you intimated that
he, too, is capable of such frivolity."

"It is nevertheless true," roared the old gentleman, "that you have
conceived a passion for this bassoon, and have cherished it
clandestinely."

"It _is_ true, father, that I love the bassoon," said Aurora; "it is
true that I admire his wit, vivacity, sentiment, soul, force, power,
and manliness, but I have loved in secret.  We have never met; he may
know I love him, and he may reciprocate my love, but he has never
spoken to me nor I to him, so there is nothing clandestine in the
affair."

"Oh, my child! my child!" sobbed the old man, breaking down; "how could
you love a bassoon, when so many eligible young men are suitors for
your hand?"

"Don't mention him in the same breath with those horrid creatures!"
cried Aurora, indignantly.  "What scent of tobacco or odor of wines has
ever profaned the purity of his balmy breath?  What does he know of
billiards, of horse-racing, of actresses, and those other features of
brutal men's lives?  Father, he is pure and good and exalted; seek not
to debase him by naming him in the category of man!"

"These are Eliza's teachings!" shrieked the old gentleman; and off he
bundled to vent his wrath on the maiden aunt.  But it was little
satisfaction he got from Aunt Eliza.

After that the old gentleman kept a strict eye on Aurora, and very soon
he became satisfied of two things: First, that Aurora was sincerely in
love with the bassoon; and, second, that the bassoon cared nothing for
Aurora.  That Aurora loved the bassoon was evidenced by her demeanor
when in his presence--her steadfast eyes, her parted lips, her heaving
bosom, her piteous sighs, her flushed cheeks, and her varying emotions
as his tones changed, bore unimpeachable testimony to the sincerity of
her passion.  That the bassoon did not care for Aurora was proved by
his utter disregard of her feelings, for though he might be tender this
moment he was harsh the next--though pleadin

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