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Short Stories for English Courses

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Title: Short Stories for English Courses

Editor: Rosa Mary Redding Mikels


        
Release date: April 1, 2004 [eBook #5403]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES FOR ENGLISH COURSES ***




Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team





SHORT STORIES
FOR
ENGLISH COURSES


EDITED
WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES


BY
ROSA M. R. MIKELS

SHORTRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL, INDIANAPOLIS, IND.





CONTENTS

PREFACE
INTRODUCTION
REQUIREMENTS OF THE SHORT STORY
HOW THIS BOOK MAY BE USED
THE FIRST CHRISTMAS-TREE Henry van Dyke
A FRENCH TAR-BABY Joel Chandler Harris
SONNY'S CHRISTENIN' Ruth McEnery Stuart
CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN John Fox, Jr.
A NEST-EGG James Whitcomb Riley
WEE WILLIE WINKIE Rudyard Kipling
THE GOLD BUG Edgar Allan Poe
THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF O. Henry
THE FRESHMAN FULL-BACK Ralph D. Paine
GALLEGHER Richard Harding Davis
THE JUMPING FROG Mark Twain
THE LADY OR THE TIGER? Frank R. Stockton
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT Francis Bret Harte
THE REVOLT OF MOTHER Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
MARSE CHAN Thomas Nelson Page
"POSSON JONE'" George W. Cable
OUR AROMATIC UNCLE Henry Cuyler Bunner
QUALITY John Galsworthy
THE TRIUMPH OF NIGHT Edith Wharton
A MESSENGER Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews
MARKHEIM Robert Louis Stevenson.




PREFACE

Why must we confine the reading of our children to the older
literary classics? This is the question asked by an ever-
increasing number of thoughtful teachers. They have no wish to
displace or to discredit the classics. On the contrary, they love
and revere them. But they do wish to give their pupils something
additional, something that pulses with present life, that is
characteristic of to-day. The children, too, wonder that, with the
great literary outpouring going on about them, they must always
fill their cups from the cisterns of the past.

The short story is especially adapted to supplement our high-
school reading. It is of a piece with our varied, hurried,
efficient American life, wherein figure the business man's lunch,
the dictagraph, the telegraph, the telephone, the automobile, and
the railway "limited." It has achieved high art, yet conforms to
the modern demand that our literature--since it must be read with
despatch, if read at all--be compact and compelling. Moreover, the
short story is with us in almost overwhelming numbers, and is
probably here to stay. Indeed, our boys and girls are somewhat
appalled at the quantity of material from which they must select
their reading, and welcome any instruction that enables them to
know the good from the bad. It is certain, therefore, that,
whatever else they may throw into the educational discard when
they leave the high school, they will keep and use anything they
may have learned about this form of literature which has become so
powerful a factor in our daily life.

This book does not attempt to select the greatest stories of the
time. What tribunal would dare make such a choice? Nor does it
attempt to trace the evolution of the short story or to point out
natural types and differences. These topics are better suited to
college classes. Its object is threefold: to supply interesting
reading belonging to the student's own time, to help him to see
that there is no divorce between classic and modern literature,
and, by offering him material structurally good and typical of the
qualities represented, to assist him in discriminating between the
artistic and the inartistic. The stories have been carefully
selected, because in the period of adolescence "nothing read fails
to leave its mark"; [Footnote: G Stanley Hall, Adolescence, vol.
II.] they have also been carefully arranged with a view to the
needs of the adolescent boy and girl. Stories of the type loved by
primitive man, and therefore easily approached and understood,
have been placed first. Those which appealed in periods of higher
development follow, roughly in the order of their increasing
difficulty. It is hoped, moreover, that this arrangement will help
the student to understand and appreciate the development of the
story. He begins with the simple tale of adventure and the simple
story of character. As he advances he sees the story develop in
plot, in character analysis, and in setting, until he ends with
the psychological study of Markheim, remarkable for its complexity
of motives and its great spiritual problem. Both the selection and
the arrangement have been made with this further purpose in view--
"to keep the heart warm, reinforcing all its good motives,
preforming choices, universalizing sympathies." [Footnote: Ibid.]

It is a pleasure to acknowledge, in this connection, the
suggestions and the criticism of Mr. William N. Otto, Head of the
Department of English in Shortridge High School, Indianapolis; and
the courtesies of the publishers who have permitted the use of
their material.




INTRODUCTION

I

REQUIREMENTS OF THE SHORT STORY


Critics have agreed that the short story must conform to certain
conditions. First of all, the writer must strive to make one and
only one impression. His time is too limited, his space is too
confined, his risk of dividing the attention of the reader is too
great, to admit of more than this one impression. He therefore
selects some moment of action or some phase of character or some
particular scene, and focuses attention upon that. Life not
infrequently gives such brief, clear-cut impressions. At the
railway station we see two young people hurry to a train as if
fearful of being detained, and we get the impression of romantic
adventure. We pass on the street corner two men talking, and from
a chance sentence or two we form a strong impression of the
character of one or both. Sometimes we travel through a scene so
desolate and depressing or so lovely and uplifting that the effect
is never forgotten. Such glimpses of life and scene are as vivid
as the vignettes revealed by the search-light, when its arm slowly
explores a mountain-side or the shore of a lake and brings objects
for a brief moment into high light. To secure this single strong
impression, the writer must decide which of the three essentials--
plot, character, or setting--is to have first place.

As action appeals strongly to most people, and very adequately
reveals character, the short-story writer may decide to make plot
pre-eminent. He accordingly chooses his incidents carefully. Any
that do not really aid in developing the story must be cast aside,
no matter how interesting or attractive they may be in themselves.
This does not mean that an incident which is detached from the
train of events may not be used. But such an incident must have
proper relations provided for it. Thus the writer may wish to use
incidents that belong to two separate stories, because he knows
that by relating them he can produce a single effect. Shakespeare
does this in Macbeth. Finding in the lives of the historic Macbeth
and the historic King Duff incidents that he wished to use, he
combined them. But he saw to it that they had the right relation,
that they fitted into the chain of cause and effect. The reader
will insist, as the writer knows, that the story be logical, that
incident 1 shall be the cause of incident 2, incident 2 of
incident 3, and so on to the end. The triangle used by Freytag to
illustrate the plot of a play may make this clear.

AC is the line of rising action along which the story climbs,
incident by incident, to the point C; C is the turning point, the
crisis, or the climax; CB is the line of falling action along
which the story descends incident by incident to its logical
resolution. Nothing may be left to luck or chance. In life the
element of chance does sometimes seem to figure, but in the story
it has no place. If the ending is not the logical outcome of
events, the reader feels cheated. He does not want the situation
to be too obvious, for he likes the thrill of suspense. But he
wants the hints and foreshadowings to be sincere, so that he may
safely draw his conclusions from them. This does not condemn,
however, the "surprise" ending, so admirably used by O. Henry. The
reader, in this case, admits that the writer has "played fair"
throughout, and that the ending which has so surprised and tickled
his fancy is as logical as that he had forecast.

To aid in securing the element of suspense, the author often makes
use of what Carl H. Grabo, in his The Art of the Short Story,
calls the "negative" or "hostile" incident. Incidents, as he
points out, are of two kinds--positive and negative. The first
openly help to untangle the situation; the second seem to delay
the straightening out of the threads or even to make the tangle
worse. He illustrates this by the story of Cinderella. The
appearance of the fairy and her use of the magic wand are
positive, or openly helpful incidents, in rescuing Cinderella from
her lonely and neglected state. But her forgetfulness of the hour
and her loss of the glass slipper are negative or hostile
incidents. Nevertheless, we see how these are really blessings in
disguise, since they cause the prince to seek and woo her.

The novelist may introduce many characters, because he has time
and space to care for them. Not so the short-story writer: he must
employ only one main character and a few supporting characters.
However, when the plot is the main thing, the characters need not
be remarkable in any way. Indeed, as Brander Matthews has said,
the heroine may be "a woman," the hero "a man," not any woman or
any man in particular. Thus, in The Lady or the Tiger? the author
leaves the princess without definite traits of character, because
his problem is not "what this particular woman would do, but what
A woman would do." Sometimes, after reading a story of thrilling
plot, we find that we do not readily recall the appearance or the
names of the characters; we recall only what happened to them.
This is true of the women of James Fenimore Cooper's stories. They
have no substantiality, but move like veiled figures through the
most exciting adventures.

Setting may or may not be an important factor in the story of
incident. What is meant by setting? It is an inclusive term. Time,
place, local conditions, and sometimes descriptions of nature and
of people are parts of it. When these are well cared for, we get
an effect called "atmosphere." We know the effect the atmosphere
has upon objects. Any one who has observed distant mountains knows
that, while they remain practically unchanged, they never look the
same on two successive days. Sometimes they stand out hard and
clear, sometimes they are soft and alluring, sometimes they look
unreal and almost melt into the sky behind them. So the atmosphere
of a story may envelop people and events and produce a subtle
effect upon the reader. Sometimes the plot material is such as to
require little setting. The incidents might have happened
anywhere. We hardly notice the absence of setting in our hurry to
see what happens. This is true of many of the stories we enjoyed
when we were children. For instance, in The Three Bears the
incidents took place, of course, in the woods, but our imagination
really supplied the setting. Most stories, however, whatever their
character, use setting as carefully and as effectively as
possible. Time and place are often given with exactness. Thus Bret
Harte says: "As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main
street of Poker Flat on the morning of the twenty-third of
November, 1850, he was conscious of a change in its moral
atmosphere since the preceding night." This definite mention of
time and place gives an air of reality of the story. As to
descriptions, the writer sifts them in, for he knows that few will
bother to read whole paragraphs of description. He often uses
local color, by which we mean the employment of epithets, phrases,
and other expressions that impart a "feeling" for the place. This
use of local color must not be confused with that intended to
produce what is called an "impressionistic" effect. In the latter
case the writer subordinates everything to this effect of scene.
This use of local color is discussed elsewhere.

Perhaps the writer wishes to make character the dominant element.
Then he subordinates plot and setting to this purpose and makes
them contribute to it. In selecting the character he wishes to
reveal he has wide choice. "Human nature is the same, wherever you
find it," we are fond of saying. So he may choose a character that
is quite common, some one he knows; and, having made much of some
one trait and ignored or subordinated others, bring him before us
at some moment of decision or in some strange, perhaps hostile,
environment. Or the author may take some character quite out of
the ordinary: the village miser, the recluse, or a person with a
peculiar mental or moral twist. But, whatever his choice, it is
not enough that the character be actually drawn from real life.
Indeed, such fidelity to what literally exists may be a hinderance
to the writer. The original character may have done strange things
and suffered strange things that cannot be accounted for. But, in
the story, inconsistencies must be removed, and the conduct of the
characters must be logical. Life seems inconsistent to all of us
at times, but it is probably less so than it seems. People puzzle
us by their apparent inconsistencies, when to themselves their
actions seem perfectly logical. But, as Mr. Grabo points out, "In
life we expect inconsistencies; in a story we depend upon their
elimination." The law of cause and effect, which we found so
indispensable in the story of plot, we find of equal importance in
the story of character. There must be no sudden and unaccountable
changes in the behavior or sentiments of the people in the story.
On the contrary, there must be reason in all they say and do.

Another demand of the character story is that the characters be
lifelike. In the plot story, or in the impressionistic story, we
may accept the flat figures on the canvas; our interest is
elsewhere. But in the character story we must have real people
whose motives and conduct we discuss pro and con with as much
interest as if we knew them in the flesh. A character of this
convincing type is Hamlet. About him controversy has always raged.
It is impossible to think of him as other than a real man.
Whenever the writer finds that the characters in his story have
caused the reader to wax eloquent over their conduct, he may rest
easy: he has made his people lifelike.

Setting in the character story is important, for it is in this
that the chief actor moves and has his being. His environment is
continually causing him to speak and act. The incidents selected,
even though some of them may seem trivial in themselves, must
reveal depth after depth in his soul. Whatever the means by which
the author reveals the character--whether by setting, conduct,
analysis, dialogue, or soliloquy--his task is a hard one. In
Markheim we have practically all of these used, with the result
that the character is unmistakable and convincing.

Stories of scenes are neither so numerous nor so easy to produce
successfully as those of plot and character. But sometimes a place
so profoundly impresses a writer that its demands may not be
disregarded. Robert Louis Stevenson strongly felt the influence of
certain places. "Certain dank gardens cry aloud for murder;
certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set
apart for shipwreck. Other spots seem to abide their destiny,
suggestive and impenetrable." Perhaps all of us have seen some
place of which we have exclaimed: "It is like a story!" When,
then, scene is to furnish the dominant interest, plot and
character become relatively insignificant and shadowy. "The
pressure of the atmosphere," says Brander Matthews, holds our
attention. The Fall of the House of Usher, by Edgar Allan Poe, is
a story of this kind. It is the scene that affects us with dread
and horror; we have no peace until we see the house swallowed up
by the tarn, and have fled out of sight of the tarn itself. The
plot is extremely slight, and the Lady Madeline and her unhappy
brother hardly more than shadows.

It must not be supposed from the foregoing explanation that the
three essentials of the short story are ever really divorced. They
are happily blended in many of our finest stories. Nevertheless,
analysis of any one of these will show that in the mind of the
writer one purpose was pre-eminent. On this point Robert Louis
Stevenson thus speaks: "There are, so far as I know, three ways
and three only of writing a story. You may take a plot and fit
characters to it, or you may take a character and choose incidents
and situations to develop it, or, lastly, you may take a certain
atmosphere and get actions and persons to express and realize it."
When to this clear conception of his limitations and privileges
the author adds an imagination that clearly visualizes events and
the "verbal magic" by which good style is secured, he produces the
short story that is a masterpiece.




HOW THIS BOOK MAY BE USED

This book may be used in four ways. First, it may serve as an
appetizer. Even the casual reading of good literature has a
tendency to create a demand for more. Second, it may be made the
basis for discussion and comparison. By using these stories, the
works of recognized authors, as standards, the student may
determine the value of such stories as come into his home. Third,
these selections may be studied in a regular short-story course,
such as many high schools have, to illustrate the requirements and
the types of this form of narration. The chapter on "The
Requirements of the Short Story" will be found useful both in this
connection and in the comparative study of stories. Fourth, the
student will better appreciate and understand the short story if
he attempts to tell or to write one. This does not mean that we
intend to train him for the literary market. Our object is
entirely different. No form of literature brings more real joy to
the child than the story. Not only does he like to hear stories;
he likes to tell them. And where the short-story course is rightly
used, he likes to write them. He finds that the pleasure of
exercising creative power more than offsets the drudgery
inevitable in composition. A plan that has been satisfactorily
carried out in the classroom is here briefly outlined.

The teacher reads with the class a story in which plot furnishes
the main interest. This type is chosen because it is more easily
analyzed by beginners. The class discusses this, applying the
tests of the short story given elsewhere in this book. Then a
number of short stories of different types are read and compared.
Next, each member of the class selects from some recent book or
magazine a short story he enjoys. This he outlines and reports to
the class. If this report is not satisfactory, the class insists
that either the author or the reporter be exonerated. The story is
accordingly read to the class, or is read and reported on by
another member. The class is then usually able to decide whether
the story is faulty or the first report inadequate.

Next the class gives orally incidents that might or might not be
expanded into short stories. The students soon discover that some
of these require the lengthy treatment of a novel, that others are
good as simple incidents but nothing more, and that still others
might develop into satisfactory short stories. The class is now
asked to develop original plots. Since plots cannot be produced on
demand, but require time for the mind to act subconsciously, the
class practises, during the "period of incubation," the writing of
dialogue. For these the teacher suggests a list of topics,
although any student is free to substitute one of his own. Among
the topics that have been used are: "Johnny goes with his mother
to church for the first time," "Mrs. Hennessy is annoyed by the
chickens of Mrs. Jones," "Albert applies for a summer job."
Sometimes the teacher relates an incident, and has the class
reproduce it in dialogue. By comparing their work with dialogue by
recognized writers the youthful authors soon learn how to
punctuate and paragraph conversation, and where to place necessary
comment and explanation. They also discover that dialogue must
either reveal character or advance the story; and that it must be
in keeping with the theme and maintain the tone used at the
beginning. A commonplace dialogue must not suddenly become
romantic in tone, and dialect must not lapse into ordinary
English.




INTRODUCTION

The original plots the class offers later may have been suggested
in many ways. Newspaper accounts, court reports, historical
incidents, family traditions--all may contribute. Sometimes the
student proudly declares of his plot, "I made it out of my own
head." These plots are arranged in outline form to show how
incident 1 developed incident 2, that incident 3, and so on to the
conclusion. The class points out the weak places in these plots
and offers helpful suggestions. This co-operation often produces
surprisingly good results. A solution that the troubled originator
of the plot never thought of may come almost as an inspiration
from the class. Criticism throughout is largely constructive.
After the student has developed several plots in outline, he
usually finds among them one that he wishes to use for his story.
This is worked out in some detail, submitted to the class, and
later in a revised form to the teacher. The story when complete is
corrected and sometimes rewritten.

Most of the class prefer to write stories of plot, but some insist
upon trying stories of character or of setting. These pupils are
shown the difficulties in their way, but are allowed to try their
hand if they insist. Sometimes the results are good; more often
the writer, after an honest effort, admits that he cannot handle
his subject well and substitutes a story of plot.

In any case the final draft is sure to leave much to be desired;
but even so, the gain has been great. The pupil writer has
constantly been measuring his work by standards of recognized
excellence in form and in creative power; as a result he has
learned to appreciate the short story from the art side. Moreover,
he has had a large freedom in his work that has relieved it of
drudgery. And, best of all, he has been doing original work with
plastic material; and to work with plastic material is always a source
of joy, whether it be the mud that the child makes into pies, the clay
that the artist moulds into forms of beauty, or the facts of life that the
creative imagination of the writer shapes into literature.






THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE

A STORY OF THE FOREST

BY HENRY VAN DYKE

This story is placed first because it is of the type that first
delighted man. It is the story of high adventure, of a struggle
with the forces of nature, barbarous men, and heathen gods. The
hero is "a hunter of demons, a subduer of the wilderness, a
woodman of the faith." He seeks hardships and conquers them. The
setting is the illumitable forest in the remote past. The forest,
like the sea, makes an irresistible appeal to the imagination.
Either may be the scene of the marvellous and the thrilling. Quite
unlike the earliest tales, this story is enriched with description
and exposition; nevertheless, it has their simplicity and dignity.
It reminds us of certain of the great Biblical narratives, such as
the contest between Elijah and the prophets of Baal and the
victory of Daniel over the jealous presidents and princes of
Darius. In "The First Christmas Tree," as in many others of these
stories, a third person is the narrator. But the hero may tell his
own adventures. "I did this. I did that. Thus I felt at the
conclusion." Instances are Defoe's "Robinson Crusoe" and
Stevenson's "Kidnapped." But whether in the first or third person,
the story holds us by the magic of adventure.




THE FIRST CHRISTMAS TREE

[Footnote: From "The First Christmas Tree," by Henry Van Dyke.
Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]


I

THE CALL OF THE WOODSMAN


The day before Christmas, in the year of our Lord 722.

Broad snow-meadows glistening white along the banks of the river
Moselle; pallid hill-sides blooming with mystic roses where the
glow of the setting sun still lingered upon them; an arch of
clearest, faintest azure bending overhead; in the centre of the
aerial landscape the massive walls of the cloister of Pfalzel,
gray to the east, purple to the west; silence over all,--a gentle,
eager, conscious stillness, diffused through the air like perfume,
as if earth and sky were hushing themselves to hear the voice of
the river faintly murmuring down the valley.

In the cloister, too, there was silence at the sunset hour. All
day long there had been a strange and joyful stir among the nuns.
A breeze of curiosity and excitement had swept along the corridors
and through every quiet cell.

The elder sisters,--the provost, the deaconess, the stewardess,
the portress with her huge bunch of keys jingling at her girdle,--
had been hurrying to and fro, busied with household cares. In the
huge kitchen there was a bustle of hospitable preparation. The
little bandy-legged dogs that kept the spits turning before the
fires had been trotting steadily for many an hour, until their
tongues hung out for want of breath. The big black pots swinging
from the cranes had bubbled and gurgled and shaken and sent out
puffs of appetizing steam.

St. Martha was in her element. It was a field-day for her virtues.

The younger sisters, the pupils of the convent, had forsaken their
Latin books and their embroidery-frames, their manuscripts and
their miniatures, and fluttered through the halls in little flocks
like merry snow-birds, all in black and white, chattering and
whispering together. This was no day for tedious task-work, no day
for grammar or arithmetic, no day for picking out illuminated
letters in red and gold on stiff parchment, or patiently chasing
intricate patterns over thick cloth with the slow needle. It was a
holiday. A famous visitor had come to the convent.

It was Winfried of England, whose name in the Roman tongue was
Boniface, and whom men called the Apostle of Germany. A great
preacher; a wonderful scholar; he had written a Latin grammar
himself,--think of it,--and he could hardly sleep without a book
under his pillow; but, more than all, a great and daring
traveller, a venturesome pilgrim, a high-priest of romance.

He had left his home and his fair estate in Wessex; he would not
stay in the rich monastery of Nutescelle, even though they had
chosen him as the abbot; he had refused a bishopric at the court
of King Karl. Nothing would content him but to go out into the
wild woods and preach to the heathen.

Up and down through the forests of Hesse and Thuringia, and along
the borders of Saxony, he had wandered for years, with a handful
of companions, sleeping under the trees, crossing mountains and
marshes, now here, now there, never satisfied with ease and
comfort, always in love with hardship and danger.

What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a spear and
strong as an oaken staff. His face was still young; the smooth
skin was bronzed by wind and sun. His gray eyes, clear and kind,
flashed like fire when he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil
deeds of the false priests with whom he contended.

What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought by sacred
relics; not of courts and councils and splendid cathedrals; though
he knew much of these things, and had been at Rome and received
the Pope's blessing. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings
by sea and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves and bears
and fierce snowstorms and black nights in the lonely forest; of
dark altars of heathen gods, and weird, bloody sacrifices, and
narrow escapes from murderous bands of wandering savages.

The little novices had gathered around him, and their faces had
grown pale and their eyes bright as they listened with parted
lips, entranced in admiration, twining their arms about one
another's shoulders and holding closely together, half in fear,
half in delight. The older nuns had turned from their tasks and
paused, in passing by, to hear the pilgrim's story. Too well they
knew the truth of what he spoke. Many a one among them had seen
the smoke rising from the ruins of her father's roof. Many a one
had a brother far away in the wild country to whom her heart went
out night and day, wondering if he were still among the living.

But now the excitements of that wonderful day were over; the hour
of the evening meal had come; the inmates of the cloister were
assembled in the refectory.

On the dais sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter of King
Dagobert, looking a princess indeed, in her violet tunic, with the
hood and cuffs of her long white robe trimmed with fur, and a
snowy veil resting like a crown on her snowy hair. At her right
hand was the honored guest, and at her left hand her grandson, the
young Prince Gregor, a big, manly boy, just returned from the high
school.

The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown rafters and beams; the
double rows of nuns, with their pure veils and fair faces; the
ruddy glow of the slanting sunbeams striking upwards through the
tops of the windows and painting a pink glow high up on the
walls,--it was all as beautiful as a picture, and as silent. For
this was the rule of the cloister, that at the table all should
sit in stillness for a little while, and then one should read
aloud, while the rest listened.

"It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day," said the abbess to
Winfried; "we shall see how much he has learned in the school.
Read, Gregor; the place in the book is marked."

The tall lad rose from his seat and turned the pages of the
manuscript. It was a copy of Jerome's version of the Scriptures in
Latin, and the marked place was in the letter of St. Paul to the
Ephesians,--the passage where he describes the preparation of the
Christian as the arming of a warrior for glorious battle. The
young voice rang out clearly, rolling the sonorous words, without
slip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter.

Winfried listened smiling. "My son," said he, as the reader
paused, "that was bravely read. Understandest thou what thou
readest?"

"Surely, father," answered the boy; "it was taught me by the
masters at Treves; and we have read this epistle clear through,
from beginning to end, so that I almost know it by heart." then he
began again to repeat the passage, turning away from the page as
if to show his skill.

But Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of the hand.

"Not so, my son; that was not my meaning. When we pray, we speak
to God; when we read, it is God who speaks to us. I ask whether
thou hast heard what He has said to thee, in thine own words, in
the common speech. Come, give us again the message of the warrior
and his armor and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so that all
can understand it."

The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came around to
Winfried's seat, bringing the book. "Take the book, my father," he
cried, "and read it for me. I cannot see the meaning plain, though
I love the sound of the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines
of our faith, and the life of priests and nuns in the cloister,
for which my grandmother designs me, though it likes me little.
And fighting I know, and the life of warriors and heroes, for I
have read of it in Virgil and the ancients, and heard a bit from
the soldiers at Treves; and I would fain taste more of it, for it
likes me much. But how the two lives fit together, or what need
there is of armor for a clerk in holy orders, I can never see.
Tell me the meaning, for if there is a man in all the world that
knows it, I am sure it is none other than thou."

So Winfried took the book and closed it, clasping the boy's hand
with his own.

"Let us first dismiss the others to their vespers," said he, "lest
they should be weary."

A sign from the abbess; a chanted benediction; a murmuring of
sweet voices and a soft rustling of many feet over the rushes on
the floor; the gentle tide of noise flowed out through the doors
and ebbed away down the corridors; the three at the head of the
table were left alone in the darkening room.

Then Winfried began to translate the parable of the soldier into
the realities of life.

At every turn he knew how to flash a new light into the picture
out of his own experience. He spoke of the combat with self, and
of the wrestling with dark spirits in solitude. He spoke of the
demons that men had worshipped for centuries in the wilderness,
and whose malice they invoked against the stranger who ventured
into the gloomy forest. Gods, they called them, and told strange
tales of their dwelling among the impenetrable branches of the
oldest trees and in the caverns of the shaggy hills; of their
riding on the wind-horses and hurling spears of lightning against
their foes. Gods they were not, but foul spirits of the air,
rulers of the darkness. Was there not glory and honor in fighting
with them, in daring their anger under the shield of faith, in
putting them to flight with the sword of truth? What better
adventure could a brave man ask than to go forth against them, and
wrestle with them, and conquer them?

"Look you, my friends," said Winfried, "how sweet and peaceful is
this convent to-night, on the eve of the nativity of the Prince of
Peace! It is a garden full of flowers in the heart of winter; a
nest among the branches of a great tree shaken by the winds; a
still haven on the edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what
religion means for those who are chosen and called to quietude and
prayer and meditation.

"But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what storms are
raving to-night in the hearts of men, though all the woods are
still? who knows what haunts of wrath and cruelty and fear are
closed to-night against the advent of the Prince of Peace? And
shall I tell you what religion means to those who are called and
chosen to dare and to fight, and to conquer the world for Christ?
It means to launch out into the deep. It means to go against the
strongholds of the adversary. It means to struggle to win an
entrance for their Master everywhere. What helmet is strong enough
for this strife save the helmet of salvation? What breastplate can
guard a man against these fiery darts but the breastplate of
righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of these journeys but
the preparation of the gospel of peace?"

"Shoes?" he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden thought had
struck him. He thrust out his foot, covered with a heavy cowhide
boot, laced high about his leg with thongs of skin.

"See here,--how a fighting man of the cross is shod! I have seen
the boots of the Bishop of Tours,--white kid, broidered with silk;
a day in the bogs would tear them to shreds. I have seen the
sandals that the monks use on the highroads,--yes, and worn them;
ten pair of them have I worn out and thrown away in a single
journey. Now I shoe my feet with the toughest hides, hard as iron;
no rock can cut them, no branches can tear them. Yet more than one
pair of these have I outworn, and many more shall I outwear ere my
journeys are ended. And I think, if God is gracious to me, that I
shall die wearing them. Better so than in a soft bed with silken
coverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, a woodsman,--these
are my preparation of the gospel of peace."

"Come, Gregor," he said, laying his brown hand on the youth's
shoulder, "come, wear the forester's boots with me. This is the
life to which we are called. Be strong in the Lord, a hunter of
the demons, a subduer of the wilderness, a woodsman of the faith.
Come!"

The boy's eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother. She shook
her head vigorously.

"Nay, father," she said, "draw not the lad away from my side with
these wild words. I need him to help me with my labors, to cheer
my old age."

"Do you need him more than the Master does?" asked Winfried; "and
will you take the wood that is fit for a bow to make a distaff?"

"But I fear for the child. Thy life is too hard for him. He will
perish with hunger in the woods."

"Once," said Winfried, smiling, "we were camped by the bank of the
river Ohru. The table was spread for the morning meal, but my
comrades cried that it was empty; the provisions were exhausted;
we must go without breakfast, and perhaps starve before we could
escape from the wilderness. While they complained, a fish-hawk
flew up from the river with flapping wings, and let fall a great
pike in the midst of the camp. There was food enough and to spare.
Never have I seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging
bread."

"But the fierce pagans of the forest," cried the abbess,--"they
may pierce the boy with their arrows, or dash out his brains with
their axes. He is but a child, too young for the dangers of
strife."

"A child in years," replied Winfried, "but a man in spirit. And if
the hero must fall early in the battle, he wears the brighter
crown, not a leaf withered, not a flower fallen."

The aged princess trembled a little. She drew Gregor close to her
side, and laid her hand gently on his brown hair.

"I am not sure that he wants to leave me yet. Besides, there is no
horse in the stable to give him, now, and he cannot go as befits
the grandson of a king."

Gregor looked straight into her eyes.

"Grandmother," said he, "dear grandmother, if thou wilt not give
me a horse to ride with this man of God, I will go with him
afoot."




II

THE TRAIL THROUGH THE FOREST


Two years had passed, to a day, almost to an hour, since that
Christmas eve in the cloister of Pfalzel. A little company of
pilgrims, less than a score of men, were creeping slowly northward
through the wide forest that rolled over the hills of central
Germany.

At the head of the band marched Winfried, clad in a tunic of fur,
with his long black robe girt high about his waist, so that it
might not hinder his stride. His hunter's boots were crusted with
snow. Drops of ice sparkled like jewels along the thongs that
bound his legs. There was no other ornament to his dress except
the bishop's cross hanging on his breast, and the broad silver
clasp that fastened his cloak about his neck. He carried a strong,
tall staff in his hand, fashioned at the top into the form of a
cross.

Close beside him, keeping step like a familiar comrade, was the
young Prince Gregor. Long marches through the wilderness had
stretched his limbs and broadened his back, and made a man of him
in stature as well as in spirit. His jacket and cap were of wolf-
skin, and on his shoulder he carried an axe, with broad, shining
blade. He was a mighty woodsman now, and could make a spray of
chips fly around him as he hewed his way through the trunk of
spruce-tree.

Behind these leaders followed a pair of teamsters, guiding a rude
sledge, loaded with food and the equipage of the camp, and drawn
by two big, shaggy horses, blowing thick clouds of steam from
their frosty nostrils. Tiny icicles hung from the hairs on their
lips. Their flanks were smoking. They sank above the fetlocks at
every step in the soft snow.

Last of all came the rear guard, armed with bows and javelins. It
was no child's play, in those days, to cross Europe afoot.

The weird woodland, sombre and illimitable, covered hill and vale,
tableland and mountain-peak. There were wide moors where the
wolves hunted in packs as if the devil drove them, and tangled
thickets where the lynx and the boar made their lairs. Fierce
bears lurked among the rocky passes, and had not yet learned to
fear the face of man. The gloomy recesses of the forest gave
shelter to inhabitants who were still more cruel and dangerous
than beasts of prey,--outlaws and sturdy robbers and mad were-
wolves and bands of wandering pillagers.

The pilgrim who would pass from the mouth of the Tiber to the
mouth of the Rhine must travel with a little army of retainers, or
else trust in God and keep his arrows loose in the quiver.

The travellers were surrounded by an ocean of trees, so vast, so
full of endless billows, that it seemed to be pressing on every
side to overwhelm them. Gnarled oaks, with branches twisted and
knotted as if in rage, rose in groves like tidal waves. Smooth
forests of beech-trees, round and gray, swept over the knolls and
slopes of land in a mighty ground-swell. But most of all, the
multitude of pines and firs, innumerable and monotonous, with
straight, stark trunks, and branches woven together in an unbroken
flood of darkest green, crowded through the valleys and over the
hills, rising on the highest ridges into ragged crests, like the
foaming edge of breakers.

Through this sea of shadows ran a narrow stream of shining
whiteness,--an ancient Roman road, covered with snow. It was as if
some great ship had ploughed through the green ocean long ago, and
left behind it a thick, smooth wake of foam. Along this open track
the travellers held their way,--heavily, for the drifts were deep;
warily, for the hard winter had driven many packs of wolves down
from the moors.

The steps of the pilgrims were noiseless; but the sledges creaked
over the dry snow, and the panting of the horses throbbed through
the still, cold air. The pale-blue shadows on the western side of
the road grew longer. The sun, declining through its shallow arch,
dropped behind the tree-tops. Darkness followed swiftly, as if it
had been a bird of prey waiting for this sign to swoop down upon
the world.

"Father," said Gregor to the leader, "surely this day's march is
done. It is time to rest, and eat, and sleep. If we press onward
now, we cannot see our steps; and will not that be against the
word of the psalmist David, who bids us not to put confidence in
the legs of a man?"

Winfried laughed. "Nay, my son Gregor," said he, "thou hast
tripped, even now, upon thy text. For David said only, 'I take no
pleasure in the legs of a man.' And so say I, for I am not minded
to spare thy legs or mine, until we come farther on our way, and
do what must be done this night. Draw the belt tighter, my son,
and hew me out this tree that is fallen across the road, for our
camp-ground is not here."

The youth obeyed; two of the foresters sprang to help him; and
while the soft fir-wood yielded to the stroke of the axes, and the
snow flew from the bending branches, Winfried turned and spoke to
his followers in a cheerful voice, that refreshed them like wine.

"Courage, brothers, and forward yet a little! The moon will light
us presently, and the path is plain. Well know I that the journey
is weary; and my own heart wearies also for the home in England,
where those I love are keeping feast this Christmas eve. But we
have work to do before we feast to-night. For this is the
Yuletide, and the heathen people of the forest have gathered at
the thunder-oak of Geismar to worship their god, Thor. Strange
things will be seen there, and deeds which make the soul black.
But we are sent to lighten their darkness; and we will teach our
kinsmen to keep a Christmas with us such as the woodland has never
known. Forward, then, and let us stiffen up our feeble knees!"

A murmur of assent came from the men. Even the horses seemed to
take fresh heart. They flattened their backs to draw the heavy
loads, and blew the frost from their nostrils as they pushed
ahead.

The night grew broader and less oppressive. A gate of brightness
was opened secretly somewhere in the sky; higher and higher
swelled the clear moon-flood, until it poured over the eastern
wall of forest into the road. A drove of wolves howled faintly in
the distance, but they were receding, and the sound soon died
away. The stars sparkled merrily through the stringent air; the
small, round moon shone like silver; little breaths of the
dreaming wind wandered whispering across the pointed fir-tops, as
the pilgrims toiled bravely onward, following their clue of light
through a labyrinth of darkness.

After a while the road began to open out a little. There were
spaces of meadow-land, fringed with alders, behind which a
boisterous river ran, clashing through spears of ice.

Rude houses of hewn logs appeared in the openings, each one
casting a patch of inky blackness upon the snow. Then the
travellers passed a larger group of dwellings, all silent and
unlighted; and beyond, they saw a great house, with many
outbuildings and enclosed courtyards, from which the hounds bayed
furiously, and a noise of stamping horses came from the stalls.
But there was no other sound of life. The fields around lay bare
to the moon. They saw no man, except that once, on a path that
skirted the farther edge of a meadow, three dark figures passed
by, running very swiftly.

Then the road plunged again into a dense thicket, traversed it,
and climbing to the left, emerged suddenly upon a glade, round and
level except at the northern side, where a swelling hillock was
crowned with a huge oak-tree. It towered above the heath, a giant
with contorted arms, beckoning to the host of lesser trees.
"Here," cried Winfried, as his eyes flashed and his hand lifted
his heavy staff, "here is the thunder-oak; and here the cross of
Christ shall break the hammer of the false god Thor."




III

THE SHADOW OF THE THUNDER-OAK


Withered leaves still clung to the branches of the oak: torn and
faded banners of the departed summer. The bright crimson of autumn
had long since disappeared, bleached away by the storms and the
cold. But to-night these tattered remnants of glory were red
again: ancient blood-stains against the dark-blue sky. For an
immense fire had been kindled in front of the tree. Tongues of
ruddy flame, fountains of ruby sparks, ascended through the
spreading limbs and flung a fierce illumination upward and around.
The pale, pure moonlight that bathed the surrounding forests was
quenched and eclipsed here. Not a beam of it sifted downward
through the branches of the oak. It stood like a pillar of cloud
between the still light of heaven and the crackling, flashing fire
of earth.

But the fire itself was invisible to Winfried and his companions.
A great throng of people were gathered around it in a half-circle,
their backs to the open glade, their faces towards the oak. Seen
against that glowing background, it was but the silhouette of a
crowd, vague, black, formless, mysterious.

The travellers paused for a moment at the edge of the thicket, and
took counsel together.

"It is the assembly of the tribe," said one of the foresters, "the
great night of the council. I heard of it three days ago, as we
passed through one of the villages. All who swear by the old gods
have been summoned. They will sacrifice a steed to the god of war,
and drink blood, and eat horse-flesh to make them strong. It will
be at the peril of our lives if we approach them. At least we must
hide the cross, if we would escape death."

"Hide me no cross," cried Winfried, lifting his staff, "for I have
come to show it, and to make these blind folk see its power. There
is more to be done here to-night than the slaying of a steed, and
a greater evil to be stayed than the shameful eating of meat
sacrificed to idols. I have seen it in a dream. Here the cross
must stand and be our rede."

At his command the sledge was left in the border of the wood, with
two of the men to guard it, and the rest of the company moved
forward across the open ground. They approached unnoticed, for all
the multitude were looking intently towards the fire at the foot
of the oak.

Then Winfried's voice rang out, "Hail, ye sons of the forest! A
stranger claims the warmth of your fire in the winter night."

Swiftly, and as with a single motion, a thousand eyes were bent
upon the speaker. The semicircle opened silently in the middle;
Winfried entered with his followers; it closed again behind them.

Then, as they looked round the curving ranks, they saw that the
hue of the assemblage was not black, but white,--dazzling,
radiant, solemn. White, the robes of the women clustered together
at the points of the wide crescent; white, the glittering byrnies
of the warriors standing in close ranks; white, the fur mantles of
the aged men who held the central place in the circle; white, with
the shimmer of silver ornaments and the purity of lamb's-wool, the
raiment of a little group of children who stood close by the fire;
white, with awe and fear, the faces of all who looked at them; and
over all the flickering, dancing radiance of the flames played and
glimmered like a faint, vanishing tinge of blood on snow.

The only figure untouched by the glow was the old priest, Hunrad,
with his long, spectral robe, flowing hair and beard, and dead-
pale face, who stood with his back to the fire and advanced slowly
to meet the strangers.

"Who are you? Whence come you, and what seek you here?" His voice
was heavy and toneless as a muffled bell.

"Your kinsman am I, of the German brotherhood," answered Winfried,
"and from England, beyond the sea, have I come to bring you a
greeting from that land, and a message from the All-Father, whose
servant I am."

"Welcome, then," said Hunrad, "welcome, kinsman, and be silent;
for what passes here is too high to wait, and must be done before
the moon crosses the middle heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some
sign or token from the gods. Canst thou work miracles?"

The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope had
flashed through the tangle of the old priest's mind. But
Winfried's voice sank lower and a cloud of disappointment passed
over his face as he replied: "Nay, miracles have I never wrought,
though I have heard of many; but the All-Father has given no power
to my hands save such as belongs to common man."

"Stand still, then, thou common man," said Hunrad, scornfully,
"and behold what the gods have called us hither to do. This night
is the death night of the sun-god, Baldur the Beautiful, beloved
of gods and men. This night is the hour of darkness and the power
of winter, of sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the great
Thor, the god of thunder and war, to whom this oak is sacred, is
grieved for the death of Baldur, and angry with this people
because they have forsaken his worship. Long is it since an
offering has been laid upon his altar, long since the roots of his
holy tree have been fed with blood. Therefore its leaves have
withered before the time, and its boughs are heavy with death.
Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in battle.
Therefore the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have
ravaged the folds, and the strength has departed from the bow, and
the wood of the spear has broken, and the wild boar has slain the
huntsman. Therefore the plague has fallen on our dwellings, and
the dead are more than the living in all our villages. Answer me,
ye people, are not these things true?"

A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A chant, in
which the voices of the men and women blended, like the shrill
wind in the pine-trees above the rumbling thunder of a waterfall,
rose and fell in rude cadences.

  "O Thor, the Thunderer,
   Mighty and merciless,
   Spare us from smiting!
   Heave not thy hammer,
   Angry, against us;
   Plague not thy people.
   Take from our treasure
   Richest of ransom.
   Silver we send thee,
   Jewels and javelins,
   Goodliest garments,
   All our possessions,
   Priceless, we profter.
   Sheep will we slaughter,
   Steeds will we sacrifice;
   Bright blood shall bathe thee,
   O tree of Thunder,
   Life-floods shall lave thee,
   Strong wood of wonder.
   Mighty, have mercy,
   Smite us no more,
   Spare us and save us,
   Spare us, Thor! Thor!"

With two great shouts the song ended, and a stillness followed so
intense that the crackling of the fire was heard distinctly. The
old priest stood silent for a moment. His shaggy brows swept down
over his eyes like ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face
and spoke.

"None of these things will please the god. More costly is the
offering that shall cleanse your sin, more precious the crimson
dew that shall send new life into this holy tree of blood. Thor
claims your dearest and your noblest gift."

Hunrad moved nearer to the handful of children who stood watching
the red mines in the fire and the swarms of spark-serpents darting
upward. They had heeded none of the priest's words, and did not
notice now that he approached them, so eager were they to see
which fiery snake would go highest among the oak branches.
Foremost among them, and most intent on the pretty game, was a boy
like a sunbeam, slender and quick, with blithe brown eyes and
laughing lips. The priest's hand was laid upon his shoulder. The
boy turned and looked up in his face.

"Here," said the old man, with his voice vibrating as when a thick
rope is strained by a ship swinging from her moorings, "here is
the chosen one, the eldest son of the Chief, the darling of the
people. Hearken, Bernhard, wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the
heroes dwell with the gods, to bear a message to Thor?"

The boy answered, swift and clear:

"Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me. Is it far away?
Shall I run quickly? Must I take my bow and arrows for the
wolves?"

The boy's father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing among his
bearded warriors, drew his breath deep, and leaned so heavily on
the handle of his spear that the wood cracked. And his wife, Irma,
bending forward from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair
from her forehead with one hand. The other dragged at the silver
chain about her neck until the rough links pierced her flesh, and
the red drops fell unheeded on the snow of her breast.

A sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur of the forest
before the storm breaks. Yet no one spoke save Hunrad:

"Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou have, for the way
is long, and thou art a brave huntsman. But in darkness thou must
journey for a little space, and with eyes blindfolded. Fearest
thou?"

"Naught fear I," said the boy, "neither darkness, nor the great
bear, nor the were-wolf. For I am Gundhar's son, and the defender
of my folk."

Then the priest led the child in his raiment of lamb's-wool to a
broad stone in front of the fire. He gave him his little bow
tipped with silver, and his spear with shining head of steel. He
bound the child's eyes with a white cloth, and bade him kneel
beside the stone with his face to the east. Unconsciously the wide
arc of spectators drew inward toward the centre, as the ends of
the bow draw together when the cord is stretched. Winfried moved
noiselessly until he stood close behind the priest.

The old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone from the
ground,--the sacred hammer of the god Thor. Summoning all the
strength of his withered arms, he swung it high in the air. It
poised for an instant above the child's fair head--then turned to
fall.

One keen cry shrilled out from where the women stood: "Me! take
me! not Bernhard!"

The flight of the mother towards her child was swift as the
falcon's swoop. But swifter still was the hand of the deliverer.

Winfried's heavy staff thrust mightily against the hammer's handle
as it fell. Sideways it glanced from the old man's grasp, and the
black stone, striking on the altar's edge, split in twain. A shout
of awe and joy rolled along the living circle. The branches of the
oak shivered. The flames leaped higher. As the shout died away the
people saw the lady Irma, with her arms clasped round her child,
and above them, on the altar-stone, Winfried, his face shining
like the face of an angel.




IV

THE FELLING OF THE TREE


A swift mountain-flood rolling down its channel; a huge rock
tumbling from the hill-side and falling in mid-stream; the baffled
waters broken and confused, pausing in their flow, dash high
against the rock, foaming and murmuring, with divided impulse,
uncertain whether to turn to the right or the left.

Even so Winfried's bold deed fell into the midst of the thoughts
and passions of the council. They were at a standstill. Anger and
wonder, reverence and joy and confusion surged through the crowd.
They knew not which way to move: to resent the intrusion of the
stranger as an insult to their gods, or to welcome him as the
rescuer of their darling prince.

The old priest crouched by the altar, silent. Conflicting counsels
troubled the air. Let the sacrifice go forward; the gods must be
appeased. Nay, the boy must not die; bring the chieftain's best
horse and slay it in his stead; it will be enough; the holy tree
loves the blood of horses. Not so, there is a better counsel yet;
seize the stranger whom the gods have led hither as a victim and
make his life pay the forfeit of his daring.

The withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered overhead. The
fire flared and sank again. The angry voices clashed against each
other and fell like opposing waves. Then the chieftain Gundhar
struck the earth with his spear and gave his decision.

"All have spoken, but none are agreed. There is no voice of the
council. Keep silence now, and let the stranger speak. His words
shall give us judgment, whether he is to live or to die."

Winfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a roll of
parchment from his bosom, and began to read.

"A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits on a golden
throne, to the people of the forest. Hessians and Thuringians,
Franks and Saxons. In nomine Domini, sanctae et individuae
trinitatis, amen!"

A murmur of awe ran through the crowd. "It is the sacred tongue of
the Romans: the tongue that is heard and understood by the wise
men of every land. There is magic in it. Listen!"

Winfried went on to read the letter, translating it into the
speech of the people.

"'We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and appointed him
your bishop, that he may teach you the only true faith, and
baptize you, and lead you back from the ways of error to the path
of salvation. Hearken to him in all things like a father. Bow your
hearts to his teaching. He comes not for earthly gain, but for the
gain of your souls. Depart from evil works. Worship not the false
gods, for they are devils. Offer no more bloody sacrifices, nor
eat the flesh of horses, but do as our Brother Boniface commands
you. Build a house for him that he may dwell among you, and a
church where you may offer your prayers to the only living God,
the Almighty King of Heaven.'"

It was a splendid message: proud, strong, peaceful, loving. The
dignity of the words imposed mightily upon the hearts of the
people. They were quieted, as men who have listened to a lofty
strain of music.

"Tell us, then," said Gundhar, "what is the word that thou
bringest to us from the Almighty. What is thy counsel for the
tribes of the woodland on this night of sacrifice?"

"This is the word, and this is the counsel," answered Winfried.
"Not a drop of blood shall fall to-night, save that which pity has
drawn from the breast of your princess, in love for her child. Not
a life shall be blotted out in the darkness to-night; but the
great shadow of the tree which hides you from the light of heaven
shall be swept away. For this is the birth-night of the white
Christ, son of the All-Father, and Saviour of mankind. Fairer is
He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater than Odin the Wise, kinder
than Freya the Good. Since He has come to earth the bloody
sacrifices must cease. The dark Thor, on whom you vainly call, is
dead. Deep in the shades of Niffelheim he is lost forever. His
power in the world is broken. Will you serve a helpless god? See,
my brothers, you call this tree his oak. Does he dwell here? Does
he protect it?"

A troubled voice of assent rose from the throng. The people
stirred uneasily. Women covered their eyes. Hunrad lifted his head
and muttered hoarsely, "Thor! take vengeance! Thor!"

Winfried beckoned to Gregor. "Bring the axes, thine and one for
me. Now, young woodsman, show thy craft! The king-tree of the
forest must fall, and swiftly, or all is lost!"

The two men took their places facing each other, one on each side
of the oak. Their cloaks were flung aside, their heads bare.
Carefully they felt the ground with their feet, seeking a firm
grip of the earth. Firmly they grasped the axe-helves and swung
the shining blades.

"Tree-god!" cried Winfried, "art thou angry? Thus we smite thee!"

"Tree-god!" answered Gregor, "art thou mighty? Thus we fight
thee!"

Clang! clang! the alternate strokes beat time upon the hard,
ringing wood. The axe-heads glittered in their rhythmic flight,
like fierce eagles circling about their quarry.

The broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening gashes in the
sides of the oak. The huge trunk quivered. There was a shuddering
in the branches. Then the great wonder of Winfried's life came to
pass.

Out of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing noise
sounded overhead.

Was it the ancient gods on their white battle-steeds, with their
black hounds of wrath and their arrows of lightning, sweeping
through the air to destroy their foes?

A strong, whirling wind passed over the tree-tops. It gripped the
oak by its branches and tore it from its roots. Backward it fell,
like a ruined tower, groaning and crashing as it split asunder in
four great pieces.

Winfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a moment in the
presence of almighty power.

Then he turned to the people, "Here is the timber," he cried,
"already felled and split for your new building. On this spot
shall rise a chapel to the true God and his servant St. Peter.

"And here," said he, as his eyes fell on a young fir-tree,
standing straight and green, with its top pointing towards the
stars, amid the divided ruins of the fallen oak, "here is the
living tree, with no stain of blood upon it, that shall be the
sign of your new worship. See how it points to the sky. Let us
call it the tree of the Christ-child. Take it up and carry it to
the chieftain's hall. You shall go no more into the shadows of the
forest to keep your feasts with secret rites of shame. You shall
keep them at home, with laughter and song and rites of love. The
thunder-oak has fallen, and I think the day is coming when there
shall not be a home in all Germany where the children are not
gathered around the green fir-tree to rejoice in the birth-night
of Christ."

So they took the little fir from its place, and carried it in
joyous procession to the edge of the glade, and laid it on the
sledge. The horses tossed their heads and drew their load bravely,
as if the new burden had made it lighter.

When they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade them throw open
the doors of the hall and set the tree in the midst of it. They
kindled lights among the branches until it seemed to be tangled
full of fire-flies. The children encircled it, wondering, and the
sweet odor of the balsam filled the house.

Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on the dais at
the end of the hall, and told the story of Bethlehem; of the babe
in the manger, of the shepherds on the hills, of the host of
angels and their midnight song. All the people listened, charmed
into stillness.

But the boy Bernhard, on Irma's knee, folded by her soft arm, grew
restless as the story lengthened, and began to prattle softly at
his mother's ear.

"Mother," whispered the child, "why did you cry out so loud, when
the priest was going to send me to Valhalla?"

"Oh, hush, my child," answered the mother, and pressed him closer
to her side.

"Mother," whispered the boy again, laying his finger on the stains
upon her breast, "see, your dress is red! What are these stains?
Did some one hurt you?"

The mother closed his mouth with a kiss. "Dear, be still, and
listen!"

The boy obeyed. His eyes were heavy with sleep. But he heard the
last words of Winfried as he spoke of the angelic messengers,
flying over the hills of Judea and singing as they flew. The child
wondered and dreamed and listened. Suddenly his face grew bright.
He put his lips close to Irma's cheek again.

"Oh, mother!" he whispered very low, "do not speak. Do you hear
them? Those angels have come back again. They are singing now
behind the tree."

And some say that it was true; but others say that it was only
Gregor and his companions at the lower end of the hall, chanting
their Christmas hymn:

  "'All glory be to God on high.
   And to the earth be peace!
   Good-will, henceforth, from heaven to men
   Begin, and never cease.'"






A FRENCH TAR-BABY

BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS


The fable was one of the first tributaries to the stream of story-
telling. Primitive man with a kind of fine democracy claimed
kinship with the animals about him. So Hiawatha learned the
language and the secrets of birds and beasts,

  "Talked with them whene'er he met them,
   Called them Hiawatha's Brothers."

Out of this intimacy and understanding grew the fable, wherein
animals thought, acted, and talked in the terms of human life.
This kind of story is illustrated by the "Fables" of Aesop, the
animal stories of Ernest Thompson-Seton, the "Jungle Books" of
Rudyard Kipling and the "Uncle Remus" stories of Joel Chandler
Harris. The fable is a tale rather than a true short-story.




A FRENCH TAR-BABY

[Footnote: From "Evening Tales," by Joel Chandler Harris.
Copyright, 1893, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]


In the time when there were hobgoblins and fairies, Brother Goat
and Brother Rabbit lived in the same neighborhood, not far from
each other.

Proud of his long beard and sharp horns, Brother Goat looked on
Brother Rabbit with disdain. He would hardly speak to Brother
Rabbit when he met him, and his greatest pleasure was to make his
little neighbor the victim of his tricks and practical jokes. For
instance, he would say:

"Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Fox," and this would cause Brother
Rabbit to run away as hard as he could. Again he would say:

"Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Wolf," and poor Brother Rabbit would
shake and tremble with fear. Sometimes he would cry out:

"Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Tiger," and then Brother Rabbit would
shudder and think that his last hour had come.

Tired of this miserable existence, Brother Rabbit tried to think
of some means by which he could change his powerful and terrible
neighbor into a friend. After a time he thought he had discovered
a way to make Brother Goat his friend, and so he invited him to
dinner.

Brother Goat was quick to accept the invitation. The dinner was a
fine affair, and there was an abundance of good eating. A great
many different dishes were served. Brother Goat licked his mouth
and shook his long beard with satisfaction. He had never before
been present at such a feast.

"Well, my friend," exclaimed Brother Rabbit, when the dessert was
brought in, "how do you like your dinner?"

"I could certainly wish for nothing better," replied Brother Goat,
rubbing the tips of his horns against the back of his chair; "but
my throat is very dry and a little water would hurt neither the
dinner nor me."

"Gracious!" said Brother Rabbit, "I have neither wine-cellar nor
water. I am not in the habit of drinking while I am eating."

"Neither have I any water, Brother Rabbit," said Brother Goat.
"But I have an idea! If you will go with me over yonder by the big
poplar, we will dig a well."

"No, Brother Goat," said Brother Rabbit, who hoped to revenge
himself--"no, I do not care to dig a well. At daybreak I drink the
dew from the cups of the flowers, and in the heat of the day I
milk the cows and drink the cream."

"Well and good," said Brother Goat. "Alone I will dig the well,
and alone I will drink out of it."

"Success to you, Brother Goat," said Brother Rabbit.

"Thank you kindly, Brother Rabbit."

Brother Goat then went to the foot of the big poplar and began to
dig his well. He dug with his forefeet and with his horns, and the
well got deeper and deeper. Soon the water began to bubble up and
the well was finished, and then Brother Goat made haste to quench
his thirst. He was in such a hurry that his beard got in the
water, but he drank and drank until he had his fill.

Brother Rabbit, who had followed him at a little distance, hid
himself behind a bush and laughed heartily. He said to himself:
"What an innocent creature you are!"

The next day, when Brother Goat, with his big beard and sharp
horns, returned to his well to get some water, he saw the tracks
of Brother Rabbit in the soft earth. This put him to thinking. He
sat down, pulled his beard, scratched his head, and tapped himself
on the forehead.

"My friend," he exclaimed after a while, "I will catch you yet."

Then he ran and got his tools (for Brother Goat was something of a
carpenter in those days) and made a large doll out of laurel wood.
When the doll was finished, he spread tar on it here and there, on
the right and on the left, and up and down. He smeared it all over
with the sticky stuff, until it was as black as a Guinea negro.

This finished, Brother Goat waited quietly until evening. At
sunset he placed the tarred doll near the well, and ran and hid
himself behind the trees and bushes. The moon had just risen, and
the heavens twinkled with millions of little star-torches.

Brother Rabbit, who was waiting in his house, believed that the
time had come for him to get some water, so he took his bucket and
went to Brother Goat's well. On the way he was very much afraid
that something would catch him. He trembled when the wind shook
the leaves of the trees. He would go a little distance and then
stop and listen; he hid here behind a stone, and there behind a
tuft of grass.

At last he arrived at the well, and there he saw the little negro.
He stopped and looked at it with astonishment. Then he drew back a
little way, advanced again, drew back, advanced a little, and
stopped once more.

"What can that be?" he said to himself. He listened, with his long
ears pointed forward, but the trees could not talk, and the bushes
were dumb. He winked his eyes and lowered his head:

"Hey, friend! Who are you?" he asked.

The tar-doll didn't move. Brother Rabbit went up a little closer,
and asked again:

"Who are you?"

The tar-doll said nothing. Brother Rabbit breathed more at ease.
Then he went to the brink of the well, but when he looked in the
water the tar-doll seemed to look in too. He could see her
reflection in the water. This made Brother Rabbit so mad that he
grew red in the face.

"See here!" he exclaimed, "If you look in this well I'll give you
a rap on the nose!"

Brother Rabbit leaned over the brink of the well, and saw the tar-
doll smiling at him in the water. He raised his right hand and hit
her--bam! His hand stuck.

"What's this?" exclaimed Brother Rabbit. "Turn me loose, imp of
Satan! If you do not, I will rap you on the eye with my other
hand."

Then he hit her--bim! The left hand stuck also. Then Brother
Rabbit raised his right foot, saying:

"Mark me well, little Congo! Do you see this foot? I will kick you
in the stomach if you do not turn me loose this instant."

No sooner said than done. Brother Rabbit let fly his right foot--
vip! The foot stuck, and he raised the other.

"Do you see this foot?" he exclaimed. "If I hit you with it, you
will think a thunderbolt has struck you."

Then he kicked her with the left foot, and it also stuck like the
other, and Brother Rabbit held fast his Guinea negro.

"Watch out, now!" he cried. "I've already butted a great many
people with my head. If I butt you in your ugly face I'll knock it
into a jelly. Turn me loose! Oho! You don't answer?" Bap!

"Guinea girl!" exclaimed Brother Rabbit, "Are you dead? Gracious
goodness! How my head does stick!"

When the sun rose, Brother Goat went to his well to find out
something about Brother Rabbit. The result was beyond his
expectations.

"Hey, little rogue, big rogue!" exclaimed Brother Goat. "Hey,
Brother Rabbit! What are you doing there? I thought you drank the
dew from the cups of the flowers, or milk from the cows. Aha,
Brother Rabbit! I will punish you for stealing my water."

"I am your friend," said Brother Rabbit; "don't kill me."

"Thief, thief!" cried Brother Goat, and then he ran quickly into
the woods, gathered up a pile of dry limbs, and made a great fire.
He took Brother Rabbit from the tar-doll, and prepared to burn him
alive. As he was passing a thicket of brambles with Brother Rabbit
on his shoulders, Brother Goat met his daughter Beledie, who was
walking about in the fields.

"Where are you going, Papa, muffled up with such a burden? Come
and eat the fresh grass with me, and throw wicked Brother Rabbit
in the brambles."

Cunning Brother Rabbit raised his long ears and pretended to be
very much frightened.

"Oh, no, Brother Goat!" he cried. "Don't throw me in the brambles.
They will tear my flesh, put out my eyes, and pierce my heart. Oh,
I pray you, rather throw me in the fire."

"Aha, little rogue, big rogue! Aha, Brother Rabbit!" exclaimed
Brother Goat, exultingly, "You don't like the brambles? Well,
then, go and laugh in them," and he threw Brother Rabbit in
without a feeling of pity.

Brother Rabbit fell in the brambles, leaped to his feet, and began
to laugh.

"Ha-ha-ha! Brother Goat, what a simpleton you are!--ha-ha-ha! A
better bed I never had! In these brambles I was born!"

Brother Goat was in despair, but he could not help himself.
Brother Rabbit was safe.

A long beard is not always a sign of intelligence.






SONNY'S CHRISTENING

BY

RUTH McENERY STUART

This is the story of character, in the form of dramatic monologue.
There is only one speaker, but we know by his words that another
is present and can infer his part in the conversation. This story
has the additional values of humor and local color.




SONNY'S CHRISTENIN'

[Footnote: From "Sonny, a Christmas Guest," by Ruth McEnery
Stuart. Copyright, 1896, by The Century Co. Reprinted by special
permission.]


Yas, sir, wife an' me, we've turned 'Piscopals--all on account o'
Sonny. He seemed to prefer that religion, an' of co'se we wouldn't
have the family divided, so we're a-goin' to be ez good 'Piscopals
ez we can.

I reckon it'll come a little bit awkward at first. Seem like I
never will git so thet I can sass back in church 'thout feelin'
sort o' impident--but I reckon I'll chirp up an' come to it, in
time.

I never was much of a hand to sound the amens, even in our own
Methodist meetin's.

Sir? How old is he? Oh, Sonny's purty nigh six--but he showed a
pref'ence for the 'Piscopal Church long fo' he could talk.

When he wasn't no mo' 'n three year old we commenced a-takin him
round to church wherever they held meetin's,--'Piscopals,
Methodists or Presbyterians,--so's he could see an' hear for
hisself. I ca'yed him to a baptizin' over to Chinquepin Crik,
once-t, when he was three. I thought I'd let him see it done an'
maybe it might make a good impression; but no, sir! The Baptists
didn't suit him! Cried ever' time one was douced, an' I had to
fetch him away. In our Methodist meetin's he seemed to git worked
up an' pervoked, some way. An' the Presbyterians, he didn't take
no stock in them at all. Ricollect, one Sunday the preacher, he
preached a mighty powerful disco'se on the doctrine o' lost
infants not 'lected to salvation--an' Sonny? Why, he slep' right
thoo it.

The first any way lively interest he ever seemed to take in
religious services was at the 'Piscopals, Easter Sunday. When he
seen the lilies an' the candles he thess clapped his little hands,
an' time the folks commenced answerin' back he was tickled all but
to death, an' started answerin' hisself--on'y, of co'se he'd
answer sort o' hit an' miss.

I see then thet Sonny was a natu'al-born 'Piscopal, an' we might
ez well make up our minds to it--an' I told HER so, too. They say
some is born so. But we thought we'd let him alone an' let nature
take its co'se for a while--not pressin' him one way or another.
He never had showed no disposition to be christened, an' ever
sence the doctor tried to vaccinate him he seemed to git the
notion that christenin' an' vaccination was mo' or less the same
thing; an' sence that time, he's been mo' opposed to it than ever.

Sir? Oh no, sir. He didn't vaccinate him; he thess tried to do it;
but Sonny, he wouldn't begin to allow it. We all tried to indoose
'im. I offered him everything on the farm ef he'd thess roll up
his little sleeve an' let the doctor look at his arm--promised him
thet he wouldn't tech a needle to it tell he said the word. But he
wouldn't. He 'lowed thet me an' his mamma could git vaccinated ef
we wanted to, but he wouldn't.

Then we showed him our marks where we had been vaccinated when we
was little, an' told him how it had kep' us clair o' havin' the
smallpock all our lives.

Well, sir, it didn't make no diff'ence whether we'd been did befo'
or not, he 'lowed thet he wanted to see us vaccinated ag'in.

An' so, of co'se, thinkin' it might encour'ge him, we thess had it
did over--tryin' to coax him to consent after each one, an' makin'
pertend like we enjoyed it.

Then, nothin' would do but the nigger, Dicey, had to be did, an'
then he 'lowed thet he wanted the cat did, an' I tried to strike a
bargain with him thet if Kitty got vaccinated he would. But he
wouldn't comp'omise. He thess let on thet Kit had to be did whe'r
or no. So I ast the doctor ef it would likely kill the cat, an' he
said he reckoned not, though it might sicken her a little. So I
told him to go ahead. Well, sir, befo' Sonny got thoo, he had had
that cat an' both dogs vaccinated--but let it tech hisself he
would not.

I was mighty sorry not to have it did, 'cause they was a nigger
thet had the smallpock down to Cedar Branch, fifteen mile away,
an' he didn't die, neither. He got well. An' they say when they
git well they're more fatal to a neighborhood 'n when they die.

That was fo' months ago now, but to this day ever' time the wind
blows from you'west I feel oneasy, an' try to entice Sonny to play
on the far side o' the house.

Well, sir, in about ten days after that we was the down-in-the-
mouthest crowd on that farm, man an' beast, thet you ever see.
Ever' last one o' them vaccinations took, sir, an' took severe,
from the cat up.

But I reckon we're all safe-t guarded now. They ain't nothin' on
the place thet can fetch it to Sonny, an' I trust, with care, he
may never be exposed.

But I set out to tell you about Sonny's diristenin' an' us turnin'
'Piscopal. Ez I said, he never seemed to want baptism, though he
had heard us discuss all his life both it an' vaccination ez the
two ordeels to be gone thoo with some time, an' we'd speculate ez
to whether vaccination would take or not, an' all sech ez that,
an' then, ez I said, after he see what the vaccination was, why he
was even mo' prejudyced agin' baptism 'n ever, an' we 'lowed to
let it run on tell sech a time ez he'd decide what name he'd want
to take an' what denomination he'd want to bestow it on him.

Wife, she's got some 'Piscopal relations thet she sort o' looks up
to,--though she don't own it,--but she was raised Methodist an' I
was raised a true-blue Presbyterian. But when we professed after
Sonny come we went up together at Methodist meetin'. What we was
after was righteous livin', an' we didn't keer much which
denomination helped us to it.

An' so, feelin' friendly all roun' that-a-way, we thought we'd
leave Sonny to pick his church when he got ready, an' then they
wouldn't be nothin' to undo or do over in case he went over to the
'Piscopals, which has the name of revisin' over any other church'
performances--though sence we've turned 'Piscopals we've found out
that ain't so.

Of co'se the preachers, they used to talk to us about it once-t in
a while,--seemed to think it ought to be did,--'ceptin', of co'se,
the Baptists.

Well, sir, it went along so till last week. Sonny ain't but, ez I
said, thess not quite six year old, an' ther seemed to be time
enough. But last week he had been playin' out o' doors bare-
feeted, thess same ez he always does, an' he tramped on a pine
splinter some way. Of co'se, pine, it's the safe-t-est splinter a
person can run into a foot, on account of its carryin' its own
turpentine in with it to heal up things; but any splinter thet
dast to push itself up into a little pink foot is a messenger of
trouble, an' we know it. An' so, when we see this one, we tried
ever' way to coax him to let us take it out, but he wouldn't, of
co'se. He never will, an' somehow the Lord seems to give 'em
ambition to work their own way out mos' gen'ally.

But, sir, this splinter didn't seem to have no energy in it. It
thess lodged there, an' his little foot it commenced to swell, an'
it swole an' swole tell his little toes stuck out so thet the
little pig thet went to market looked like ez ef it wasn't on
speakin' terms with the little pig thet stayed home, an' wife an'
me we watched it, an' I reckon she prayed over it consider'ble,
an' I read a extry psalm at night befo' I went to bed, all on
account o' that little foot. An' night befo' las' it was lookin'
mighty angry an' swole, an' he had limped an' "ouched!"
consider'ble all day, an' he was mighty fretful bed-time. So,
after he went to sleep, wife she come out on the po'ch where I was
settin', and she says to me, says she, her face all drawed up an'
workin', says she: "Honey," says she, "I reckon we better sen' for
him an' have it did." Thess so, she said it. "Sen' for who, wife?"
says I, "an' have what did?" "Why, sen' for him, the 'Piscopal
preacher," says she, "an' have Sonny christened. Them little toes
o' hisn is ez red ez cherry tomatoes. They burnt my lips thess now
like a coal o' fire an'--an' lockjaw is goin' roun' tur'ble.

"Seems to me," says she, "when he started to git sleepy, he didn't
gap ez wide ez he gen'ly does--an' I'm 'feered he's a-gittin' it
now." An', sir, with that, she thess gathered up her apron an'
mopped her face in it an' give way. An' ez for me, I didn't seem
to have no mo' backbone down my spinal colume 'n a feather bolster
has, I was that weak.

I never ast her why she didn't sen' for our own preacher. I knowed
then ez well ez ef she'd 'a' told me why she done it--all on
account o' Sonny bein' so tickled over the 'Piscopals' meetin's.

It was mos' nine o'clock then, an' a dark night, an' rainin', but
I never said a word--they wasn't no room round the edges o' the
lump in my throat for words to come out ef they'd 'a' been one
surgin' up there to say, which they wasn't--but I thess went out
an' saddled my horse an' I rid into town. Stopped first at the
doctor's an' sent him out, though I knowed't wouldn't do no good;
Sonny wouldn't 'low him to tech it; but I sent him out anyway, to
look at it, an', ef possible, console wife a little. Then I rid on
to the rector's an' ast him to come out immejate an' baptize
Sonny. But nex' day was his turn to preach down at Sandy Crik, an'
he couldn't come that night, but he promised to come right after
services nex' mornin'--which he done--rid the whole fo'teen mile
from Sandy Crik here in the rain, too, which I think is a evidence
o' Christianity, though no sech acts is put down in my book o'
"evidences" where they ought rightfully to be.

Well, sir, when I got home that night, I found wife a heap
cheerfuler. The doctor had give Sonny a big apple to eat an'
pernounced him free from all symptoms o' lockjaw. But when I come
the little feller had crawled 'way back under the bed an' lay
there, eatin' his apple, an' they couldn't git him out. Soon ez
the doctor had teched a poultice to his foot he had woke up an'
put a stop to it, an' then he had went off by hisself where
nothin' couldn't pester him, to enjoy his apple in peace. An' we
never got him out tell he heered us tellin' the doctor good-night.

I tried ever' way to git him out--even took up a coal o' fire an'
poked it under at him; but he thess laughed at that an' helt his
apple agin' it an' made it sizz. Well, sir, he seemed so tickled
that I helt that coal o' fire for him tell he cooked a good big
spot on one side o' the apple, an' et it, an' then, when I took it
out, he called for another, but I didn't give it to him. I don't
see no use in over-indulgin' a child. An' when he knowed the
doctor was gone, he come out an' finished roastin' his apple by
the fire--thess what was left of it 'round the co'e.

Well, sir, we was mightily comforted by the doctor's visit, but
nex' mornin' things looked purty gloomy ag'in. Sonny's Christenin'

That little foot seemed a heap worse, an' he was sort o' flushed
an' feverish, an' wife she thought she heard a owl hoot, an' Rover
made a mighty funny gurgly sound in his th'oat like ez ef he had
bad news to tell us, but didn't have the courage to speak it.

An' then, on top o' that, the nigger Dicey, she come in an' 'lowed
she had dreamed that night about eatin' spare-ribs, which
everybody knows to dream about fresh pork out o' season, which
this is July, is considered a shore sign o' death. Of co'se, wife
an' me, we don't b'lieve in no sech ez that, but ef you ever come
to see yo' little feller's toes stand out the way Sonny's done day
befo' yesterday, why, sir, you'll be ready to b'lieve anything.
It's so much better now, you can't judge of its looks day befo'
yesterday. We never had even so much ez considered it necessary
thet little children should be christened to have 'em saved, but
when things got on the ticklish edge, like they was then, why, we
felt thet the safest side is the wise side, an', of co'se, we want
Sonny to have the best of everything. So, we was mighty thankful
when we see the rector comin'. But, sir, when I went out to open
the gate for him, what on top o' this round hemisp'ere do you
reckon Sonny done? Why, sir, he thess took one look at the gate
an' then he cut an' run hard ez he could--limped acrost the yard
thess like a flash o' zig-zag lightnin'--an' 'fore anybody could
stop him, he had clumb to the tip top o' the butter-bean arbor--
clumb it thess like a cat--an' there he set, a-swingin' his feet
under him, an' laughin', the rain thess a-streakin' his hair all
over his face.

That bean arbor is a favoryte place for him to escape to, 'cause
it's too high to reach, an' it ain't strong enough to bear no
grown-up person's weight.

Well, sir, the rector, he come in an' opened his valise an' 'rayed
hisself in his robes an' opened his book, an' while he was turnin'
the leaves, he faced 'round an' says he, lookin' at me Direc',
says he:

"Let the child be brought forward for baptism," says he, thess
that-a-way.

Well, sir, I looked at wife, an' wife, she looked at me, an' then
we both thess looked out at the butter-bean arbor.

I knowed then thet Sonny wasn't never comin' down while the rector
was there, an' rector, he seemed sort o' fretted for a minute when
he see how things was, an' he did try to do a little settin' fo'th
of opinions. He 'lowed, speakin' in a mighty pompious manner, thet
holy things wasn't to be trifled with, an' thet he had come to
baptize the child accordin' to the rites o' the church.

Well, that sort o' talk, it thess rubbed me the wrong way, an' I
up an' told him thet that might be so, but thet the rites o' the
church didn't count for nothin', on our farm, to the rights o' the
boy!

I reckon it was mighty disrespec'ful o' me to face him that-a-way,
an' him adorned in all his robes, too, but I'm thess a plain up-
an'-down man an' I hadn't went for him to come an' baptize Sonny
to uphold the granjer of no church. I was ready to do that when
the time come, but right now we was workin' in Sonny's interests,
an' I intended to have it understood that way. An' it was.

Rector, he's a mighty good, kind-hearted man, git down to the man
inside the preacher, an' when he see thess how things stood, why,
he come 'round friendly, an' he went out on the po'ch an' united
with us in tryin' to help coax Sonny down. First started by
promisin' him speritual benefits, but he soon see that wasn't no
go, and he tried worldly persuasion; but no, sir, stid o' him
comin' down, Sonny started orderin' the rest of us christened
thess the way he done about the vaccination. But, of co'se, we had
been baptized befo', an' we nachelly helt out agin' that for some
time. But d'rec'ly rector, he seemed to have a sudden idee, an'
says he, facin' 'round, church-like, to wife an' me, says he:

"Have you both been baptized accordin' to the rites o' the
church?"

An' me, thinkin' of co'se he meant the 'Piscopal Church, says:
"No, sir," says I, thess so. And then we see that the way was open
for us to be did over ag'in ef we wanted to. So, sir, wife an' me
we was took into the church, then an' there. We wouldn't 'a'
yielded to him, thoo an' thoo, that-a-way ag'in ef his little foot
hadn't 'a' been so swole, an' he maybe takin' his death o' cold
settin' out in the po'in'-down rain; but things bein' as they was,
we went thoo it with all due respects.

Then he commenced callin' for Dicey, an' the dog, an' the cat, to
be did, same ez he done befo'; but, of co'se, they's some
liberties thet even a innocent child can't take with the waters o'
baptism, an' the rector he got sort o' wo'e-out and disgusted an'
'lowed thet 'less'n we could get the child ready for baptism he'd
haf to go home.

Well, sir, I knowed we wouldn't never git 'im down, an' I had went
for the rector to baptize him, an' I intended to have it did, ef
possible. So, says I, turnin' 'round an' facin' him square, says
I: "Rector," says I, "why not baptize him where he is? I mean it.
The waters o' Heaven are descendin' upon him where he sets, an'
seems to me ef he's favo'bly situated for anything it is for
baptism." Well, parson, he thess looked at me up an' down for a
minute, like ez ef he s'picioned I was wanderin' in my mind, but
he didn't faze me. I thess kep' up my argiment. Says I: "Parson,"
says I, speakin' thess ez ca'm ez I am this minute--"Parson," says
I, "his little foot is mighty swole, an' so'e, an' that splinter--
thess s'pose he was to take the lockjaw an' die--don't you reckon
you might do it where he sets--from where you stand?"

Wife, she was cryin' by this time, an' parson, he claired his
th'oat an' coughed, an' then he commenced walkin' up an' down, an'
dreckly he stopped, an' says he, speakin' mighty reverential an'
serious:

"Lookin' at this case speritually, an' as a minister o' the
Gospel," says he, "it seems to me thet the question ain't so much
a question of DOIN' ez it is a question of WITHHOLDIN'. I don't
know," says he, "ez I've got a right to withhold the sacrament of
baptism from a child under these circumstances or to deny sech
comfort to his parents ez lies in my power to bestow."

An', sir, with that he stepped out to the end o' the po'ch, opened
his book ag'in, an' holdin' up his right hand to'ards Sonny,
settin' on top o' the bean-arbor in the rain, he commenced to read
the service o' baptism an' we stood proxies--which is a sort o' a
dummy substitutes--for whatever godfather an' mother Sonny see fit
to choose in after life.

Parson, he looked half like ez ef he'd laugh once-t. When he had
thess opened his book and started to speak, a sudden streak o'
sunshine shot out an' the rain started to ease up, an' it looked
for a minute ez ef he was goin' to lose the baptismal waters. But
d'rec'ly it come down stiddy ag'in an' he went thoo the programme
entire.

An' Sonny, he behaved mighty purty; set up perfec'ly ca'm an'
composed thoo it all, an' took everything in good part, though he
didn't p'intedly know who was bein' baptized, 'cause, of co'se, he
couldn't hear the words with the rain in his ears.

He didn't rightly sense the situation tell it come to the part
where it says: "Name this child," and, of co'se, I called out to
Sonny to name hisself, which it had always been our intention to
let him do.

"Name yo'self, right quick, like a good boy," says I.

Of co'se Sonny had all his life heered me say thet I was
Deuteronomy Jones, Senior, an' thet--I hoped some day when he got
christened he'd be the junior. He knowed that by heart, an' would
agree to it or dispute it, 'cordin' to how the notion took him,
and I sort o' ca'culated thet he'd out with it now. But no, sir!
Not a word! He thess sot up on thet bean-arbor an' grinned.

An' so, feelin' put to it, with the services suspended over my
head, I spoke up, an' I says: "Parson," says I. "I reckon ef he
was to speak his little heart, he'd say Deuteronomy Jones,
Junior." An' with thet what does Sonny do but conterdic' me flat!
"No, not Junior! I want to be named Deuteronomy Jones, Senior!"
says he, thess so. An' parson, he looked to'ards me, an' I bowed
my head an' he pronounced thess one single name, "Deuteronomy,"
an' I see he wasn't goin' to say no more an' so I spoke up quick,
an' says I: "Parson," says I, "he has spoke his heart's desire. He
has named hisself after me entire--Deuteronomy Jones, Senior."

An' so he was obligated to say it, an' so it is writ in the family
record colume in the big Bible, though I spelt his Senior with a
little s, an' writ him down ez the only son of the Senior with the
big S, which it seems to me fixes it about right for the time
bein'.

Well, when the rector had got thoo an' he had wropped up his robes
an' put 'em in his wallet, an' had told us to prepare for
conformation, he pernounced a blessin' upon us an' went.

Then Sonny seein' it was all over, why, HE COME DOWN. He was wet
ez a drownded rat, but wife rubbed him off an' give him some hot
tea an' he come a-snuggin' up in my lap, thess ez sweet a child ez
you ever see in yo' life, an' I talked to him ez fatherly ez I
could, told him we was all 'Piscopals now, an' soon ez his little
foot got well I was goin' to take him out to Sunday-school to tote
a banner--all his little 'Piscopal friends totes banners--an' thet
he could pick out some purty candles for the altar, an' he 'lowed
immejate thet he'd buy pink ones. Sonny always was death on pink--
showed it from the time he could snatch a pink rose--an' wife she
ain't never dressed him in nothin' else. Ever' pair o' little
breeches he's got is either pink or pink-trimmed.

Well, I talked along to him till I worked 'round to shamin' him a
little for havin' to be christened settin' up on top a bean-arbor,
same ez a crow-bird, which I told him the parson he wouldn't 'a'
done ef he'd 'a' felt free to've left it undone. 'Twasn't to
indulge him he done it, but to bless him an' to comfort our
hearts. Well, after I had reasoned with him severe that-a-way a
while, he says, says he, thess ez sweet an' mild, says he, "Daddy,
nex' time y'all gits christened, I'll come down an' be christened
right--like a good boy."

Th' ain't a sweeter child in'ardly 'n what Sonny is, nowheres, git
him to feel right comf'table, and I know it, an' that's why I have
patience with his little out'ard ways.

"Yes, sir," says he; "nex' time I'll be christened like a good
boy."

Then, of co'se, I explained to him thet it couldn't never be did
no mo', 'cause it had been did, an' did 'Piscopal, which is
secure. An' then what you reckon the little feller said?

Says he, "Yes, daddy, but S'POS'IN' MINE DON'T TAKE. How 'bout
that?"

An' I didn't try to explain no further. What was the use? Wife, she
had drawed a stool close-t up to my knee, an' set there sortin' out
the little yaller rings ez they'd dry out on his head, an' when he
said that I thess looked at her an' we both looked at him, an' says
I, "Wife," says I, "ef they's anything in heavenly looks an' behavior,
I b'lieve that christenin' is started to take on him a'ready."

An' I b'lieve it had.






CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN

BY JOHN FOX, JR.

"All that is literature seeks to communicate power." [Footnote: De
Quincey, "Letters to a Young Man."] Here the power communicated is
that of sympathizing with God's "lesser children." The
humanitarian story is a long step in advance of the fable. It
recognizes the true relations of the animal world to man, and
insists that it be dealt with righteously and sympathetically.




CHRISTMAS NIGHT WITH SATAN

[Footnote: From "Christmas Eve on Lonesome," by John Fox, Jr.
Copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]


No night was this in Hades with solemn-eyed Dante, for Satan was
only a woolly little black dog, and surely no dog was ever more
absurdly misnamed. When Uncle Carey first heard that name, he
asked gravely:

"Why, Dinnie, where in h---," Uncle Carey gulped slightly, "did
you get him?" And Dinnie laughed merrily, for she saw the fun of
the question, and shook her black curls. "He didn't come f'um THAT
PLACE."

Distinctly Satan had not come from that place. On the contrary, he
might by a miracle have dropped straight from some Happy Hunting-
Ground, for all the signs he gave of having touched pitch in this
or another sphere. Nothing human was ever born that was gentler,
merrier, more trusting or more lovable than Satan. That was why
Uncle Carey said again gravely that he could hardly tell Satan and
his little mistress apart. He rarely saw them apart, and as both
had black tangled hair and bright black eyes; as one awoke every
morning with a happy smile and the other with a jolly bark; as
they played all day like wind-shaken shadows and each won every
heart at first sight--the likeness was really rather curious. I
have always believed that Satan made the spirit of Dinnie's house,
orthodox and severe though it was, almost kindly toward his great
namesake. I know I have never been able, since I knew little
Satan, to think old Satan as bad as I once painted him, though I
am sure the little dog had many pretty tricks that the "old boy"
doubtless has never used in order to amuse his friends.

"Shut the door, Saty, please," Dinnie would say, precisely as she
would say it to Uncle Billy, the butler, and straightway Satan
would launch himself at it--bang! He never would learn to close it
softly, for Satan liked that--bang!

If you kept tossing a coin or marble in the air, Satan would keep
catching it and putting it back in your hand for another throw,
till you got tired. Then he would drop it on a piece of rag
carpet, snatch the carpet with his teeth, throw the coin across
the room, and rush for it like mad, until he got tired. If you put
a penny on his nose, he would wait until you counted, one--two--
THREE! Then he would toss it up himself and catch it. Thus,
perhaps, Satan grew to love Mammon right well, but for another and
better reason than that he liked simply to throw it around--as
shall now be made plain.

A rubber ball with a hole in it was his favorite plaything, and he
would take it in his mouth and rush around the house like a child,
squeezing it to make it whistle. When he got a new ball, he would
hide his old one away until the new one was the worse worn of the
two, and then he would bring out the old one again. If Dinnie gave
him a nickel or a dime, when they went down-town, Satan would rush
into a store, rear up on the counter where the rubber balls were
kept, drop the coin, and get a ball for himself. Thus, Satan
learned finance. He began to hoard his pennies, and one day Uncle
Carey found a pile of seventeen under a corner of the carpet.
Usually he carried to Dinnie all coins that he found in the
street, but he showed one day that he was going into the ball-
business for himself.

Uncle Carey had given Dinnie a nickel for some candy, and, as
usual, Satan trotted down the street behind her. As usual, Satan
stopped before the knick-knack shop.

"Tum on, Saty," said Dinnie. Satan reared against the door as he
always did, and Dinnie said again:

"Tum on, Saty." As usual, Satan dropped to his haunches, but what
was unusual, he failed to bark. Now Dinnie had got a new ball for
Satan only that morning, so Dinnie stamped her foot.

"I tell you to tum on, Saty." Satan never moved. He looked at
Dinnie as much as to say:

"I have never disobeyed you before, little mistress, but this time
I have an excellent reason for what must seem to you very bad
manners--" and being a gentleman withal, Satan rose on his
haunches and begged.

"You're des a pig, Saty," said Dinnie, but with a sigh for the
candy that was not to be, Dinnie opened the door, and Satan, to
her wonder, rushed to the counter, put his forepaws on it, and
dropped from his mouth a dime. Satan had found that coin on the
street. He didn't bark for change, nor beg for two balls, but he
had got it in his woolly little head, somehow, that in that store
a coin meant a ball, though never before nor afterward did he try
to get a ball for a penny.

Satan slept in Uncle Carey's room, for of all people, after
Dinnie, Satan loved Uncle Carey best. Every day at noon he would
go to an upstairs window and watch the cars come around the
corner, until a very tall, square-shouldered young man swung to
the ground, and down Satan would scamper--yelping--to meet him at
the gate. If Uncle Carey, after supper and when Dinnie was in bed,
started out of the house, still in his business clothes, Satan
would leap out before him, knowing that he too might be allowed to
go; but if Uncle Carey had put on black clothes that showed a big,
dazzling shirt-front, and picked up his high hat, Satan would sit
perfectly still and look disconsolate; for as there were no
parties or theatres for Dinnie, so there were none for him. But no
matter how late it was when Uncle Carey came home, he always saw
Satan's little black nose against the window-pane and heard his
bark of welcome.

After intelligence, Satan's chief trait was lovableness--nobody
ever knew him to fight, to snap at anything or to get angry; after
lovableness, it was politeness. If he wanted something to eat, if
he wanted Dinnie to go to bed, if he wanted to get out of the
door, he would beg--beg prettily on his haunches, his little red
tongue out and his funny little paws hanging loosely. Indeed, it
was just because Satan was so little less than human, I suppose,
that old Satan began to be afraid he might have a soul. So the
wicked old namesake with the Hoofs and Horns laid a trap for
little Satan, and, as he is apt to do, he began laying it early--
long, indeed, before Christmas.

When Dinnie started to kindergarten that autumn, Satan found that
there was one place where he could never go. Like the lamb, he
could not go to school; so while Dinnie was away, Satan began to
make friends. He would bark, "Howdy-do?" to every dog that passed
his gate. Many stopped to rub noses with him through the fence--
even Hugo the mastiff, and nearly all, indeed, except one strange-
looking dog that appeared every morning at precisely nine o'clock
and took his stand on the corner. There he would lie patiently
until a funeral came along, and then Satan would see him take his
place at the head of the procession; and thus he would march out
to the cemetery and back again. Nobody knew where he came from nor
where he went, and Uncle Carey called him the "funeral dog" and
said he was doubtless looking for his dead master. Satan even made
friends with a scrawny little yellow dog that followed an old
drunkard around--a dog that, when his master fell in the gutter,
would go and catch a policeman by the coat-tail, lead the officer
to his helpless master, and spend the night with him in jail.

By and by Satan began to slip out of the house at night, and Uncle
Billy said he reckoned Satan had "jined de club"; and late one
night, when he had not come in, Uncle Billy told Uncle Carey that
it was "powerful slippery and he reckoned they'd better send de
kerridge after him"--an innocent remark that made Uncle Carey send
a boot after the old butler, who fled chuckling down the stairs,
and left Uncle Carey chuckling in his room.

Satan had "jined de club"--the big club--and no dog was too lowly
in Satan's eyes for admission; for no priest ever preached the
brotherhood of man better than Satan lived it--both with man and
dog. And thus he lived it that Christmas night--to his sorrow.

Christmas Eve had been gloomy--the gloomiest of Satan's life.
Uncle Carey had gone to a neighboring town at noon. Satan had
followed him down to the station, and when the train started,
Uncle Carey had ordered him to go home. Satan took his time about
going home, not knowing it was Christmas Eve. He found strange
things happening to dogs that day. The truth was, that policemen
were shooting all dogs found that were without a collar and a
license, and every now and then a bang and a howl somewhere would
stop Satan in his tracks. At a little yellow house on the edge of
town he saw half a dozen strange dogs in a kennel, and every now
and then a negro would lead a new one up to the house and deliver
him to a big man at the door, who, in return, would drop something
into the negro's hand. While Satan waited, the old drunkard came
along with his little dog at his heels, paused before the door,
looked a moment at his faithful follower, and went slowly on.
Satan little knew the old drunkard's temptation, for in that
yellow house kind-hearted people had offered fifteen cents for
each dog brought to them, without a license, that they might
mercifully put it to death, and fifteen cents was the precise
price for a drink of good whiskey. Just then there was another
bang and another howl somewhere, and Satan trotted home to meet a
calamity. Dinnie was gone. Her mother had taken her out in the
country to Grandmother Dean's to spend Christmas, as was the
family custom, and Mrs. Dean would not wait any longer for Satan;
so she told Uncle Billy to bring him out after supper.

"Ain't you 'shamed o' yo'self--suh--?" said the old butler,
"keeping me from ketchin' Christmas gifts dis day?"

Uncle Billy was indignant, for the negroes begin at four o'clock
in the afternoon of Christmas Eve to slip around corners and jump
from hiding-places to shout "Christmas Gif'--Christmas Gif'"; and
the one who shouts first gets a gift. No wonder it was gloomy for
Satan--Uncle Carey, Dinnie, and all gone, and not a soul but Uncle
Billy in the big house. Every few minutes he would trot on his
little black legs upstairs and downstairs, looking for his
mistress. As dusk came on, he would every now and then howl
plaintively. After begging his supper, and while Uncle Billy was
hitching up a horse in the stable, Satan went out in the yard and
lay with his nose between the close panels of the fence--quite
heart-broken. When he saw his old friend, Hugo the mastiff,
trotting into the gaslight, he began to bark his delight
frantically. The big mastiff stopped and nosed his sympathy
through the fence for a moment and walked slowly on, Satan
frisking and barking along inside. At the gate Hugo stopped, and
raising one huge paw, playfully struck it. The gate flew open, and
with a happy yelp Satan leaped into the street. The noble mastiff
hesitated as though this were not quite regular. He did not belong
to the club, and he didn't know that Satan had ever been away from
home after dark in his life. For a moment he seemed to wait for
Dinnie to call him back as she always did, but this time there was
no sound, and Hugo walked majestically on, with absurd little
Satan running in a circle about him. On the way they met the
"funeral dog," who glanced inquiringly at Satan, shied from the
mastiff, and trotted on. On the next block the old drunkard's
yellow cur ran across the street, and after interchanging the
compliments of the season, ran back after his staggering master.
As they approached the railroad track a strange dog joined them,
to whom Hugo paid no attention. At the crossing another new
acquaintance bounded toward them. This one--a half-breed shepherd
--was quite friendly, and he received Satan's advances with affable
condescension. Then another came and another, and little Satan's
head got quite confused. They were a queer-looking lot of curs and
half-breeds from the negro settlement at the edge of the woods,
and though Satan had little experience, his instincts told him
that all was not as it should be, and had he been human he would
have wondered very much how they had escaped the carnage that day.
Uneasy, he looked around for Hugo; but Hugo had disappeared. Once
or twice Hugo had looked around for Satan, and Satan paying no
attention, the mastiff trotted on home in disgust. Just then a
powerful yellow cur sprang out of the darkness over the railroad
track, and Satan sprang to meet him, and so nearly had the life
scared out of him by the snarl and flashing fangs of the new-comer
that he hardly had the strength to shrink back behind his new
friend, the half-breed shepherd.

A strange thing then happened. The other dogs became suddenly
quiet, and every eye was on the yellow cur. He sniffed the air
once or twice, gave two or three peculiar low growls, and all
those dogs except Satan lost the civilization of centuries and
went back suddenly to the time when they were wolves and were
looking for a leader. The cur was Lobo for that little pack, and
after a short parley, he lifted his nose high and started away
without looking back, while the other dogs silently trotted after
him. With a mystified yelp, Satan ran after them. The cur did not
take the turnpike, but jumped the fence into a field, making his
way by the rear of houses, from which now and then another dog
would slink out and silently join the band. Every one of them
Satan nosed most friendlily, and to his great joy the funeral dog,
on the edge of town, leaped into their midst. Ten minutes later
the cur stopped in the midst of some woods, as though he would
inspect his followers. Plainly, he disapproved of Satan, and Satan
kept out of his way. Then he sprang into the turnpike and the band
trotted down it, under flying black clouds and shifting bands of
brilliant moonlight. Once, a buggy swept past them. A familiar
odor struck Satan's nose, and he stopped for a moment to smell the
horse's tracks; and right he was, too, for out at her
grandmother's Dinnie refused to be comforted, and in that buggy
was Uncle Billy going back to town after him.

Snow was falling. It was a great lark for Satan. Once or twice, as
he trotted along, he had to bark his joy aloud, and each time the
big cur gave him such a fierce growl that he feared thereafter to
open his jaws. But he was happy for all that, to be running out
into the night with such a lot of funny friends and not to know or
care where he was going. He got pretty tired presently, for over
hill and down hill they went, at that unceasing trot, trot, trot!
Satan's tongue began to hang out. Once he stopped to rest, but the
loneliness frightened him and he ran on after them with his heart
almost bursting. He was about to lie right down and die, when the
cur stopped, sniffed the air once or twice, and with those same
low growls, led the marauders through a rail fence into the woods,
and lay quietly down. How Satan loved that soft, thick grass, all
snowy that it was! It was almost as good as his own bed at home.
And there they lay--how long, Satan never knew, for he went to
sleep and dreamed that he was after a rat in the barn at home; and
he yelped in his sleep, which made the cur lift his big yellow
head and show his fangs. The moving of the half-breed shepherd and
the funeral dog waked him at last, and Satan got up. Half
crouching, the cur was leading the way toward the dark, still
woods on top of the hill, over which the Star of Bethlehem was
lowly sinking, and under which lay a flock of the gentle creatures
that seemed to have been almost sacred to the Lord of that Star.
They were in sore need of a watchful shepherd now. Satan was stiff
and chilled, but he was rested and had had his sleep, and he was
just as ready for fun as he always was. He didn't understand that
sneaking. Why they didn't all jump and race and bark as he wanted
to, he couldn't see; but he was too polite to do otherwise than as
they did, and so he sneaked after them; and one would have thought
he knew, as well as the rest, the hellish mission on which they
were bent.

Out of the woods they went, across a little branch, and there the
big cur lay flat again in the grass. A faint bleat came from the
hill-side beyond, where Satan could see another woods--and then
another bleat, and another. And the cur began to creep again, like
a snake in the grass; and the others crept too, and little Satan
crept, though it was all a sad mystery to him. Again the cur lay
still, but only long enough for Satan to see curious, fat, white
shapes above him--and then, with a blood-curdling growl, the big
brute dashed forward. Oh, there was fun in them after all! Satan
barked joyfully. Those were some new playmates--those fat, white,
hairy things up there; and Satan was amazed when, with frightened
snorts, they fled in every direction. But this was a new game,
perhaps, of which he knew nothing, and as did the rest, so did
Satan. He picked out one of the white things and fled barking
after it. It was a little fellow that he was after, but little as
he was, Satan might never have caught up, had not the sheep got
tangled in some brush. Satan danced about him in mad glee, giving
him a playful nip at his wool and springing back to give him
another nip, and then away again. Plainly, he was not going to
bite back, and when the sheep struggled itself tired and sank down
in a heap, Satan came close and licked him, and as he was very
warm and woolly, he lay down and snuggled up against him for a
while, listening to the turmoil that was going on around him. And
as he listened, he got frightened.

If this was a new game it was certainly a very peculiar one--the
wild rush, the bleats of terror, gasps of agony, and the fiendish
growls of attack and the sounds of ravenous gluttony. With every
hair bristling, Satan rose and sprang from the woods--and stopped
with a fierce tingling of the nerves that brought him horror and
fascination. One of the white shapes lay still before him. There
was a great steaming red splotch on the snow, and a strange odor
in the air that made him dizzy; but only for a moment. Another
white shape rushed by. A tawny streak followed, and then, in a
patch of moonlight, Satan saw the yellow cur with his teeth
fastened in the throat of his moaning playmate. Like lightning
Satan sprang at the cur, who tossed him ten feet away and went
back to his awful work. Again Satan leaped, but just then a shout
rose behind him, and the cur leaped too as though a bolt of
lightning had crashed over him, and, no longer noticing Satan or
sheep, began to quiver with fright and slink away. Another shout
rose from another direction--another from another.

"Drive 'em into the barn-yard!" was the cry.

Now and then there was a fearful bang and a howl of death-agony,
as some dog tried to break through the encircling men, who yelled
and cursed as they closed in on the trembling brutes that slunk
together and crept on; for it is said, every sheep-killing dog
knows his fate if caught, and will make little effort to escape.
With them went Satan, through the barn-yard gate, where they
huddled in a corner--a shamed and terrified group. A tall overseer
stood at the gate.

"Ten of 'em!" he said grimly.

He had been on the lookout for just such a tragedy, for there had
recently been a sheep-killing raid on several farms in that
neighborhood, and for several nights he had had a lantern hung out
on the edge of the woods to scare the dogs away; but a drunken
farm-hand had neglected his duty that Christmas Eve.

"Yassuh, an' dey's jus' sebenteen dead sheep out dar," said a
negro.

"Look at the little one," said a tall boy who looked like the
overseer; and Satan knew that he spoke of him.

"Go back to the house, son," said the overseer, "and tell your
mother to give you a Christmas present I got for you yesterday."
With a glad whoop the boy dashed away, and in a moment dashed back
with a brand-new .32 Winchester in his hand.

The dark hour before dawn was just breaking on Christmas Day. It
was the hour when Satan usually rushed upstairs to see if his
little mistress was asleep. If he were only at home now, and if he
only had known how his little mistress was weeping for him amid
her playthings and his--two new balls and a brass-studded collar
with a silver plate on which was his name, Satan Dean; and if
Dinnie could have seen him now, her heart would have broken; for
the tall boy raised his gun. There was a let of smoke, a sharp,
clean crack, and the funeral dog started on the right way at last
toward his dead master. Another crack, and the yellow cur leaped
from the ground and fell kicking. Another crack and another, and
with each crack a dog tumbled, until little Satan sat on his
haunches amid the writhing pack, alone. His time was now come. As
the rifle was raised, he heard up at the big house the cries of
children; the popping of fire-crackers; tooting of horns and
whistles and loud shouts of "Christmas Gif', 'Christmas Gif'!" His
little heart beat furiously. Perhaps he knew just what he was
doing; perhaps it was the accident of habit; most likely Satan
simply wanted to go home--but when that gun rose, Satan rose too,
on his haunches, his tongue out, his black eyes steady and his
funny little paws hanging loosely--and begged! The boy lowered the
gun.

"Down, sir!" Satan dropped obediently, but when the gun was lifted
again, Satan rose again, and again he begged.

"Down, I tell you!" This time Satan would not down, but sat
begging for his life. The boy turned.

"Papa, I can't shoot that dog." Perhaps Satan had reached the
stern old overseer's heart. Perhaps he remembered suddenly that it
was Christmas. At any rate, he said gruffly:

"Well, let him go."

"Come here, sir!" Satan bounded toward the tall boy, frisking and
trustful and begged again.

"Go home, sir!"

Satan needed no second command. Without a sound he fled out the
barn-yard, and, as he swept under the front gate, a little girl
ran out of the front door of the big house and dashed down the
steps, shrieking:

"Saty! Saty! Oh, Saty!" But Satan never heard. On he fled, across
the crisp fields, leaped the fence and struck the road, lickety-
split! for home, while Dinnie dropped sobbing in the snow.

"Hitch up a horse, quick," said Uncle Carey, rushing after Dinnie
and taking her up in his arms. Ten minutes later, Uncle Carey and
Dinnie, both warmly bundled up, were after flying Satan. They
never caught him until they reached the hill on the outskirts of
town, where was the kennel of the kind-hearted people who were
giving painless death to Satan's four-footed kind, and where they
saw him stop and turn from the road. There was divine providence
in Satan's flight for one little dog that Christmas morning; for
Uncle Carey saw the old drunkard staggering down the road without
his little companion, and a moment later, both he and Dinnie saw
Satan nosing a little yellow cur between the palings. Uncle Carey
knew the little cur, and While Dinnie was shrieking for Satan, he
was saying under his breath:

"Well, I swear!--I swear!--I swear!" And while the big man who
came to the door was putting Satan into Dinnie's arms, he said
sharply:

"Who brought that yellow dog here?" The man pointed to the old
drunkard's figure turning a corner at the foot of the hill.

"I thought so; I thought so. He sold him to you for--for a drink
of whiskey."

The man whistled.

"Bring him out. I'll pay his license."

So back went Satan and the little cur to Grandmother Dean's--and
Dinnie cried when Uncle Carey told her why he was taking the
little cur along. With her own hands she put Satan's old collar on
the little brute, took him to the kitchen, and fed him first of
all. Then she went into the breakfast-room.

"Uncle Billy," she said severely, "didn't I tell you not to let
Saty out?"

"Yes, Miss Dinnie," said the old butler.

"Didn't I tell you I was goin' to whoop you if you let Saty out?"

"Yes, Miss Dinnie."

Miss Dinnie pulled forth from her Christmas treasures a toy
riding-whip and the old darky's eyes began to roll in mock terror.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Billy, but I des got to whoop you a little."

"Let Uncle Billy off, Dinnie," said Uncle Carey, "this is
Christmas."

"All wite," said Dinnie, and she turned to Satan.

In his shining new collar and innocent as a cherub, Satan sat on
the hearth begging for his breakfast.






A NEST-EGG

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

This is the simple character sketch in which there is romance
treated with a fine reserve. It employs the local color so
characteristic of Mr. Riley's poems of Indiana.




A NEST-EGG

[Footnote: From Volume VI of the Biographical Edition of the
Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, copyright, 1913. Used by
special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company.]


But a few miles from the city here, and on the sloping banks of
the stream noted more for its plenitude of "chubs" and "shiners"
than the gamier two-and four-pound bass for which, in season, so
many credulous anglers flock and lie in wait, stands a country
residence, so convenient to the stream, and so inviting in its
pleasant exterior and comfortable surroundings--barn, dairy, and
spring-house--that the weary, sunburnt, and disheartened
fisherman, out from the dusty town for a day of recreation, is
often wont to seek its hospitality. The house in style of
architecture is something of a departure from the typical
farmhouse, being designed and fashioned with no regard to symmetry
or proportion, but rather, as is suggested, built to conform to
the matter-of-fact and most sensible ideas of its owner, who, if
it pleased him, would have small windows where large ones ought to
be, and vice versa, whether they balanced properly to the eye or
not. And chimneys--he would have as many as he wanted, and no two
alike, in either height or size. And if he wanted the front of the
house turned from all possible view, as though abashed at any
chance of public scrutiny, why, that was his affair and not the
public's; and, with like perverseness, if he chose to thrust his
kitchen under the public's very nose, what should the generally
fagged-out, half-famished representative of that dignified public
do but reel in his dead minnow, shoulder his fishing-rod, clamber
over the back fence of the old farmhouse and inquire within, or
jog back to the city, inwardly anathematizing that very particular
locality or the whole rural district in general. That is just the
way that farmhouse looked to the writer of this sketch one week
ago--so individual it seemed--so liberal, and yet so independent.
It wasn't even weather-boarded, but, instead, was covered smoothly
with some cement, as though the plasterers had come while the
folks were visiting, and so, unable to get at the interior, had
just plastered the outside.

I am more than glad that I was hungry enough, and weary enough,
and wise enough to take the house at its first suggestion; for,
putting away my fishing-tackle for the morning, at least, I went
up the sloping bank, crossed the dusty road, and confidently
clambered over the fence.

Not even a growling dog to intimate that I was trespassing. All
was open--gracious-looking--pastoral. The sward beneath my feet
was velvet-like in elasticity, and the scarce visible path I
followed through it led promptly to the open kitchen door. From
within I heard a woman singing some old ballad in an undertone,
while at the threshold a trim, white-spurred rooster stood poised
on one foot, curving his glossy neck and cocking his wattled head
as though to catch the meaning of the words. I paused. It was a
scene I felt restrained from breaking in upon, nor would I, but
for the sound of a strong male voice coming around the corner of
the house:

"Sir. Howdy!"

Turning, I saw a rough-looking but kindly featured man of sixty-
five, the evident owner of the place.

I returned his salutation with some confusion and much deference.
"I must really beg your pardon for this intrusion," I began, "but
I have been tiring myself out fishing, and your home here looked
so pleasant--and I felt so thirsty--and--"

"Want a drink, I reckon," said the old man, turning abruptly
toward the kitchen door, then pausing as suddenly, with a backward
motion of his thumb--"jest foller the path here down to the little
brick--that's the spring--and you'll find 'at you've come to the
right place fer drinkin'-worter! Hold on a minute tel I git you a
tumbler--there're nothin' down there but a tin."

"Then don't trouble yourself any further," I said, heartily, "for
I'd rather drink from a tin cup than a goblet of pure gold."

"And so'd I," said the old man, reflectively, turning
mechanically, and following me down the path. "'Druther drink out
of a tin--er jest a fruit-can with the top knocked off--er--er--er
a gourd," he added in a zestful, reminiscent tone of voice, that
so heightened my impatient thirst that I reached the spring-house
fairly in a run.

"Well-sir!" exclaimed my host, in evident delight, as I stood
dipping my nose in the second cupful of the cool, revivifying
liquid, and peering in a congratulatory kind of way at the blurred
and rubicund reflection of my features in the bottom of the cup,
"Well-sir, blame-don! ef it don't do a feller good to see you
enjoyin' of it thataway! But don't you drink too much o' the
worter!--'cause there're some sweet milk over there in one o' them
crocks, maybe; and ef you'll jest, kindo' keerful-like, lift off
the led of that third one, say, over there to yer left, and dip
you out a tinful er two o' that, w'y, it'll do you good to drink
it, and it'll do me good to see you at it--But hold up!--hold up!"
he called, abruptly, as, nowise loath, I bent above the vessel
designated. "Hold yer hosses fer a second! Here's Marthy; let her
git it fer ye."

If I was at first surprised and confused, meeting the master of
the house, I was wholly startled and chagrined in my present
position before its mistress. But as I arose, and stammered, in my
confusion, some incoherent apology, I was again reassured and put
at greater ease by the comprehensive and forgiving smile the woman
gave me, as I yielded her my place, and, with lifted hat, awaited
her further kindness.

"I came just in time, sir," she said, half laughingly, as with
strong, bare arms she reached across the gurgling trough and
replaced the lid that I had partially removed.--"I came just in
time, I see, to prevent father from having you dip into the
'morning's-milk,' which, of course, has scarcely a veil of cream
over the face of it as yet. But men, as you are doubtless willing
to admit," she went on jocularly, "don't know about these things.
You must pardon father, as much for his well-meaning ignorance of
such matters, as for this cup of cream, which I am sure you will
better relish."

She arose, still smiling, with her eyes turned frankly on my own.
And I must be excused when I confess that as I bowed my thanks,
taking the proffered cup and lifting it to my lips, I stared with
an uncommon interest and pleasure at the donor's face.

She was a woman of certainly not less than forty years of age. But
the figure, and the rounded grace and fulness of it, together with
the features and the eyes, completed as fine a specimen of
physical and mental health as ever it has been my fortune to meet;
there was something so full of purpose and resolve--something so
wholesome, too, about the character--something so womanly--I might
almost say manly, and would, but for the petty prejudice maybe
occasioned by the trivial fact of a locket having dropped from her
bosom as she knelt; and that trinket still dangles in my memory
even as it then dangled and dropped back to its concealment in her
breast as she arose. But her face, by no means handsome in the
common meaning, was marked with a breadth and strength of outline
and expression that approached the heroic--a face that once seen
is forever fixed in memory--a personage once met one must know
more of. And so it was, that an hour later, as I strolled with the
old man about his farm, looking, to all intents, with the
profoundest interest at his Devonshires, Shorthorns, Jerseys, and
the like, I lured from him something of an outline of his
daughter's history.

"There're no better girl 'n Marthy!" he said, mechanically
answering some ingenious allusion to her worth. "And yit," he went
on reflectively, stooping from his seat in the barn door and with
his open jack-knife picking up a little chip with the point of the
blade--"and yit--you wouldn't believe it--but Marthy was the
oldest o' three daughters, and hed--I may say--hed more advantages
o' marryin'--and yit, as I was jest goin' to say, she's the very
one 'at didn't marry. Hed every advantage--Marthy did. W'y, we
even hed her educated--her mother was a-livin' then--and we was
well enough fixed to afford the educatin' of her, mother allus
contended--and we was--besides, it was Marthy's notion, too, and
you know how women is thataway when they git their head set. So we
sent Marthy down to Indianop'lus, and got her books and putt her
in school there, and paid fer her keepin' and ever'thing; and she
jest--well, you may say, lived there stiddy fer better'n four
year. 0' course she'd git back ever' once-an-a-while, but her
visits was allus, some-way-another, onsatisfactory-like, 'cause,
you see, Marthy was allus my favorite, and I'd allus laughed and
told her 'at the other girls could git married if they wanted, but
SHE was goin' to be the 'nest-egg' of our family, and 'slong as I
lived I wanted her at home with me. And she'd laugh and contend
'at she'd as lif be an old maid as not, and never expected to
marry, ner didn't want to. But she had me sceart onc't, though!
Come out from the city one time, durin' the army, with a peart-
lookin' young feller in blue clothes and gilt straps on his
shoulders. Young lieutenant he was--name o' Morris. Was layin' in
camp there in the city somers. I disremember which camp it was now
adzackly--but anyway, it 'peared like he had plenty o' time to go
and come, fer from that time on he kep' on a-comin'--ever' time
Marthy 'ud come home, he'd come, too; and I got to noticin' 'at
Marthy come home a good 'eal more 'n she used to afore Morris
first brought her. And blame ef the thing didn't git to worryin'
me! And onc't I spoke to mother about it, and told her ef I
thought the feller wanted to marry Marthy I'd jest stop his comin'
right then and there. But mother she sorto' smiled and said
somepin' 'bout men a-never seein' through nothin'; and when I ast
her what she meant, w'y, she ups and tells me 'at Morris didn't
keer nothin' fer Marthy, ner Marthy fer Morris, and then went on
to tell me that Morris was kindo' aidgin' up to'rds Annie--she was
next to Marthy, you know, in pint of years and experience, but
ever'body allus said 'at Annie was the purtiest one o' the whole
three of 'em. And so when mother told me 'at the signs pinted
to'rds Annie, w'y, of course, I hedn't no particular objections to
that, 'cause Morris was of good fambly enough it turned out, and,
in fact, was as stirrin' a young feller as ever I'd want fer a
son-in-law, and so I hed nothin' more to say--ner they wasn't no
occasion to say nothin', 'cause right along about then I begin to
notice 'at Marthy quit comin' home so much, and Morris kep' a-
comin' more. Tel finally, one time he was out here all by hisself,
'long about dusk, come out here where I was feedin', and ast me,
all at onc't, and in a straight-for'ard way, ef he couldn't marry
Annie; and, some-way-another, blame ef it didn't make me as happy
as him when I told him yes! You see that thing proved, pine-blank,
'at he wasn't a-fishin' round fer Marthy. Well-sir, as luck would
hev it, Marthy got home about a half-hour later, and I'll give you
my word I was never so glad to see the girl in my life! It was
foolish in me, I reckon, but when I see her drivin' up the lane--
it was purt' nigh dark then, but I could see her through the open
winder from where I was settin' at the supper-table, and so I jest
quietly excused myself, p'lite-like, as a feller will, you know,
when they's comp'ny round, and I slipped off and met her jest as
she was about to git out to open the barn gate. 'Hold up, Marthy,'
says I; 'set right where you air; I'll open the gate fer you, and
I'll do anything else fer you in the world 'at you want me to!'

"'W'y, what's pleased YOU so?' she says, laughin', as she druv
through slow-like and a-ticklin' my nose with the cracker of the
buggy-whip.--'What's pleased YOU?'

"'Guess,' says I, jerkin' the gate to, and turnin' to lift her
out.

"'The new peanner's come?' says she, eager-like.

"'Yer new peanner's come,' says I; 'but that's not it.'

"'Strawberries fer supper?' says she.

"'Strawberries fer supper,' says I; 'but that ain't it.'

"Jest then Morris's hoss whinnied in the barn, and she glanced up
quick and smilin' and says, 'Somebody come to see somebody?'

"'You're a-gittin' warm,' says I.

"'Somebody come to see ME?' she says, anxious-like.

"'No,' says I, 'and I'm glad of it--fer this one 'at's come wants
to git married, and o' course I wouldn't harber in my house no
young feller 'at was a-layin' round fer a chance to steal away the
"Nest-egg,"' says I, laughin'.

"Marthy had riz up in the buggy by this time, but as I helt up my
hands to her, she sorto' drawed back a minute, and says, all
serious-like and kindo' whisperin':

"'Is it ANNIE?'

"I nodded. 'Yes,' says I, 'and what's more, I've give my consent,
and mother's give hern--the thing's all settled. Come, jump out
and run in and be happy with the rest of us!' and I helt out my
hands ag'in, but she didn't 'pear to take no heed. She was kindo'
pale, too, I thought, and swallered a time er two like as ef she
couldn't speak plain.

"'Who is the man?' she ast.

"'Who--who's the man?' I says, a-gittin' kindo' out o' patience
with the girl.--'W'y, you know who it is, o' course.--It's
Morris,' says I. 'Come, jump down! Don't you see I'm waitin' fer
ye?'

"'Then take me,' she says; and blame-don! ef the girl didn't keel
right over in my arms--as limber as a rag! Clean fainted away!
Honest! Jest the excitement, I reckon, o' breakin' it to her so
suddent-like--'cause she liked Annie, I've sometimes thought,
better'n even she did her own mother. Didn't go half so hard with
her when her other sister married. Yes-sir!" said the old man, by
way of sweeping conclusion, as he rose to his feet--"Marthy's the
on'y one of 'em 'at never married--both the others is gone--Morris
went all through the army and got back safe and sound--'s livin'
in Idyho, and doin' fust-rate. Sends me a letter ever' now and
then. Got three little chunks o' grandchildren out there, and I'
never laid eyes on one of 'em. You see, I'm a-gittin' to be quite
a middle-aged man--in fact a very middle-aged man, you might say.
Sence mother died, which has be'n--lem-me-see--mother's be'n dead
somers in the neighborhood o' ten year.--Sence mother died I've
be'n a-gittin' more and more o' MARTHY'S notion--that is,--you
couldn't ever hire ME to marry nobody! and them has allus be'n and
still is the 'Nest-egg's' views! Listen! That's her a-callin' fer
us now. You must sorto' overlook the freedom, but I told Marthy
you'd promised to take dinner with us to-day, and it 'ud never do
to disappint her now. Come on." And, ah! it would have made the
soul of you either rapturously glad or madly envious to see how
meekly I consented.

I am always thinking that I never tasted coffee till that day; I
am always thinking of the crisp and steaming rolls, ored over with
the molten gold that hinted of the clover-fields, and the bees
that had not yet permitted the honey of the bloom and the white
blood of the stalk to be divorced; I am always thinking that the
young and tender pullet we happy three discussed was a near and
dear relative of the gay patrician rooster that I first caught
peering so inquisitively in at the kitchen door; and I am always--
always thinking of "The Nest-egg."






WEE WILLIE WINKIE

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

As the sub-title, "An Officer and a Gentleman," indicates, this is
a story of character. Mr. Kipling, like Robert Louis Stevenson,
James Whitcomb Riley, and Eugene Field, has carried into his
maturity an imperishable youth of spirit which makes him an
interpreter of children. Here he has shown what our Anglo-Saxon
ideals--honor, obedience, and reverence for woman--mean to a
little child.




WEE WILLIE WINKIE

"AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN."

[Footnote: From "Under the Deodars," by Rudyard Kipling.
Copyright, 1899, by Rudyard Kipling. Reprinted by special
permission of Doubleday, Page and Company.]


His full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked up the
other name in a nursery-book, and that was the end of the
christened titles. His mother's ayah called him Willie-Baba, but
as he never paid the faintest attention to anything that the ayah
said, her wisdom did not help matters.

His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon as Wee Willie
Winkie was old enough to understand what Military Discipline
meant, Colonel Williams put him under it. There was no other way
of managing the child. When he was good for a week, he drew good-
conduct pay; and when he was bad, he was deprived of his good-
conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for India offers many
chances of going wrong to little six-year-olds.

Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee Willie Winkie
was a very particular child. Once he accepted an acquaintance, he
was graciously pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern
of the 195th, on sight. Brandis was having tea at the Colonel's,
and Wee Willie Winkie entered strong in the possession of a good-
conduct badge won for not chasing the hens round the compound. He
regarded Brandis with gravity for at least ten minutes, and then
delivered himself of his opinion.

"I like you," said he slowly, getting off his chair and coming
over to Brandis. "I like you. I shall call you Coppy, because of
your hair. Do you MIND being called Coppy? It is because of ye
hair, you know."

Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie Winkie's
peculiarities. He would look at a stranger for some time, and
then, without warning, or explanation, would give him a name. And
the name stuck. No regimental penalties could break Wee Willie
Winkie of this habit. He lost his good-conduct badge for
christening the Commissioner's wife "Pobs"; but nothing that the
Colonel could do made the Station forego the nickname, and Mrs.
Collen remained "Pobs" till the end of her stay. So Brandis was
christened "Coppy," and rose, therefore, in the estimation of the
regiment.

If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the fortunate
man was envied alike by the mess and the rank and file. And in
their envy lay no suspicion of self-interest. "The Colonel's son"
was idolized on his own merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was
not lovely. His face was permanently freckled, as his legs were
permanently scratched, and in spite of his mother's almost tearful
remonstrances he had insisted upon having his long yellow locks
cut short in the military fashion. "I want my hair like Sergeant
Tummil's," said Wee Willie Winkie, and, his father abetting, the
sacrifice was accomplished.

Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affections on
Lieutenant Brandis--henceforward to be called "Coppy" for the sake
of brevity--Wee Willie Winkie was destined to behold strange
things and far beyond his comprehension.

Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had let him wear
for five rapturous minutes his own big sword--just as tall as Wee
Willie Winkie. Coppy had promised him a terrier puppy, and Coppy
had permitted him to witness the miraculous operation of shaving.
Nay, more--Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would
rise in time to the ownership of a box of shiny knives, a silver
soap-box, and a silver-handled "sputter-brush," as Wee Willie
Winkie called it. Decidedly, there was no one except his own
father, who could give or take away good-conduct badges at
pleasure, half so wise, strong, and valiant as Coppy with the
Afghan and Egyptian medals on his breast. Why, then, should Coppy
be guilty of the unmanly weakness of kissing--vehemently kissing--
a "big girl," Miss Allardyce to wit? In the course of a morning
ride Wee Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, and, like the
gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and cantered back to
his groom, lest the groom should also see.

Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to his father,
but he felt instinctively that this was a matter on which Coppy
ought first to be consulted.

"Coppy," shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up outside that
subaltern's bungalow early one morning--"I want to see you,
Coppy!"

"Come in, young 'un," returned Coppy, who was at early breakfast
in the midst of his dogs. "What mischief have you been getting
into now?"

Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad for three days,
and so stood on a pinnacle of virtue.

"_I_'VE been doing nothing bad," said he, curling himself into a
long chair with a studious affectation of the Colonel's languor
after a hot parade. He buried his freckled nose in a tea-cup and,
with eyes staring roundly over the rim, asked: "I say, Coppy, is
it pwoper to kiss big girls?"

"By Jove! You're beginning early. Who do you want to kiss?"

"No one. My muvver's always kissing me if I don't stop her. If it
isn't pwoper, how was you kissing Major Allardyce's big girl last
morning, by ve canal?"

Coppy's brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had with great craft
managed to keep their engagement secret for a fortnight. There
were urgent and imperative reasons why Major Allardyce should not
know how matters stood for at least another month, and this small
marplot had discovered a great deal too much.

"I saw you," said Wee Willie Winkie calmly. "But ve sais didn't
see. I said, 'Hut jao!'"

"Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip," groaned poor Coppy,
half amused and half angry. "And how many people may you have told
about it?"

"Only me myself. You didn't tell when I twied to wide ve buffalo
ven my pony was lame; and I fought you wouldn't like."

"Winkie," said Coppy enthusiastically, shaking the small hand,
"you're the best of good fellows. Look here, you can't understand
all these things. One of these days--hang it, how can I make you
see it!--I'm going to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she'll be
Mrs. Coppy, as you say. If your young mind is so scandalized at
the idea of kissing big girls, go and tell your father."

"What will happen?" said Wee Willie Winkie, who firmly believed
that his father was omnipotent.

"I shall get into trouble," said Coppy, playing his trump card
with an appealing look at the holder of the ace.

"Ven I won't," said Wee Willie Winkie briefly. "But my faver says
it's un-man-ly to be always kissing, and I didn't fink YOU'D do
vat, Coppy."

"I'm not always kissing, old chap. It's only now and then, and
when you're bigger you'll do it too. Your father meant it's not
good for little boys."

"Ah!" said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened. "It's like ve
sputter-brush?"

"Exactly," said Coppy gravely.

"But I don't fink I'll ever want to kiss big girls, nor no one,
'cept my muvver. And I MUST do vat, you know."

There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie Winkie.

"Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?"

"Awfully!" said Coppy.

"Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha--or me?"

"It's in a different way," said Coppy. "You see, one of these days
Miss Allerdyce will belong to me, but you'll grow up and command
the Regiment and--all sorts of things. It's quite different, you
see."

"Very well," said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. "If you're fond of ve
big girl, I won't tell any one. I must go now."

Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, adding--
"You're the best of little fellows, Winkie. I tell you what. In
thirty days from now you can tell if you like--tell any one you
like."

Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engagement was dependent
on a little child's word. Coppy, who knew Wee Willie Winkie's idea
of truth, was at ease, for he felt that he would not break
promises. Wee Willie Winkie betrayed a special and unusual
interest in Miss Allardyce, and, slowly revolving round that
embarrassed young lady, was used to regard her gravely with
unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why Coppy should have
kissed her. She was not half so nice as his own mother. On the
other hand, she was Coppy's property, and would in time belong to
him. Therefore it behooved him to treat her with as much respect
as Coppy's big sword or shiny pistol.

The idea that he shared a great secret in common with Coppy kept
Wee Willie Winkie unusually virtuous for three weeks. Then the Old
Adam broke out, and he made what he called a "camp-fire" at the
bottom of the garden. How could be have foreseen that the flying
sparks would have lighted the Colonel's little hay-rick and
consumed a week's store for the horses? Sudden and swift was the
punishment--deprivation of the good-conduct badge and, most
sorrowful of all, two days' confinement to barracks--the house and
veranda--coupled with the withdrawal of the light of his father's
countenance.

He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, drew himself up
with a quivering under-lip, saluted, and, once clear of the room,
ran to weep bitterly in his nursery--called by him "my quarters."
Coppy came in the afternoon and attempted to console the culprit.

"I'm under awwest," said Wee Willie Winkie mournfully, "and I
didn't ought to speak to you."

Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof of the
house--that was not forbidden--and beheld Miss Allardyce going for
a ride.

"Where are you going?" cried Wee Willie Winkie.

"Across the river," she answered, and trotted forward.

Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was bounded on the north
by a river--dry in the winter. From his earliest years, Wee Willie
Winkie had been forbidden to go across the river, and had noted
that even Coppy--the almost almighty Coppy--had never set foot
beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had once been read to, out of a big
blue book, the history of the Princess find the Goblins--a most
wonderful tale of a land where the Goblins were always warring
with the children of men until they were defeated by one Curdie.
Ever since that date it seemed to him that the bare black and
purple hills across the river were inhabited by Goblins, and, in
truth, every one had said that there lived the Bad Men. Even in
his own house the lower halves of the windows were covered with
green paper on account of the Bad Men who might, if allowed clear
view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and comfortable bedrooms.
Certainly, beyond the river, which was the end of all the Earth,
lived the Bad Men. And here was Major Allardyce's big girl,
Coppy's property, preparing to venture into their borders! What
would Coppy say if anything happened to her? If the Goblins ran
off with her as they did with Curdie's Princess? She must at all
hazards be turned back.

The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected for a moment on
the very terrible wrath of his father, and then--broke his arrest!
It was a crime unspeakable. The low sun threw his shadow, very
large and very black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went down to
the stables and ordered his pony. It seemed to him in the hush of
the dawn that all the big world had been bidden to stand still and
look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of mutiny. The drowsy sais gave
him his mount, and, since the one great sin made all others
insignificant, Wee Willie Winkie said that he was going to ride
over to Coppy Sahib, and went out at a foot-pace, stepping on the
soft mould of the flower-borders.

The devastating track of the pony's feet was the last misdeed that
cut him off from all sympathy of Humanity. He turned into the
road, leaned forward, and rode as fast as the pony could put foot
to the ground in the direction of the river.

But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little against the
long canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, had passed
through the crops, beyond the Police-posts, when all the guards
were asleep, and her mount was scattering the pebbles of the
river-bed as Wee Willie Winkie left the cantonment and British
India behind him. Bowed forward and still flogging, Wee Willie
Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could just see Miss
Allardyce a black speck flickering across the stony plain. The
reason of her wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of
too-hastily-assumed authority, had told her over night that she
must not ride out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own
spirit and teach Coppy a lesson.

Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie Winkie
saw the Waler blunder and come down heavily. Miss Allardyce
struggled clear, but her ankle had been severely twisted, and she
could not stand. Having fully shown her spirit, she wept, and was
surprised by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki,
on a nearly spent pony.

"Are you badly, badly hurted?" shouted Wee Willie Winkie, as soon
as he was within range. "You didn't ought to be here."

"I don't know," said Miss Allardyce ruefully, ignoring the
reproof. "Good gracious, child, what are YOU doing here?"

"You said you was going acwoss ve wiver," panted Wee Willie
Winkie, throwing himself off his pony. "And nobody--not even
Coppy--must go acwoss ve wiver, and I came after you ever so hard,
but you wouldn't stop, and now you've hurted yourself, and Coppy
will be angwy wiv me, and--I've bwoken my awwest! I've bwoken my
awwest!"

The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. In spite of
the pain in her ankle, the girl was moved.

"Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, little man? What
for?"

"You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!" wailed Wee Willie
Winkie disconsolately. "I saw him kissing you, and he said he was
fonder of you van Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I came. You must
get up and come back. You didn't ought to be here. Vis is a bad
place, and I've bwoken my awwest."

"I can't move, Winkie," said Miss Allardyce, with a groan. "I've
hurt my foot. What shall I do?"

She showed a readiness to weep anew, which steadied Wee Willie
Winkie, who had been brought up to believe that tears were the
depth of unmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner as Wee
Willie Winkie, even a man may be permitted to break down.

"Winkie," said Miss Allardyce, "when you've rested a little, ride
back and tell them to send out something to carry me back in. It
hurts fearfully."

The child sat still for a little time, and Miss Allardyce closed
her eyes; the pain was nearly making her faint. She was roused by
Wee Willie Winkie tying up the reins on his pony's neck and
setting it free with a vicious cut of his whip that made it
whicker. The little animal headed towards the cantonments.

"Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?"

"Hush!" said Wee Willie Winkie. "Vere's a man coming--one of ve
Bad Men. I must stay wiv you. My faver says a man must ALWAYS look
after a girl. Jack will go home, and ven vey'll come and look for
us. Vat's why I let him go."

Not one man, but two or three, had appeared from behind the rocks
of the hills, and the heart of Wee Willie Winkie sank within him,
for just in this manner were the Goblins wont to steal out and vex
Curdie's soul. Thus had they played in Curdie's garden (he had
seen the picture), and thus had they frightened the Princess's
nurse. He heard them talking to each other, and recognized with
joy the bastard Pushto that he had picked up from one of his
father's grooms lately dismissed. People who spoke that tongue
could not be the Bad Men. They were only natives, after all.

They came up to the boulders on which Miss Allardyce's horse had
blundered.

Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the Dominant
Race, aged six and three-quarters, and said briefly and
emphatically, "Jao!" The pony had crossed the river-bed.

The man laughed, and laughter from natives was the one thing Wee
Willie Winkie could not tolerate. He asked them what they wanted
and why they did not depart. Other men with most evil faces and
crooked-stocked guns crept out of the shadows of the hills, till,
soon, Wee Willie Winkie was face to face with an audience some
twenty strong. Miss Allardyce screamed.

"Who are you?" said one of the men.

"I am the Colonel Sahib's son, and my order is that you go at
once. You black men are frightening the Miss Sahib. One of you
must run into cantonments and take the news that the Miss Sahib
has hurt herself, and that the Colonel's son is here with her."

"Put our feet into the trap?" was the laughing reply. "Hear this
boy's speech!"

"Say that I sent you--I, the Colonel's son. They will give you
money."

"What is the use of this talk? Take up the child and the girl, and
we can at least ask for the ransom. Ours are the villages on the
heights," said a voice in the background.

These WERE the Bad Men--worse than Goblins--and it needed all Wee
Willie Winkie's training to prevent him from bursting into tears.
But he felt that to cry before a native, excepting only his
mother's ayah, would be an infamy greater than any mutiny.
Moreover, he, as future Colonel of the 195th, had that grim
regiment at his back.

"Are you going to carry us away?" said Wee Willie Winkie, very
blanched and uncomfortable.

"Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur," said the tallest of the men, "and
eat you afterwards."

"That is child's talk," said Wee Willie Winkie. "Men do not eat
men."

A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on firmly--"And if
you do carry us away, I tell you that all my regiment will come up
in a day and kill you all without leaving one. Who will take my
message to the Colonel Sahib?"

Speech in any vernacular--and Wee Willie Winkie had a colloquial
acquaintance with three--was easy to the boy who could not yet
manage his "r's" and "th's" aright.

Another man joined the conference, crying, "O foolish men! What
this babe says is true. He is the heart's heart of those white
troops. For the sake of peace let them go both, for if he be
taken, the regiment will break loose and gut the valley. OUR
villages are in the valley, and we shall not escape. That regiment
are devils. They broke Khoda Yar's breastbone with kicks when he
tried to take the rifles; and if we touch this child they will
fire and rape and plunder for a month till nothing remains. Better
to send a man back to take the message and get a reward. I say
that this child is their God, and that they will spare none of us,
nor our women, if we harm him."

It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the Colonel, who made
the diversion, and an angry and heated discussion followed. Wee
Willie Winkie, standing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot.
Surely his "wegiment," his own "wegiment," would not desert him if
they knew of his extremity.

The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, though there had
been consternation in the Colonel's household for an hour before.
The little beast came in through the parade-ground in front of the
main barracks, where the men were settling down to play Spoil-five
till the afternoon. Devlin, the Color-Sergeant of E Company,
glanced at the empty saddle and tumbled through the barrack-rooms,
kicking up each Room Corporal as he passed. "Up, ye beggars!
There's something happened to the Colonel's son," he shouted.

"He couldn't fall off! S'help me, 'e COULDN'T fall off," blubbered
a drummer-boy. "Go an' hunt acrost the river. He's over there if
he's anywhere, an' maybe those Pathans have got 'im. For the love
o' Gawd don't look for 'im in the nullahs! Let's go over the
river."

"There's sense in Mott yet," said Devlin. "E Company, double out
to the river--sharp!"

So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled for the dear
life, and in the rear toiled the perspiring Sergeant, adjuring it
to double yet faster. The cantonment was alive with the men of the
195th hunting for Wee Willie Winkie, and the Colonel finally
overtook E Company, far too exhausted to swear, struggling in the
pebbles of the river-bed.

Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie's Bad Men were
discussing the wisdom of carrying off the child and the girl, a
look-out fired two shots.

"What have I said?" shouted Din Mahommed. "There is the warning!
The pulton are out already and are coming across the plain! Get
away! Let us not be seen with the boy!"

The men waited for an instant, and then, as another shot was
fired, withdrew into the hills, silently as they had appeared.

"The wegiment is coming," said Wee Willie Winkie confidently to
Miss Allardyce, "and it's all wight. Don't cwy!"

He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes later, when his
father came up, he was weeping bitterly with his head in Miss
Allardyce's lap.

And the men of the 195th carried him home with shouts and
rejoicings; and Coppy, who had ridden a horse into a lather, met
him, and, to his intense disgust, kissed him openly in the
presence of the men.

But there was balm for his dignity. His father assured him that
not only would the breaking of arrest be condoned, but that the
good-conduct badge would be restored as soon as his mother could
sew it on his blouse-sleeve. Miss Allardyce had told the Colonel a
story that made him proud of his son.

"She belonged to you, Coppy," said Wee Willie Winkie, indicating
Miss Allardyce with a grimy fore-finger. "I KNEW she didn't ought
to go acwoss ve wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if
I sent Jack home."

"You're a hero, Winkie," said Coppy--"a pukka hero!"

"I don't know what vat means," said Wee Willie Winkie, "but you
mustn't call me Winkie any no more. I'm Percival Will'am
Will'ams."

And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into his manhood.






THE GOLD BUG

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Poe was the first American short-story writer. Others had written
stories that were short, but he was the first to recognize the
short-story as having a form and an aim all its own. Moreover, he
was willing to admit the public to his laboratory and to explain
his process, for he discounted inspiration and emphasized
craftsmanship. In "The Philosophy of Composition" he declares that
every plot "must be elaborated to its denouement before anything
is attempted with the pen. It is only with the denouement
constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air
of consequence, or causation, by making the incidents and
especially the tone, at all points, tend to the development of the
intention." He also tells us that he prefers beginning with an
effect. Having chosen, in the first place, an effect that is both
novel and vivid, he decides "whether it can be best wrought by
incident or tone," and afterward looks about "for such
combinations of events, or tone, as shall best aid ... in the
construction of the effect."

In view of such explanations, it is interesting to study "The Gold
Bug" and to see how well the plot has been worked out and the tone
established. It is doubtful whether in this story the plot meant
to the writer what it means to the reader. The latter likes the
adventure with its ingeniously fitted parts, each so necessary to
the whole. But after the gold has been found--and that is the
point of greatest interest--the story goes on and on to explain
the cryptogram. This, no doubt, was to Poe the most interesting
thing about the story, the tracing of the steps by which the scrap
of parchment was deciphered and reasoned upon and made to yield up
its secret. As to the time and place, the strange conduct and
character of Legrand, the fears and superstitions of Jupiter, and
the puzzled solicitude of the narrator--all these aid materially
in establishing and maintaining the tone.




THE GOLD BUG

[Footnote: From "The Works of Edgar Allan Poe," published by
Charles Scribner's Sons.]

     "What ho' what ho' this fellow is dancing mad!
     He hath been bitten by the Tarantula."

          --All in the Wrong.


Many years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William
Legrand. He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been
wealthy; but a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To
avoid the mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New
Orleans, the city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at
Sullivan's Island, near Charleston, South Carolina.

This island is a very singular one. It consists of little else
than the sea sand, and is about three miles long. Its breadth at
no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is separated from the
mainland by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its way through a
wilderness of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the marsh-hen.
The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least
dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be seen. Near the
western extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are some
miserable frame buildings, tenanted during summer by the fugitives
from Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly
palmetto; but the whole island, with the exception of this western
point, and a line of hard white beach on the seacoast, is covered
with a dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle, so much prized by
the horticulturists of England. The shrub here often attains the
height of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable
coppice, burdening the air with its fragrance.

In the utmost recesses of this coppice, not far from the eastern
or more remote end of the island, Legrand had built himself a
small hut, which he occupied when I first, by mere accident, made
his acquaintance. This soon ripened into friendship--for there was
much in the recluse to excite interest and esteem. I found him
well educated, with unusual powers of mind, but infected with
misanthropy, and subject to perverse moods of alternate enthusiasm
and melancholy. He had with him many books, but rarely employed
them. His chief amusements were gunning and fishing, or sauntering
along the beach and through the myrtles, in quest of shells or
entomological specimens;--his collection of the latter might have
been envied by a Swammerdamm. In these excursions he was usually
accompanied by an old negro, called Jupiter, who had been
manumitted before the reverses of the family, but who could be
induced, neither by threats nor by promises, to abandon what he
considered his right of attendance upon the footsteps of his young
"Massa Will." It is not improbable that the relatives of Legrand,
conceiving him to be somewhat unsettled in intellect, had
contrived to instil this obstinacy into Jupiter, with a view to
the supervision and guardianship of the wanderer.

The winters in the latitude of Sullivan's Island are seldom very
severe, and in the fall of the year it is a rare event indeed when
a fire is considered necessary. About the middle of October, 18--,
there occurred, however, a day of remarkable chilliness. Just
before sunset I scrambled my way through the evergreens to the hut
of my friend, whom I had not visited for several weeks--my
residence being at that time in Charleston, a distance of nine
miles from the island, while the facilities of passage and re-
passage were very far behind those of the present day. Upon
reaching the hut I rapped, as was my custom, and, getting no
reply, sought for the key where I knew it was secreted, unlocked
the door and went in. A fine fire was blazing upon the hearth, It
was a novelty, and by no means an ungrateful one. I threw off an
overcoat, took an armchair by the crackling logs, and awaited
patiently the arrival of my hosts.

Soon after dark they arrived, and gave me a most cordial welcome.
Jupiter, grinning from ear to ear, bustled about to prepare some
marsh-hens for supper. Legrand was in one of his fits--how else
shall I term them?--of enthusiasm. He had found an unknown
bivalve, forming a new genus, and, more than this, he had hunted
down and secured, with Jupiter's assistance, a scaraboeus which he
believed to be totally new, but in respect to which he wished to
have my opinion on the morrow.

"And why not to-night?" I asked, rubbing my hands over the blaze,
and wishing the whole tribe of scaraboei at the devil.

"Ah, if I had only known you were here!" said Legrand, "but it's
so long since I saw you; and how could I foresee that you would
pay me a visit this very night of all others? As I was coming home
I met Lieutenant G----, from the fort, and, very foolishly, I lent
him the bug; so it will be impossible for you to see it until the
morning. Stay here to-night, and I will send Jup down for it at
sunrise. It is the loveliest thing in creation!"

"What?--sunrise?"

"Nonsense! no!--the bug. It is of a brilliant gold color--about
the size of a large hickory-nut--with two jet black spots near one
extremity of the back, another, somewhat longer, at the other. The
antennae are--"

"Dey aint NO tin in him, Massa Will, I keep a-tellin' on you,"
here interrupted Jupiter; "de bug is a goole-bug, solid, ebery bit
of him, inside and all, sep him wing--neber feel half so hebby a
bug in my life."

"Well, suppose it is, Jup," replied Legrand, somewhat more
earnestly, it seemed to me, than the case demanded, "is that any
reason for your letting the birds burn? The color"--here he turned
to me--"is really almost enough to warrant Jupiter's idea. You
never saw a more brilliant metallic lustre than the scales emit--
but of this you cannot judge till to-morrow. In the mean time I
can give you some idea of the shape." Saying this, he seated
himself at a small table, on which were a pen and ink, but no
paper. He looked for some in a drawer, but found none.

"Never mind," said he at length, "this will answer;" and he drew
from his waistcoat pocket a scrap of what I took to be very dirty
foolscap, and made upon it a rough drawing with the pen. While he
did this, I retained my seat by the fire, for I was still chilly.
When the design was complete, he handed it to me without rising.
As I received it, a low growl was heard, succeeded by a scratching
at the door. Jupiter opened it, and a large Newfoundland,
belonging to Legrand, rushed in, leaped upon my shoulders, and
loaded me with caresses; for I had shown him much attention during
previous visits. When his gambols were over, I looked at the
paper, and, to speak the truth, found myself not a little puzzled
at what my friend had depicted.

"Well!" I said, after contemplating it for some minutes, "this is
a strange scarabaeus, I must confess; new to me: never saw
anything like it before--unless it was a skull, or a death's-head,
which it more nearly resembles than anything else that has come
under MY observation."

"A death's-head!" echoed Legrand--"Oh--yes--well, it has something
of that appearance upon paper, no doubt. The two upper black spots
look like eyes, eh? and the longer one at the bottom like a mouth
--and then the shape of the whole is oval."

"Perhaps so," said I; "but, Legrand, I fear you are no artist. I
must wait until I see the beetle itself, if I am to form any idea
of its personal appearance."

"Well, I don't know," said he, a little nettled, "I draw
tolerably--SHOULD do it at least--have had good masters, and
flatter myself that I am not quite a blockhead."

"But, my dear fellow, you are joking then," said I, "this is a
very passable SKULL,--indeed, I may say that it is a very
EXCELLENT skull, according to the vulgar notions about such
specimens of physiology--and your scarabaeus must be the queerest
scarabaeus in the world if it resembles it. Why, we may get up a
very thrilling bit of superstition upon this hint. I presume you
will call the bug scarabaeus caput hominis, or something of that
kind--there are many similar titles in the Natural Histories. But
where are the antennae you spoke of?"

"The antennae!" said Legrand, who seemed to be getting
unaccountably warm upon the subject; "I am sure you must see the
antennae. I made them as distinct as they are in the original
insect, and I presume that is sufficient."

"Well, well," I said, "perhaps you have--still I don't see them;"
and I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing
to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs
had taken; his ill humor puzzled me--and, as for the drawing of
the beetle, there were positively NO antennae visible, and the
whole DID bear a very close resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a
death's-head.

He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple it,
apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at the
design seemed suddenly to rivet his attention. In an instant his
face grew violently red--in another as excessively pale. For some
minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he
sat. At length he arose, took a candle from the table, and
proceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the farthest corner
of the room. Here again he made an anxious examination of the
paper; turning it in all directions. He said nothing, however, and
his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought it prudent not to
exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by any comment.
Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet, placed the paper
carefully in it, and deposited both in a writing-desk, which he
locked. He now grew more composed in his demeanor; but his
original air of enthusiasm had quite disappeared. Yet he seemed
not so much sulky as abstracted. As the evening wore away he
became more and more absorbed in revery, from which no sallies of
mine could arouse him. It had been my intention to pass the night
at the hut, as I had frequently done before, but, seeing my host
in this mood, I deemed it proper to take leave. He did not press
me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more
than his usual cordiality.

It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had
seen nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston,
from his man, Jupiter. I had never seen the good old negro look so
dispirited, and I feared that some serious disaster had befallen
my friend.

"Well, Jup," said I, "what is the matter now?--how is your
master?"

"Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought
be."

"Not well! I am truly sorry to hear it. What does he complain of?"

"Dar! dat's it!--him neber plain of notin--but him berry sick for
all dat."

"VERY sick, Jupiter!--why didn't you say so at once? Is he
confined to bed?"

"No, dat he aint!--he aint find nowhar--dat's just whar de shoe
pinch--my mind is got to be berry hebby bout poor Massa Will."

"Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking
about. You say your master is sick. Hasn't he told you what ails
him?"

"Why, massa, taint worf while for to git mad bout de matter--Massa
Will say noffin at all aint de matter wid him--but den what make
him go about looking dis here way, wid he head down and he
soldiers up, and as white as a gose? And den he keep a syphon all
de time----"

"Keeps a what, Jupiter?"

"Keeps a syphon wid de figgurs on de slate--de queerest figgurs I
ebber did see. Ise gittin to be skeered, I tell you. Hab for to
keep mighty tight eye pon him noovers. Todder day he gib me slip
fore de sun up and was gone de whole ob de blessed day. I had a
big stick ready cut for to gib him d----d good beating when he did
come--but Ise sich a fool dat I hadn't de heart arter all--he look
so berry poorly."

"Eh?--what?--ah yes!--upon the whole I think you had better not be
too severe with the poor fellow--don't flog him, Jupiter--he can't
very well stand it--but can you form no idea of what has
occasioned this illness, or rather this change of conduct? Has
anything unpleasant happened since I saw you?"

"No, massa, dey aint bin noffin onpleasant SINCE den--'twas FORE
den I'm feared--'twas de berry day you was dare."

"How? what do you mean?"

"Why, massa, I mean de bug--dare now."

"The what?"

"De bug--I'm berry sartain dat Massa Will bin bit somewhere bout
de head by dat goole-bug."

"And what cause have you, Jupiter, for such a supposition?"

"Claws enuff, massa, and mouff too. I nebber did see sich a d----d
bug--he kick and he bite ebery ting what cum near him. Massa Will
cotch him fuss, but had for to let him go gin mighty quick, I tell
you--den was de time he must ha got de bite. I didn't like de look
ob de bug mouff, myself, no how, so I wouldn't take hold ob him
wid my finger, but I cotch him wid a piece ob paper dat I found. I
rap him up in de paper and stuff piece ob it in he mouff--dat was
de way."

"And you think, then, that your master was really bitten by the
beetle, and that the bite made him sick?"

"I don't tink noffin about it--I nose it. What make him dream bout
de goole so much, if taint cause he bit by de goole-bug? Ise heerd
bout dem goole-bugs fore dis."

"But how do you know he dreams about gold?"

"How I know? why cause he talk about it in he sleep--dat's how I
nose."

"Well, Jup, perhaps you are right; but to what fortunate
circumstance am I to attribute the honor of a visit from you to-
day?"

"What de matter, massa?"

"Did you bring any message from Mr. Legrand?"

"No, massa, I bring dis here pissel;" and here Jupiter handed me a
note which ran thus:

"MY DEAR----, Why have I not seen you for so long a time? I hope
you have not been so foolish as to take offence at any little
brusquerie of mine; but no, that is improbable.

"Since I saw you I have had great cause for anxiety. I have
something to tell you, yet scarcely know how to tell it, or
whether I should tell it at all.

"I have not been quite well for some days past, and poor old Jup
annoys me, almost beyond endurance, by his well-meant attentions.
Would you believe it?--he had prepared a huge stick, the other
day, with which to chastise me for giving him the slip, and
spending the day, solus, among the hills on the mainland. I verily
believe that my ill looks alone saved me a flogging.

"I have made no addition to my cabinet since we met.

"If you can, in any way, make it convenient, come over with
Jupiter. DO come. I wish to see you TO-NIGHT, upon business of
importance. I assure you that it is of the HIGHEST importance.

                "Ever yours,

                      "WILLIAM LEGRAND."

There was something in the tone of this note which gave me great
uneasiness. Its whole style differed materially from that of
Legrand. What could he be dreaming of? What new crotchet possessed
his excitable brain! What "business of the highest importance"
could HE possibly have to transact? Jupiter's account of him boded
no good. I dreaded lest the continued pressure of misfortune had,
at length, fairly unsettled the reason of my friend. Without a
moment's hesitation, therefore, I prepared to accompany the negro.

Upon reaching the wharf, I noticed a scythe and three spades, all
apparently new, lying in the bottom of the boat in which we were
to embark.

"What is the meaning of all this, Jup?" I inquired.

"Him syfe, massa, and spade."

"Very true; but what are they doing here?"

"Him de syfe and de spade what Massa Will sis pon my buying for
him in de town, and de debbil's own lot of money I had to gib for
'em."

"But what, in the name of all that is mysterious, is your 'Massa
Will' going to do with scythes and spades?"

"Dat's more dan _I_ know, and debbil take me if I don't blieve 't
is more dan he know, too. But it's all cum ob de bug."

Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose
whole intellect seemed to be absorbed by "de bug," I now stepped
into the boat and made sail. With a fair and strong breeze we soon
ran into the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and a
walk of some two miles brought us to the hut. It was about three
in the afternoon when we arrived. Legrand had been awaiting us in
eager expectation. He grasped my hand with a nervous EMPRESSEMENT,
which alarmed me and strengthened the suspicions already
entertained. His countenance was pale even to ghastliness, and his
deep-set eyes glared with unnatural lustre. After some inquiries
respecting his health, I asked him, not knowing what better to
say, if he had yet obtained the scarabaeus from Lieutenant G--.

"Oh, yes," he replied, coloring violently, "I got it from him the
next morning. Nothing should tempt me to part with that
scarabaeus. Do you know that Jupiter is quite right about it!"

"In what way?" I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart.

"In supposing it to be a bug of REAL GOLD." He said this with an
air of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked.

"This bug is to make my fortune," he continued, with a triumphant
smile, "to reinstate me in my family possessions. Is it any
wonder, then, that I prize it? Since Fortune has thought fit to
bestow it upon me, I have only to use it properly and I shall
arrive at the gold of which it is the index. Jupiter, bring me
that scarabaeus!"

"What! de bug, massa? I'd rudder not go fer trubble dat bug--you
mus git him for your own self." Hereupon Legrand arose, with a
grave and stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass case
in which it was enclosed. It was a beautiful scarabaeus, and, at
that time, unknown to naturalists--of course a great prize in a
scientific point of view. There were two round, black spots near
one extremity of the back, and a long one near the other. The
scales were exceedingly hard and glossy, with all the appearance
of burnished gold. The weight of the insect was very remarkable,
and, taking all things into consideration, I could hardly blame
Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; but what to make of
Legrand's agreement with that opinion, I could not, for the life
of me, tell.

"I sent for you," said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had
completed my examination of the beetle, "I sent for you, that I
might have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of
Fate and of the bug----"

"My dear Legrand," I cried, interrupting him, "you are certainly
unwell, and had better use some little precautions. You shall go
to bed, and I will remain with you a few days, until you get over
this. You are feverish and----"

"Feel my pulse," said he.

I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest
indication of fever.

"But you may be ill, and yet have no fever. Allow me this once to
prescribe for you. In the first place, go to bed. In the next----"

"You are mistaken," he interposed, "I am as well as I can expect
to be under the excitement which I suffer. If you really wish me
well, you will relieve this excitement."

"And how is this to be done?"

"Very easily. Jupiter and myself are going upon an expedition into
the hills, upon the mainland, and in this expedition, we shall
need the aid of some person in whom we can confide. You are the
only one we can trust. Whether we succeed or fail, the excitement
which you now perceive in me will be equally allayed."

"I am anxious to oblige you in any way," I replied; "but do you
mean to say that this infernal beetle has any connection with your
expedition into the hills?"

"It has."

"Then, Legrand, I can become a party to no such absurd
proceeding."

"I am sorry--very sorry--for we shall have to try it by
ourselves."

"Try it by yourselves! The man is surely mad!--but stay--how long
do you propose to be absent?"

"Probably all night. We shall start immediately, and be back, at
all events, by sunrise."

"And will you promise me, upon your honor, that when this freak of
yours is over, and the bug business (good God!) settled to your
satisfaction, you will then return home and follow my advice
implicitly, as that of your physician?"

"Yes; I promise; and now let us be off, for we have no time to
lose."

With a heavy heart I accompanied my friend. We started about four
o'clock--Legrand, Jupiter, the dog, and myself. Jupiter had with
him the scythe and spades--the whole of which he insisted upon
carrying, more through fear, it seemed to me, of trusting either
of the implements within reach of his master, than from any excess
of industry or complaisance. His demeanor was dogged in the
extreme, and "dat d----d bug" were the sole words which escaped
his lips during the journey. For my own part, I had charge of a
couple of dark lanterns, while Legrand contented himself with the
scarabaeus, which he carried attached to the end of a bit of whip-
cord; twirling it to and fro, with the air of a conjurer, as he
went. When I observed this last, plain evidence of my friend's
aberration of mind, I could scarcely refrain from tears. I thought
it best, however, to humor his fancy, at least for the present, or
until I could adopt some more energetic measures with a chance of
success. In the mean time I endeavored, but all in vain, to sound
him in regard to the object of the expedition. Having succeeded in
inducing me to accompany him, he seemed unwilling to hold
conversation upon any topic of minor importance, and to all my
questions vouchsafed no other reply than "we shall see!"

We crossed the creek at the head of the island by means of a
skiff, and, ascending the high grounds on the shore of the
mainland, proceeded in a northwesterly direction, through a tract
of country excessively wild and desolate, where no trace of a
human footstep was to be seen. Legrand led the way with decision;
pausing only for an instant, here and there, to consult what
appeared to be certain landmarks of his own contrivance upon a
former occasion.

In this manner we journeyed for about two hours, and the sun was
just setting when we entered a region infinitely more dreary than
any yet seen. It was a species of tableland, near the summit of an
almost inaccessible hill, densely wooded from base to pinnacle,
and interspersed with huge crags that appeared to lie loosely upon
the soil, and in many cases were prevented from precipitating
themselves into the valleys below merely by the support of the
trees against which they reclined. Deep ravines, in various
directions, gave an air of still sterner solemnity to the scene.

The natural platform to which we had clambered was thickly
overgrown with brambles, through which we soon discovered that it
would have been impossible to force our way but for the scythe;
and Jupiter, by direction of his master, proceeded to clear for us
a path to the foot of an enormously tall tulip-tree, which stood,
with some eight or ten oaks, upon the level, and far surpassed
them all, and all other trees which I had then ever seen, in the
beauty of its foliage and form, in the wide spread of its
branches, and in the general majesty of its appearance. When we
reached this tree, Legrand turned to Jupiter, and asked him if he
thought he could climb it. The old man seemed a little staggered
by the question, and for some moments made no reply. At length he
approached the huge trunk, walked slowly around it, and examined
it with minute attention. When he had completed his scrutiny, he
merely said:

"Yes, massa, Jup climb any tree he ebber see in he life."

"Then up with you as soon as possible, for it will soon be too
dark to see what we are about."

"How far mus go up, massa?" inquired Jupiter.

"Get up the main trunk first, and then I will tell you which way
to go--and here--stop! take this beetle with you."

"De bug, Massa Will!--de goole-bug!" cried the negro, drawing back
in dismay--"what for mus tote de bug way up de tree?--d----n if I
do!"

"If you are afraid, Jup, a great big negro like you, to take hold
of a harmless little dead beetle, why, you can carry it up by this
string--but, if you do not take it up with you in some way, I
shall be under the necessity of breaking your head with this
shovel."

"What de matter now, massa?" said Jup, evidently shamed into
compliance; "always want fur to raise fuss wid old nigger. Was
only funnin anyhow. ME feered de bug! what I keer for de bug?"
Here he took cautiously hold of the extreme end of the string,
and, maintaining the insect as far from his person as
circumstances would permit, prepared to ascend the tree.

In youth, the tulip-tree, or Liriodendron Tulipifera, the most
magnificent of American foresters, has a trunk peculiarly smooth,
and often rises to a great height without lateral branches; but,
in its riper age, the bark becomes gnarled and uneven, while many
short limbs make their appearance on the stem. Thus the difficulty
of ascension, in the present case, lay more in semblance than in
reality. Embracing the huge cylinder, as closely as possible, with
his arms and knees, seizing with his hands some projections, and
resting his naked toes upon others, Jupiter, after one or two
narrow escapes from falling, at length wriggled himself into the
first great fork, and seemed to consider the whole business as
virtually accomplished. The RISK of the achievement was, in fact,
now over, although the climber was some sixty or seventy feet from
the ground.

"Which way mus go now, Massa Will?" he asked.

"Keep up the largest branch,--the one on this side," said Legrand.
The negro obeyed him promptly, and apparently with but little
trouble, ascending higher and higher, until no glimpse of his
squat figure could be obtained through the dense foliage which
enveloped it. Presently his voice was heard in a sort of halloo.

"How much fudder is got for go?"

"How high up are you?" asked Legrand.

"Ebber so fur," replied the negro; "can see de sky fru de top ob
de tree."

"Never mind the sky, but attend to what I say. Look down the trunk
and count the limbs below you on this side. How many limbs have
you passed?"

"One, two, tree, four, fibe--I done pass fibe big limb, massa, pon
dis side."

"Then go one limb higher."

In a few minutes the voice was heard again, announcing that the
seventh limb was attained.

"Now, Jup," cried Legrand, evidently much excited, "I want you to
work your way out upon that limb as far as you can. If you see
anything strange, let me know."

By this time what little doubt I might have entertained of my poor
friend's insanity was put finally at rest. I had no alternative
but to conclude him stricken with lunacy, and I became seriously
anxious about getting him home. While I was pondering upon what
was best to be done, Jupiter's voice was again heard.

"Mos feerd for to ventur pon dis limb berry far--'tis dead limb
putty much all de way."

"Did you say it was a DEAD limb, Jupiter?" cried Legrand in a
quavering voice.

"Yes, massa, him dead as de door-nail--done up for sartain--done
departed dis here life." "What in the name of heaven shall I do?"
asked Legrand, seemingly in the greatest distress.

"Do!" said I, glad of an opportunity to interpose a word, "why
come home and go to bed. Come now!--that's a fine fellow. It's
getting late, and, besides, you remember your promise."

"Jupiter," cried he, without heeding me in the least, "do you hear
me?"

"Yes, Massa Will, hear you ebber so plain."

"Try the wood well, then, with your knife, and see if you think it
VERY rotten."

"Him rotten, massa, sure nuff," replied the negro in a few
moments, "but not so berry rotten as mought be. Mought ventur out
leetle way pon de limb by myself, dat's true."

"By yourself!--what do you mean?"

"Why, I mean de bug. 'Tis BERRY hebby bug. Spose I drop him down
fuss, and den de limb won't break wid just de weight ob one
nigger."

"You infernal scoundrel!" cried Legrand, apparently much relieved,
"what do you mean by telling me such nonsense as that? As sure as
you let that beetle fall, I'll break your neck. Look here,
Jupiter! do you hear me?"

"Yes, massa, needn't hollo at poor nigger dat style."

"Well! now listen!--if you will venture out on the limb as far as
you think safe, and not let go the beetle, I'll make you a present
of a silver dollar as soon as you get down."

"I'm gwine, Massa Will--deed I is," replied the negro very
promptly--"mos out to the eend now."

"OUT TO THE END!" here fairly screamed Legrand, "do you say you
are out to the end of that limb?"

"Soon be to de eend, massa,--o-o-o-o-oh! Lord-gol-a-marcy! what IS
dis here pon de tree?"

"Well!" cried Legrand, highly delighted, "what is it?"

"Why taint noffin but a skull--somebody bin lef him head up de
tree, and de crows done gobble ebery bit ob de meat off."

"A skull, you say!--very well!--how is it fastened to the limb?--
what holds it on?"

"Sure nuff, massa; mus look. Why, dis berry curous sarcumstanee,
pon my word--dare's a great big nail in de skull, what fastens ob
it on to de tree."

"Well now, Jupiter, do exactly as I tell you--do you hear?"

"Yes, massa."

"Pay attention, then!--find the left eye of the skull."

"Hum! hoo! dat's good! why, dar aint no eye lef at all."

"Curse your stupidity! do you know your right hand from your
left?"

"Yes, I nose dat--nose all bout dat--'tis my lef hand what I chops
de wood wid."

"To be sure! you are left-handed; and your left eye is on the same
side as your left hand. Now, I suppose, you can find the left eye
of the skull, or the place where the left eye has been. Have you
found it?"

Here was a long pause. At length the negro asked,

"Is de lef eye of de skull pon de same side as de lef hand of de
skull, too?--cause de skull aint got not a bit ob a hand at all--
nebber mind! I got de lef eye now--here de lef eye! what must do
wid it?"

"Let the beetle drop through it, as far as the string will reach--
but be careful and not let go your hold of the string."

"All dat done, Massa Will; mighty easy ting for to put de bug fru
de hole--look for him dar below!"

During this colloquy no portion of Jupiter's person could be seen;
but the beetle, which he had suffered to descend, was now visible
at the end of the string, and glistened, like a globe of burnished
gold, in the last rays of the setting sun, some of which still
faintly illumined the eminence upon which we stood. The scarabaeus
hung quite clear of any branches, and, if allowed to fall, would
have fallen at our feet. Legrand immediately took the scythe, and
cleared with it a circular space, three or four yards in diameter,
just beneath the insect, and, having accomplished this, ordered
Jupiter to let go the string and come down from the tree.

Driving a peg, with great nicety, into the ground, at the precise
spot where the beetle fell, my friend now produced from his pocket
a tape-measure. Fastening one end of this at that point of the
trunk of the tree which was nearest the peg, he unrolled it till
it reached the peg, and thence farther unrolled it, in the
direction already established by the two points of the tree and
the peg, for the distance of fifty feet--Jupiter clearing away the
brambles with the scythe. At the spot thus attained a second peg
was driven, and about this, as a centre, a rude circle, about four
feet in diameter, described. Taking now a spade himself, and
giving one to Jupiter and one to me, Legrand begged us to set
about digging as quickly as possible.

To speak the truth, I had no especial relish for such amusement at
any time, and, at that particular moment, would most willingly
have declined it; for the night was coming on, and I felt much
fatigued with the exercise already taken; but I saw no mode of
escape, and was fearful of disturbing my poor friend's equanimity
by a refusal. Could I have depended, indeed, upon Jupiter's aid, I
would have had no hesitation in attempting to get the lunatic home
by force; but I was too well assured of the old negro's
disposition to hope that he would assist me, under any
circumstances, in a personal contest with his master. I made no
doubt that the latter had been infected with some of the
innumerable Southern superstitions about money buried, and that
his fantasy had received confirmation by the finding of the
scarabaeus, or, perhaps, by Jupiter's obstinacy in maintaining it
to be "a bug of real gold." A mind disposed to lunacy would
readily be led away by such suggestions, especially if chiming in
with favorite preconceived ideas; and then I called to mind the
poor fellow's speech about the beetle's being "the index of his
fortune." Upon the whole, I was sadly vexed and puzzled, but at
length I concluded to make a virtue of necessity--to dig with a
good will, and thus the sooner to convince the visionary, by
ocular demonstration, of the fallacy of the opinions he
entertained.

The lanterns having been lit, we all fell to work with a zeal
worthy a more rational cause; and, as the glare fell upon our
persons and implements, I could not help thinking how picturesque
a group we composed, and how strange and suspicious our labors
must have appeared to any interloper who, by chance, might have
stumbled upon our whereabouts.

We dug very steadily for two hours. Little was said; and our chief
embarrassment lay in the yelpings of the dog, who took exceeding
interest in our proceedings. He, at length, became so obstreperous
that we grew fearful of his giving the alarm to some stragglers in
the vicinity; or, rather, this was the apprehension of Legrand;
for myself, I should have rejoiced at any interruption which might
have enabled me to get the wanderer home. The noise was, at
length, very effectually silenced by Jupiter, who, getting out of
the hole with a dogged air of deliberation, tied the brute's mouth
up with one of his suspenders, and then returned, with a grave
chuckle, to his task.

When the time mentioned had expired, we had reached a depth of
five feet, and yet no signs of any treasure became manifest. A
general pause ensued, and I began to hope that the farce was at an
end. Legrand, however, although evidently much disconcerted, wiped
his brow thoughtfully and recommenced. We had excavated the entire
circle of four feet diameter, and now we slightly enlarged the
limit, and went to the farther depth of two feet. Still nothing
appeared. The gold-seeker, whom I sincerely pitied, at length
clambered from the pit, with the bitterest disappointment
imprinted upon every feature, and proceeded, slowly and
reluctantly, to put on his coat, which he had thrown off at the
beginning of his labor. In the mean time I made no remark.
Jupiter, at a signal from his master, began to gather up his
tools. This done, and the dog having been unmuzzled, we turned in
profound silence towards home.

We had taken, perhaps, a dozen steps in this direction, when, with
a loud oath, Legrand strode up to Jupiter, and seized him by the
collar. The astonished negro opened his eyes and mouth to the
fullest extent, let fall the spades, and fell upon his knees.

"You scoundrel," said Legrand, hissing out the syllables from
between his clenched teeth--"you infernal black villain!--speak, I
tell you!--answer me this instant, without prevarication!--which--
which is your left eye?"

"Oh, my golly, Massa Will! aint dis here my lef eye for sartain?"
roared the terrified Jupiter, placing his hand upon his right
organ of vision, and holding it there with a desperate
pertinacity, as if in immediate dread of his master's attempt at a
gouge.

"I thought so!--I knew it! hurrah!" vociferated Legrand, letting
the negro go, and executing a series of curvets and caracoles,
much to the astonishment of his valet, who, arising from his
knees, looked mutely from his master to myself, and then from
myself to his master. "Come! we must go back," said the latter,
"the game's not up yet;" and he again led the way to the tulip-
tree.

"Jupiter," said he, when we reached its foot, "come here! was the
skull nailed to the limb with the face outward, or with the face
to the limb?"

"De face was out, massa, so dat de crows could get at de eyes
good, widout any trouble."

"Well, then, was it this eye or that through which you dropped the
beetle!"--here Legrand touched each of Jupiter's eyes.

"'Twas dis eye, massa--de lef eye--jis as you tell me," and here
it was his right eye that the negro indicated.

"That will do--we must try it again."

Here my friend, about whose madness I now saw, or fancied that I
saw, certain indications of method, removed the peg which marked
the spot where the beetle fell, to a spot about three inches to
the westward of its former position. Taking, now, the tape-measure
from the nearest point of the trunk to the peg, as before, and
continuing the extension in a straight line to the distance of
fifty feet, a spot was indicated, removed, by several yards, from
the point at which we had been digging.

Around the new position a circle, somewhat larger than in the
former instance, was now described, and we again set to work with
the spades. I was dreadfully weary, but, scarcely understanding
what had occasioned the change in my thoughts, I felt no longer
any great aversion from the labor imposed. I had become most
unaccountably interested--nay, even excited. Perhaps there was
something, amid all the extravagant demeanor of Legrand--some air
of forethought, or of deliberation--which impressed me. I dug
eagerly, and now and then caught myself actually looking, with
something that very much resembled expectation, for the fancied
treasure, the vision of which had demented my unfortunate
companion. At a period when such vagaries of thought most fully
possessed me, and when we had been at work perhaps an hour and a
half, we were again interrupted by the violent howlings of the
dog. His uneasiness, in the first instance, had been evidently but
the result of playfulness or caprice, but he now assumed a bitter
and serious tone. Upon Jupiter's again attempting to muzzle him,
he made furious resistance, and, leaping into the hole, tore up
the mould frantically with his claws. In a few seconds he had
uncovered a mass of human bones, forming two complete skeletons,
intermingled with several buttons of metal, and what appeared to
be the dust of decayed woollen. One or two strokes of a spade
upturned the blade of a large Spanish knife, and, as we dug
farther, three or four loose pieces of gold and silver coin came
to light.

At sight of these the joy of Jupiter could scarcely be restrained,
but the countenance of his master wore an air of extreme
disappointment. He urged us, however, to continue our exertions,
and the words were hardly uttered when I stumbled and fell
forward, having caught the toe of my boot in a large ring of iron
that lay half buried in the loose earth.

We now worked in earnest, and never did I pass ten minutes of more
intense excitement. During this interval we had fairly unearthed
an oblong chest of wood, which, from its perfect preservation and
wonderful hardness, had plainly been subjected to some
mineralizing process--perhaps that of the bichloride of mercury.
This box was three feet and a half long, three feet broad, and two
and a half feet deep. It was firmly secured by bands of wrought
iron, riveted, and forming a kind of trellis-work over the whole.
On each side of the chest, near the top, were three rings of iron
--six in all--by means of which a firm hold could be obtained by
six persons. Our utmost united endeavors served only to disturb
the coffer very slightly in its bed. We at once saw the
impossibility of removing so great a weight. Luckily, the sole
fastenings of the lid consisted of two sliding bolts. These we
drew back--trembling and panting with anxiety. In an instant, a
treasure of incalculable value lay gleaming before us. As the ra

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