The double weight was a little too much for the pony; so it was at a dignified walk that the Maestro, his naked, dripping, muddy and still defiant prisoner a-straddle in front of him, the captured kite passed over his left arm like a knightly shield, made his triumphant entry into the pueblo.

II—Heroism and Reverses

When Maestro Pablo rode down Rizal-y-Washington Street to the schoolhouse with his oozing, dripping prize between his arms, the kite, like a knightly escutcheon against his left side, he found that in spite of his efforts at preserving a modest, self-deprecatory bearing, his spine would stiffen and his nose point upward in the unconscious manifestations of an internal feeling that there was in his attitude something picturesquely heroic. Not since walking down the California campus one morning after the big game won three minutes before blowing of the final whistle, by his fifty-yard run-in of a punt, had he been in that posture—at once pleasant and difficult—in which one's vital concern is to wear an humility sufficiently convincing to obtain from friends forgiveness for the crime of being great.

A series of incidents immediately following, however, made the thing quite easy.

Upon bringing the new recruit into the schoolhouse, to the perfidiously expressed delight of the already incorporated, the Maestro called his native assistant to obtain the information necessary to a full matriculation. At the first question the inquisition came to a dead-lock. The boy did not know his name.

"In Spanish times," the Assistant suggested modestly, "we called them "de los Reyes" when the father was of the army, and "de la Cruz" when the father was of the church; but now, we can never know what it is."

The Maestro dashed to a solution. "All right," he said cheerily. "I caught him; guess I can give him a name. Call him—Isidro de los Maestros."

And thus it was that the urchin went down on the school records, and on the records of life afterward.

Now, well pleased with himself, the Maestro, as is the wont of men in such state, sought for further enjoyment.

"Ask him," he said teasingly, pointing with his chin at the newly-baptized but still unregenerate little savage, "why he came out of the ditch."

"He says he was afraid that you would steal the kite," answered the Assistant, after some linguistic sparring.

"Eh?" ejaculated the surprised Maestro.

And in his mind there framed a picture of himself riding along the road with a string between his fingers; and, following in the upper layers of air, a buzzing kite; and, down in the dust of the highway, an urchin trudging wistfully after the kite, drawn on irresistibly, in spite of his better judgment, on and on, horrified but fascinated, up to the yawning school-door.

It would have been the better way. "I ought to go and soak my head," murmured the Maestro pensively.

This was check number one, but others came in quick succession.

For the morning after this incident the Maestro did not find Isidro among the weird, wild crowd gathered into the annex (a transformed sugar storehouse) by the last raid of the Municipal Police.

Neither was Isidro there the next day, nor the next. And it was not till a week had passed that the Maestro discovered, with an inward blush of shame, that his much-longed-for pupil was living in the little hut behind his own house. There would have been nothing shameful in the overlooking—there were seventeen other persons sharing the same abode—were it not that the nipa front of this human hive had been blown away by the last baguio, leaving an unobstructed view of the interior, if it might be called such. As it was, the Municipal Police was mobilized at the urgent behest of the Maestro. Its "cabo," flanked by two privates armed with old German needle-guns, besieged the home, and after an interesting game of hide-and-go-seek, Isidro was finally caught by one arm and one ear, and ceremoniously marched to school. And there the Maestro asked him why he had not been attending.

"No hay pantalones"—there are no pants—Isidro answered, dropping his eyes modestly to the ground.

This was check number two, and unmistakably so, for was it not a fact that a civil commission, overzealous in its civilizing ardor, had passed a law commanding that every one should wear, when in public, "at least one garment, preferably trousers?"

Following this, and an unsuccessful plea upon the town tailor who was on a three weeks' vacation on account of the death of a fourth cousin, the Maestro shut himself up a whole day with Isidro in his little nipa house; and behind the closely-shut shutters engaged in some mysterious toil. When they emerged again the next morning, Isidro wended his way to the school at the end of the Maestro's arm, trousered!

The trousers, it must be said, had a certain cachet of distinction. They were made of calico-print, with a design of little black skulls sprinkled over a yellow background. Some parts hung flat and limp as if upon a scarecrow; others pulsed, like a fire-hose in action, with the pressure of flesh compressed beneath, while at other points they bulged pneumatically in little foot-balls. The right leg dropped to the ankle; the left stopped discouraged, a few inches below the knee. The seams looked like the putty mountain chains of the geography class. As the Maestro strode along he threw rapid glances at his handiwork, and it was plain that the emotions that moved him were somewhat mixed in character. His face showed traces of a puzzled diffidence, as that of a man who has come in sack-coat to a full-dress function; but after all it was satisfaction that predominated, for after this heroic effort he had decided that Victory had at last perched upon his banners.

And it really looked so for a time. Isidro stayed at school at least during that first day of his trousered life. For when the Maestro, later in the forenoon paid a visit to the annex, he found the Assistant in charge standing disconcerted before the urchin who, with eyes indignant and hair perpendicular upon the top of his head, was evidently holding to his side of the argument with his customary energy.

Isidro was trouserless. Sitting rigid upon his bench, holding on with both hands as if in fear of being removed, he dangled naked legs to the sight of who might look.

"Que barbaridad!" murmured the Assistant in limp dejection.

But Isidro threw at him a look of black hatred. This became a tense, silent plea for justice as it moved up for a moment to the Maestro's face, and then it settled back upon its first object in frigid accusation.

"Where are your trousers, Isidro?" asked the Maestro.

Isidro relaxed his convulsive grasp of the bench with one hand, canted himself slightly to one side just long enough to give an instantaneous view of the trousers, neatly folded and spread between what he was sitting with and what he was sitting on, then swung back with the suddenness of a kodak-shutter, seized his seat with new determination, and looked eloquent justification at the Maestro.

"Why will you not wear them?" asked the latter.

"He says he will not get them dirty," said the Assistant, interpreting the answer.

"Tell him when they are dirty he can go down to the river and wash them," said the Maestro.

Isidro pondered over the suggestion for two silent minutes. The prospect of a day spent splashing in the lukewarm waters of the Ilog he finally put down as not at all detestable, and getting up to his feet:

"I will put them on," he said gravely.

Which he did on the moment, with an absence of hesitation as to which was front and which was back, very flattering to the Maestro.

That Isidro persevered during the next week, the Maestro also came to know. For now regularly every evening as he smoked and lounged upon his long, cane chair, trying to persuade his tired body against all laws of physics to give up a little of its heat to a circumambient atmosphere of temperature equally enthusiastic; as he watched among the rafters of the roof the snakes swallowing the rats, the rats devouring the lizards, the lizards snapping up the spiders, the spiders snaring the flies in eloquent representation of the life struggle, his studied passiveness would be broken by strange sounds from the dilapidated hut at the back of his house. A voice, imitative of that of the Third Assistant who taught the annex, hurled forth questions, which were immediately answered by another voice, curiously like that of Isidro.

Fiercely: "Du yu ssee dde hhett?"

Breathlessly: "Yiss I ssee dde hhett."

Ferociously: "Show me dde hhett."

Eagerly: "Here are dde hhett."

Thunderously: "Gif me dde hhett."

Exultantly: "I gif yu dde hhett."

Then the Maestro would step to the window and look into the hut from which came this Socratic dialogue. And on this wall-less platform which looked much like a primitive stage, a singular action was unrolling itself in the smoky glimmer of a two-cent lamp. The Third Assistant was not there at all; but Isidro was the Third Assistant. And the pupil was not Isidro, but the witless old man who was one of the many sharers of the abode. In the voice of the Third Assistant, Isidro was hurling out the tremendous questions; and, as the old gentleman, who represented Isidro, opened his mouth only to drule betel-juice, it was Isidro who, in Isidro's voice, answered the questions. In his role as Third Assistant he stood with legs akimbo before the pupil, a bamboo twig in his hand; as Isidro the pupil, he plumped down quickly upon the bench before responding. The sole function of the senile old man seemed that of representing the pupil while the question was being asked, and receiving, in that capacity, a sharp cut across the nose from Isidro-the-Third-Assistant's switch, at which he chuckled to himself in silent glee and druled ad libitum.

For several nights this performance went on with gradual increase of vocabulary in teacher and pupil. But when it had reached the "Do you see the apple-tree?" stage, it ceased to advance, marked time for a while, and then slowly but steadily began sliding back into primitive beginnings. This engendered in the Maestro a suspicion which became certainty when Isidro entered the schoolhouse one morning just before recess, between two policemen at port arms. A rapid scrutiny of the roll-book showed that he had been absent a whole week.

"I was at the river cleaning my trousers," answered Isidro when put face to face with this curious fact.

The Maestro suggested that the precious pantaloons which, by the way, had been mysteriously embellished by a red stripe down the right leg and a green stripe down the left leg, could be cleaned in less than a week, and that Saturday and Sunday were days specially set aside in the Catechismo of the Americanos for such little family duties.

Isidro understood, and the nightly rehearsals soon reached the stage of:

"How menny hhetts hev yu?"

"I hev ten hhetts."

Then came another arrest of development and another decline, at the end of which Isidro again making his appearance flanked by two German needle-guns, caused a blush of remorse to suffuse the Maestro by explaining with frigid gravity that his mother had given birth to a little pickaninny-brother and that, of course, he had had to help.

But significant events in the family did not stop there. After birth, death stepped in for its due. Isidro's relatives began to drop off in rapid sequence—each demise demanding three days of meditation in retirement—till at last the Maestro, who had had the excellent idea of keeping upon paper a record of these unfortunate occurrences, was looking with stupor upon a list showing that Isidro had lost, within three weeks, two aunts, three grandfathers, and five grandmothers—which, considering that an actual count proved the house of bereavement still able to boast of seventeen occupants, was plainly an exaggeration.

Following a long sermon from the Maestro in which he sought to explain to Isidro that he must always tell the truth for sundry philosophical reasons—a statement which the First Assistant tactfully smoothed to something within range of credulity by translating it that one must not lie to Americanos, because Americanos do not like it—there came a period of serenity.

III—The Triumph

There came to the Maestro days of peace and joy. Isidro was coming to school; Isidro was learning English. Isidro was steady, Isidro was docile, Isidro was positively so angelic that there was something uncanny about the situation. And with Isidro, other little savages were being pruned into the school-going stage of civilization. Helped by the police, they were pouring in from barrio and hacienda; the attendance was going up by leaps and bounds, till at last a circulative report showed that Balangilang had passed the odious Cabancalan with its less strenuous school-man, and left it in the ruck by a full hundred. The Maestro was triumphant; his chest had gained two inches in expansion. When he met Isidro at recess, playing cibay, he murmured softly: "You little devil; you were Attendance personified, and I've got you now." At which Isidro, pausing in the act of throwing a shell with the top of his head at another shell on the ground, looked up beneath long lashes in a smile absolutely seraphic.

In the evening, the Maestro, his heart sweet with content, stood at the window. These were moonlight nights; in the grassy lanes the young girls played graceful Spanish games, winding like garlands to a gentle song; from the shadows of the huts came the tinkle-tinkle of serenading guitars and yearning notes of violins wailing despairing love. And Isidro, seated on the bamboo ladder of his house, went through an independent performance. He sang "Good-night, Ladies," the last song given to the school, sang it in soft falsetto, with languorous drawls, and never-ending organ points, over and over again, till it changed character gradually, dropping into a wailing minor, an endless croon full of obscure melancholy of a race that dies.

"Goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies; goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies; goo-oo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies-ies," he repeated and repeated, over and over again, till the Maestro's soul tumbled down and down abysses of maudlin tenderness, and Isidro's chin fell upon his chest in a last drawling, sleepy note. At which he shook himself together and began the next exercise, a recitation, all of one piece from first to last syllable, in one high, monotonous note, like a mechanical doll saying "papa-mama."

"Oh-look-et-de-moon-she-ees-shinin-up-theyre-oh-mudder-she look-like-a-lom-in-de-ayre-lost-night-she-was-smalleyre-on-joos like-a-bow-boot-now-she-ees-biggerr-on-rrraon-like-an-O."

Then a big gulp of air and again:

"Oh-look-et-de-moon-she-ees-shinin-up-theyre,——" etc.

An hour of this, and he skipped from the lyric to the patriotic, and then it was:

"I-loof-dde-name-off-Wash-ing-ton, I-loof-my-coontrrree-tow, I-loof-dde-fleg-dde-dear-owl-fleg, Off-rridd-on-whit-on-bloo-oo-oo!"

By this time the Maestro was ready to go to bed, and long in the torpor of the tropic night there came to him, above the hum of the mosquitoes fighting at the net, the soft, wailing croon of Isidro, back at his "Goo-oo-oo nigh-igh-igh loidies-ies-ies."

These were days of ease and beauty to the Maestro, and he enjoyed them the more when a new problem came to give action to his resourceful brain.

The thing was this: For three days there had not been one funeral in Balangilang.

In other climes, in other towns, this might have been a source of congratulation, perhaps, but not in Balangilang. There were rumors of cholera in the towns to the north, and the Maestro, as president of the Board of Health, was on the watch for it. Five deaths a day, experience had taught him, was the healthy average for the town; and this sudden cessation of public burials—he could not believe that dying had stopped—was something to make him suspicious.

It was over this puzzling situation that he was pondering at the morning recess, when his attention was taken from it by a singular scene.

The "batas" of the school were flocking and pushing and jolting at the door of the basement which served as stable for the municipal caribao. Elbowing his way to the spot, the Maestro found Isidro at the entrance, gravely taking up an admission of five shells from those who would enter. Business seemed to be brisk; Isidro had already a big bandana handkerchief bulging with the receipts which were now overflowing into a great tao hat, obligingly loaned him by one of his admirers, as one by one, those lucky enough to have the price filed in, feverish curiosity upon their faces.

The Maestro thought that it might be well to go in also, which he did without paying admission. The disappointed gate-keeper followed him. The Maestro found himself before a little pink-and-blue tissue-paper box, frilled with paper rosettes.

"What have you in there?" asked the Maestro.

"My brother," answered Isidro sweetly.

He cast his eyes to the ground and watched his big toe drawing vague figures in the earth, then appealing to the First Assistant who was present by this time, he added in the tone of virtue which will be modest:

"Maestro Pablo does not like it when I do not come to school on account of a funeral, so I brought him (pointing to the little box) with me."

"Well, I'll be——" was the only comment the Maestro found adequate at the moment.

"It is my little pickaninny-brother," went on Isidro, becoming alive to the fact that he was a center of interest, "and he died last night of the great sickness."

"The great what?" ejaculated the Maestro who had caught a few words.

"The great sickness," explained the Assistant. "That is the name by which these ignorant people call the cholera."

For the next two hours the Maestro was very busy.

Firstly he gathered the "batas" who had been rich enough to attend Isidro's little show and locked them up—with the impresario himself—in the little town-jail close by. Then, after a vivid exhortation upon the beauties of boiling water and reporting disease, he dismissed the school for an indefinite period. After which, impressing the two town prisoners, now temporarily out of home, he shouldered Isidro's pretty box, tramped to the cemetery and directed the digging of a grave six feet deep. When the earth had been scraped back upon the lonely little object, he returned to town and transferred the awe-stricken playgoers to his own house, where a strenuous performance took place.

Tolio, his boy, built a most tremendous fire outside and set upon it all the pots and pans and caldrons and cans of his kitchen arsenal, filled with water. When these began to gurgle and steam, the Maestro set himself to stripping the horrified bunch in his room; one by one he threw the garments out of the window to Tolio who, catching them, stuffed them into the receptacles, poking down their bulging protest with a big stick. Then the Maestro mixed an awful brew in an old oil-can, and taking the brush which was commonly used to sleek up his little pony, he dipped it generously into the pungent stuff and began an energetic scrubbing of his now absolutely panic-stricken wards. When he had done this to his satisfaction and thoroughly to their discontent, he let them put on their still steaming garments and they slid out of the house, aseptic as hospitals.

Isidro he kept longer. He lingered over him with loving and strenuous care, and after he had him externally clean, proceeded to dose him internally from a little red bottle. Isidro took everything—the terrific scrubbing, the exaggerated dosing, the ruinous treatment of his pantaloons—with wonder-eyed serenity.

When all this was finished the Maestro took the urchin into the dining-room and, seating him on his best bamboo chair, he courteously offered him a fine, dark perfecto.

The next instant he was suffused with the light of a new revelation. For, stretching out his hard little claw to receive the gift, the little man had shot at him a glance so mild, so wistful, so brown-eyed, filled with such mixed admiration, trust, and appeal, that a queer softness had risen in the Maestro from somewhere down in the regions of his heel, up and up, quietly, like the mercury in the thermometer, till it had flowed through his whole body and stood still, its high-water mark a little lump in his throat.

"Why, Lord bless us-ones, Isidro," said the Maestro quietly. "We're only a child after all; mere baby, my man. And don't we like to go to school?"

"Senor Pablo," asked the boy, looking up softly into the Maestro's still perspiring visage, "Senor Pablo, is it true that there will be no school because of the great sickness?"

"Yes, it is true," answered the Maestro. "No school for a long, long time."

Then Isidro's mouth began to twitch queerly, and suddenly throwing himself full-length upon the floor, he hurled out from somewhere within him a long, tremulous wail.



JAMES MERLE HOPPER

James Merle Hopper was born in Paris, France. His father was American, his mother French; their son James was born July 23, 1876. In 1887 his parents came to America, and settled in California. James Hopper attended the University of California, graduating in 1898. He is still remembered there as one of the grittiest football players who ever played on the 'Varsity team. Then came a course in the law school of that university, and admission to the California bar in 1900. All this reads like the biography of a lawyer: so did the early life of James Russell Lowell, and of Oliver Wendell Holmes: they were all admitted to the bar, but they did not become lawyers. James Hopper had done some newspaper work for San Francisco papers while he was in law school, and the love of writing had taken hold of him. In the meantime he had married Miss Mattie E. Leonard, and as literature did not yet provide a means of support, he became an instructor in French at the University of California.

With the close of the Spanish-American War came the call for thousands of Americans to go to the Philippines as schoolmasters. This appealed to him, and he spent the years 1902-03 in the work that Kipling thus describes in "The White Man's Burden":

To wait in heavy harness On fluttered folk and wild— Your new-caught sullen peoples, Half devil and half child.

His experiences here furnished the material for a group of short stories dealing picturesquely with the Filipinos in their first contact with American civilization. These were published in McClure's, and afterwards collected in book form under the title Caybigan.

In 1903 James Hopper returned to the United States, and for a time was on the editorial staff of McClure's. Later in collaboration with Fred R. Bechdolt he wrote a remarkable book, entitled "9009". This is the number of a convict in an American prison, and the book exposes the system of spying, of treachery, of betrayal, that a convict must identify himself with in order to become a "trusty." His next book was a college story, The Freshman. This was followed by a volume of short stories, What Happened in the Night. These are stories of child life, but intended for older readers; they are very successful in reproducing the imaginative world in which children live. In 1915 and 1916 he acted as a war correspondent for Collier's, first with the American troops in Mexico in pursuit of Villa, and later in France. His home is at Carmel, California.



THEY WHO BRING DREAMS TO AMERICA

"No wonder this America of ours is big. We draw the brave ones from the old lands, the brave ones whose dreams are like the guiding sign that was given to the Israelites of old—a pillar of cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night." "The Citizen" is a story of a brave man who followed his dream over land and sea, until it brought him to America, a fortunate event for him and for us.



THE CITIZEN

BY

JAMES FRANCIS DWYER

The President of the United States was speaking. His audience comprised two thousand foreign-born men who had just been admitted to citizenship. They listened intently, their faces, aglow with the light of a new-born patriotism, upturned to the calm, intellectual face of the first citizen of the country they now claimed as their own.

Here and there among the newly-made citizens were wives and children. The women were proud of their men. They looked at them from time to time, their faces showing pride and awe.

One little woman, sitting immediately in front of the President, held the hand of a big, muscular man and stroked it softly. The big man was looking at the speaker with great blue eyes that were the eyes of a dreamer.

The President's words came clear and distinct:

You were drawn across the ocean by some beckoning finger of hope, by some belief, by some vision of a new kind of justice, by some expectation of a better kind of life. You dreamed dreams of this country, and I hope you brought the dreams with you. A man enriches the country to which he brings dreams, and you who have brought them have enriched America.

The big man made a curious choking noise and his wife breathed a soft "Hush!" The giant was strangely affected.

The President continued:

No doubt you have been disappointed in some of us, but remember this, if we have grown at all poor in the ideal, you brought some of it with you. A man does not go out to seek the thing that is not in him. A man does not hope for the thing that he does not believe in, and if some of us have forgotten what America believed in, you at any rate imported in your own hearts a renewal of the belief. Each of you, I am sure, brought a dream, a glorious, shining dream, a dream worth more than gold or silver, and that is the reason that I, for one, make you welcome.

The big man's eyes were fixed. His wife shook him gently, but he did not heed her. He was looking through the presidential rostrum, through the big buildings behind it, looking out over leagues of space to a snow-swept village that huddled on an island in the Beresina, the swift-flowing tributary of the mighty Dnieper, an island that looked like a black bone stuck tight in the maw of the stream.

It was in the little village on the Beresina that the Dream came to Ivan Berloff, Big Ivan of the Bridge.

The Dream came in the spring. All great dreams come in the spring, and the Spring Maiden who brought Big Ivan's Dream was more than ordinarily beautiful. She swept up the Beresina, trailing wondrous draperies of vivid green. Her feet touched the snow-hardened ground, and armies of little white and blue flowers sprang up in her footsteps. Soft breezes escorted her, velvety breezes that carried the aromas of the far-off places from which they came, places far to the southward, and more distant towns beyond the Black Sea whose people were not under the sway of the Great Czar.

The father of Big Ivan, who had fought under Prince Menshikov at Alma fifty-five years before, hobbled out to see the sunbeams eat up the snow hummocks that hid in the shady places, and he told his son it was the most wonderful spring he had ever seen.

"The little breezes are hot and sweet," he said, sniffing hungrily with his face turned toward the south. "I know them, Ivan! I know them! They have the spice odor that I sniffed on the winds that came to us when we lay in the trenches at Balaklava. Praise God for the warmth!"

And that day the Dream came to Big Ivan as he plowed. It was a wonder dream. It sprang into his brain as he walked behind the plow, and for a few minutes he quivered as the big bridge quivers when the Beresina sends her ice squadrons to hammer the arches. It made his heart pound mightily, and his lips and throat became very dry.

Big Ivan stopped at the end of the furrow and tried to discover what had brought the Dream. Where had it come from? Why had it clutched him so suddenly? Was he the only man in the village to whom it had come?

Like his father, he sniffed the sweet-smelling breezes. He thrust his great hands into the sunbeams. He reached down and plucked one of a bunch of white flowers that had sprung up overnight. The Dream was born of the breezes and the sunshine and the spring flowers. It came from them and it had sprung into his mind because he was young and strong. He knew! It couldn't come to his father or Donkov, the tailor, or Poborino, the smith. They were old and weak, and Ivan's dream was one that called for youth and strength.

"Ay, for youth and strength," he muttered as he gripped the plow. "And I have it!"

That evening Big Ivan of the Bridge spoke to his wife, Anna, a little woman, who had a sweet face and a wealth of fair hair.

"Wife, we are going away from here," he said.

"Where are we going, Ivan?" she asked.

"Where do you think, Anna?" he said, looking down at her as she stood by his side.

"To Bobruisk," she murmured.

"No."

"Farther?"

"Ay, a long way farther."

Fear sprang into her soft eyes. Bobruisk was eighty-nine versts away, yet Ivan said they were going farther.

"We—we are not going to Minsk?" she cried.

"Aye, and beyond Minsk!"

"Ivan, tell me!" she gasped. "Tell me where we are going!"

"We are going to America."

"To America?"

"Yes, to America!"

Big Ivan of the Bridge lifted up his voice when he cried out the words "To America," and then a sudden fear sprang upon him as those words dashed through the little window out into the darkness of the village street. Was he mad? America was 8,000 versts away! It was far across the ocean, a place that was only a name to him, a place where he knew no one. He wondered in the strange little silence that followed his words if the crippled son of Poborino, the smith, had heard him. The cripple would jeer at him if the night wind had carried the words to his ear.

Anna remained staring at her big husband for a few minutes, then she sat down quietly at his side. There was a strange look in his big blue eyes, the look of a man to whom has come a vision, the look which came into the eyes of those shepherds of Judea long, long ago.

"What is it, Ivan?" she murmured softly, patting his big hand. "Tell me."

And Big Ivan of the Bridge, slow of tongue, told of the Dream. To no one else would he have told it. Anna understood. She had a way of patting his hands and saying soft things when his tongue could not find words to express his thoughts.

Ivan told how the Dream had come to him as he plowed. He told her how it had sprung upon him, a wonderful dream born of the soft breezes, of the sunshine, of the sweet smell of the upturned sod and of his own strength. "It wouldn't come to weak men," he said, baring an arm that showed great snaky muscles rippling beneath the clear skin. "It is a dream that comes only to those who are strong and those who want—who want something that they haven't got." Then in a lower voice he said: "What is it that we want, Anna?"

The little wife looked out into the darkness with fear-filled eyes. There were spies even there in that little village on the Beresina, and it was dangerous to say words that might be construed into a reflection on the Government. But she answered Ivan. She stooped and whispered one word into his ear, and he slapped his thigh with his big hand.

"Ay," he cried. "That is what we want! You and I and millions like us want it, and over there, Anna, over there we will get it. It is the country where a muzhik is as good as a prince of the blood!"

Anna stood up, took a small earthenware jar from a side shelf, dusted it carefully and placed it upon the mantel. From a knotted cloth about her neck she took a ruble and dropped the coin into the jar. Big Ivan looked at her curiously.

"It is to make legs for your Dream," she explained. "It is many versts to America, and one rides on rubles."

"You are a good wife," he said. "I was afraid that you might laugh at me."

"It is a great dream," she murmured. "Come, we will go to sleep."

The Dream maddened Ivan during the days that followed. It pounded within his brain as he followed the plow. It bred a discontent that made him hate the little village, the swift-flowing Beresina and the gray stretches that ran toward Mogilev. He wanted to be moving, but Anna had said that one rode on rubles, and rubles were hard to find.

And in some mysterious way the village became aware of the secret. Donkov, the tailor, discovered it. Donkov lived in one-half of the cottage occupied by Ivan and Anna, and Donkov had long ears. The tailor spread the news, and Poborino, the smith, and Yanansk, the baker, would jeer at Ivan as he passed.

"When are you going to America?" they would ask.

"Soon," Ivan would answer.

"Take us with you!" they would cry in chorus.

"It is no place for cowards," Ivan would answer. "It is a long way, and only brave men can make the journey."

"Are you brave?" the baker screamed one day as he went by.

"I am brave enough to want liberty!" cried Ivan angrily. "I am brave enough to want——"

"Be careful! Be careful!" interrupted the smith. "A long tongue has given many a man a train journey that he never expected."

That night Ivan and Anna counted the rubles in the earthenware pot. The giant looked down at his wife with a gloomy face, but she smiled and patted his hand.

"It is slow work," he said.

"We must be patient," she answered. "You have the Dream."

"Ay," he said. "I have the Dream."

Through the hot, languorous summertime the Dream grew within the brain of Big Ivan. He saw visions in the smoky haze that hung above the Beresina. At times he would stand, hoe in hand, and look toward the west, the wonderful west into which the sun slipped down each evening like a coin dropped from the fingers of the dying day.

Autumn came, and the fretful whining winds that came down from the north chilled the Dream. The winds whispered of the coming of the Snow King, and the river grumbled as it listened. Big Ivan kept out of the way of Poborino, the smith, and Yanansk, the baker. The Dream was still with him, but autumn is a bad time for dreams.

Winter came, and the Dream weakened. It was only the earthenware pot that kept it alive, the pot into which the industrious Anna put every coin that could be spared. Often Big Ivan would stare at the pot as he sat beside the stove. The pot was the cord which kept the Dream alive.

"You are a good woman, Anna," Ivan would say again and again. "It was you who thought of saving the rubles."

"But it was you who dreamed," she would answer. "Wait for the spring, husband mine. Wait."

It was strange how the spring came to the Beresina that year. It sprang upon the flanks of winter before the Ice King had given the order to retreat into the fastnesses of the north. It swept up the river escorted by a million little breezes, and housewives opened their windows and peered out with surprise upon their faces. A wonderful guest had come to them and found them unprepared.

Big Ivan of the Bridge was fixing a fence in the meadow on the morning the Spring Maiden reached the village. For a little while he was not aware of her arrival. His mind was upon his work, but suddenly he discovered that he was hot, and he took off his overcoat. He turned to hang the coat upon a bush, then he sniffed the air, and a puzzled look came upon his face. He sniffed again, hurriedly, hungrily. He drew in great breaths of it, and his eyes shone with a strange light. It was wonderful air. It brought life to the Dream. It rose up within him, ten times more lusty than on the day it was born, and his limbs trembled as he drew in the hot, scented breezes that breed the Wanderlust and shorten the long trails of the world.

Big Ivan clutched his coat and ran to the little cottage. He burst through the door, startling Anna, who was busy with her housework.

"The Spring!" he cried. "The Spring!"

He took her arm and dragged her to the door. Standing together they sniffed the sweet breezes. In silence they listened to the song of the river. The Beresina had changed from a whining, fretful tune into a lilting, sweet song that would set the legs of lovers dancing. Anna pointed to a green bud on a bush beside the door.

"It came this minute," she murmured.

"Yes," said Ivan. "The little fairies brought it there to show us that spring has come to stay."

Together they turned and walked to the mantel. Big Ivan took up the earthenware pot, carried it to the table, and spilled its contents upon the well-scrubbed boards. He counted while Anna stood beside him, her fingers clutching his coarse blouse. It was a slow business, because Ivan's big blunt fingers were not used to such work, but it was over at last. He stacked the coins into neat piles, then he straightened himself and turned to the woman at his side.

"It is enough," he said quietly. "We will go at once. If it was not enough, we would have to go because the Dream is upon me and I hate this place."

"As you say," murmured Anna. "The wife of Littin, the butcher, will buy our chairs and our bed. I spoke to her yesterday."

Poborino, the smith; his crippled son; Yanansk, the baker; Dankov, the tailor, and a score of others were out upon the village street on the morning that Big Ivan and Anna set out. They were inclined to jeer at Ivan, but something upon the face of the giant made them afraid. Hand in hand the big man and his wife walked down the street, their faces turned toward Bobruisk, Ivan balancing upon his head a heavy trunk that no other man in the village could have lifted.

At the end of the street a stripling with bright eyes and yellow curls clutched the hand of Ivan and looked into his face.

"I know what is sending you," he cried.

"Ay, you know," said Ivan, looking into the eyes of the other.

"It came to me yesterday," murmured the stripling. "I got it from the breezes. They are free, so are the birds and the little clouds and the river. I wish I could go."

"Keep your dream," said Ivan softly. "Nurse it, for it is the dream of a man."

Anna, who was crying softly, touched the blouse of the boy. "At the back of our cottage, near the bush that bears the red berries, a pot is buried," she said. "Dig it up and take it home with you and when you have a kopeck drop it in. It is a good pot."

The stripling understood. He stooped and kissed the hand of Anna, and Big Ivan patted him upon the back. They were brother dreamers and they understood each other.

Boris Lugan has sung the song of the versts that eat up one's courage as well as the leather of one's shoes.

"Versts! Versts! Scores and scores of them! Versts! Versts! A million or more of them! Dust! Dust! And the devils who play in it, Blinding us fools who forever must stay in it."

Big Ivan and Anna faced the long versts to Bobruisk, but they were not afraid of the dust devils. They had the Dream. It made their hearts light and took the weary feeling from their feet. They were on their way. America was a long, long journey, but they had started, and every verst they covered lessened the number that lay between them and the Promised Land.

"I am glad the boy spoke to us," said Anna.

"And I am glad," said Ivan. "Some day he will come and eat with us in America."

They came to Bobruisk. Holding hands, they walked into it late one afternoon. They were eighty-nine versts from the little village on the Beresina, but they were not afraid. The Dream spoke to Ivan, and his big hand held the hand of Anna. The railway ran through Bobruisk, and that evening they stood and looked at the shining rails that went out in the moonlight like silver tongs reaching out for a low-hanging star.

And they came face to face with the Terror that evening, the Terror that had helped the spring breezes and the sunshine to plant the Dream in the brain of Big Ivan.

They were walking down a dark side street when they saw a score of men and women creep from the door of a squat, unpainted building. The little group remained on the sidewalk for a minute as if uncertain about the way they should go, then from the corner of the street came a cry of "Police!" and the twenty pedestrians ran in different directions.

It was no false alarm. Mounted police charged down the dark thoroughfare swinging their swords as they rode at the scurrying men and women who raced for shelter. Big Ivan dragged Anna into a doorway, and toward their hiding place ran a young boy who, like themselves, had no connection with the group and who merely desired to get out of harm's way till the storm was over.

The boy was not quick enough to escape the charge. A trooper pursued him, overtook him before he reached the sidewalk, and knocked him down with a quick stroke given with the flat of his blade. His horse struck the boy with one of his hoofs as the lad stumbled on his face.

Big Ivan growled like an angry bear, and sprang from his hiding place. The trooper's horse had carried him on to the sidewalk, and Ivan seized the bridle and flung the animal on its haunches. The policeman leaned forward to strike at the giant, but Ivan of the Bridge gripped the left leg of the horseman and tore him from the saddle.

The horse galloped off, leaving its rider lying beside the moaning boy who was unlucky enough to be in a street where a score of students were holding a meeting.

Anna dragged Ivan back into the passageway. More police were charging down the street, and their position was a dangerous one.

"Ivan!" she cried, "Ivan! Remember the Dream! America, Ivan! America! Come this way! Quick!"

With strong hands she dragged him down the passage. It opened into a narrow lane, and, holding each other's hands, they hurried toward the place where they had taken lodgings. From far off came screams and hoarse orders, curses and the sound of galloping hoofs. The Terror was abroad.

Big Ivan spoke softly as they entered the little room they had taken. "He had a face like the boy to whom you gave the lucky pot," he said. "Did you notice it in the moonlight when the trooper struck him down?"

"Yes," she answered. "I saw."

They left Bobruisk next morning. They rode away on a great, puffing, snorting train that terrified Anna. The engineer turned a stopcock as they were passing the engine, and Anna screamed while Ivan nearly dropped the big trunk. The engineer grinned, but the giant looked up at him and the grin faded. Ivan of the Bridge was startled by the rush of hot steam, but he was afraid of no man.

The train went roaring by little villages and great pasture stretches. The real journey had begun. They began to love the powerful engine. It was eating up the versts at a tremendous rate. They looked at each other from time to time and smiled like two children.

They came to Minsk, the biggest town they had ever seen. They looked out from the car windows at the miles of wooden buildings, at the big church of St. Catharine, and the woolen mills. Minsk would have frightened them if they hadn't had the Dream. The farther they went from the little village on the Beresina the more courage the Dream gave to them.

On and on went the train, the wheels singing the song of the road. Fellow travelers asked them where they were going. "To America," Ivan would answer.

"To America?" they would cry. "May the little saints guide you. It is a long way, and you will be lonely."

"No, we shall not be lonely," Ivan would say.

"Ha! you are going with friends?"

"No, we have no friends, but we have something that keeps us from being lonely." And when Ivan would make that reply Anna would pat his hand and the questioner would wonder if it was a charm or a holy relic that the bright-eyed couple possessed.

They ran through Vilna, on through flat stretches of Courland to Libau, where they saw the sea. They sat and stared at it for a whole day, talking little but watching it with wide, wondering eyes. And they stared at the great ships that came rocking in from distant ports, their sides gray with the salt from the big combers which they had battled with.

No wonder this America of ours is big. We draw the brave ones from the old lands, the brave ones whose dreams are like the guiding sign that was given to the Israelites of old—a pillar of cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night.

The harbormaster spoke to Ivan and Anna as they watched the restless waters.

"Where are you going, children?"

"To America," answered Ivan.

"A long way. Three ships bound for America went down last month."

"Our ship will not sink," said Ivan.

"Why?"

"Because I know it will not."

The harbor master looked at the strange blue eyes of the giant, and spoke softly. "You have the eyes of a man who sees things," he said. "There was a Norwegian sailor in the White Queen, who had eyes like yours, and he could see death."

"I see life!" said Ivan boldly. "A free life——"

"Hush!" said the harbor master. "Do not speak so loud." He walked swiftly away, but he dropped a ruble into Anna's hand as he passed her by. "For luck," he murmured. "May the little saints look after you on the big waters."

They boarded the ship, and the Dream gave them a courage that surprised them. There were others going aboard, and Ivan and Anna felt that those others were also persons who possessed dreams. She saw the dreams in their eyes. There were Slavs, Poles, Letts, Jews, and Livonians, all bound for the land where dreams come true. They were a little afraid—not two per cent of them had ever seen a ship before—yet their dreams gave them courage.

The emigrant ship was dragged from her pier by a grunting tug and went floundering down the Baltic Sea. Night came down, and the devils who, according to the Esthonian fishermen, live in the bottom of the Baltic, got their shoulders under the stern of the ship and tried to stand her on her head. They whipped up white combers that sprang on her flanks and tried to crush her, and the wind played a devil's lament in her rigging. Anna lay sick in the stuffy women's quarters, and Ivan could not get near her. But he sent her messages. He told her not to mind the sea devils, to think of the Dream, the Great Dream that would become real in the land to which they were bound. Ivan of the Bridge grew to full stature on that first night out from Libau. The battered old craft that carried him slouched before the waves that swept over her decks, but he was not afraid. Down among the million and one smells of the steerage he induced a thin-faced Livonian to play upon a mouth organ, and Big Ivan sang Paleer's "Song of Freedom" in a voice that drowned the creaking of the old vessel's timbers, and made the seasick ones forget their sickness. They sat up in their berths and joined in the chorus, their eyes shining brightly in the half gloom:

"Freedom for serf and for slave, Freedom for all men who crave Their right to be free And who hate to bend knee But to Him who this right to them gave."

It was well that these emigrants had dreams. They wanted them. The sea devils chased the lumbering steamer. They hung to her bows and pulled her for'ard deck under emerald-green rollers. They clung to her stern and hoisted her nose till Big Ivan thought that he could touch the door of heaven by standing on her blunt snout. Miserable, cold, ill, and sleepless, the emigrants crouched in their quarters, and to them Ivan and the thin-faced Livonian sang the "Song of Freedom."

The emigrant ship pounded through the Cattegat, swung southward through the Skagerrack and the bleak North Sea. But the storm pursued her. The big waves snarled and bit at her, and the captain and the chief officer consulted with each other. They decided to run into the Thames, and the harried steamer nosed her way in and anchored off Gravesend.

An examination was made, and the agents decided to transship the emigrants. They were taken to London and thence by train to Liverpool, and Ivan and Anna sat again side by side, holding hands and smiling at each other as the third-class emigrant train from Euston raced down through the green Midland counties to grimy Liverpool.

"You are not afraid?" Ivan would say to her each time she looked at him.

"It is a long way, but the Dream has given me much courage," she said.

"To-day I spoke to a Lett whose brother works in New York City," said the giant. "Do you know how much money he earns each day?"

"How much?" she questioned.

"Three rubles, and he calls the policemen by their first names."

"You will earn five rubles, my Ivan," she murmured. "There is no one as strong as you."

Once again they were herded into the bowels of a big ship that steamed away through the fog banks of the Mersey out into the Irish Sea. There were more dreamers now, nine hundred of them, and Anna and Ivan were more comfortable. And these new emigrants, English, Irish, Scotch, French, and German, knew much concerning America. Ivan was certain that he would earn at least three rubles a day. He was very strong.

On the deck he defeated all comers in a tug of war, and the captain of the ship came up to him and felt his muscles.

"The country that lets men like you get away from it is run badly," he said. "Why did you leave it?"

The interpreter translated what the captain said, and through the interpreter Ivan answered.

"I had a Dream," he said, "a Dream of freedom."

"Good," cried the captain. "Why should a man with muscles like yours have his face ground into the dust?"

The soul of Big Ivan grew during those days. He felt himself a man, a man who was born upright to speak his thoughts without fear.

The ship rolled into Queenstown one bright morning, and Ivan and his nine hundred steerage companions crowded the for'ard deck. A boy in a rowboat threw a line to the deck, and after it had been fastened to a stanchion he came up hand over hand. The emigrants watched him curiously. An old woman sitting in the boat pulled off her shoes, sat in a loop of the rope, and lifted her hand as a signal to her son on deck.

"Hey, fellers," said the boy, "help me pull me muvver up. She wants to sell a few dozen apples, an' they won't let her up the gangway!"

Big Ivan didn't understand the words, but he guessed what the boy wanted. He made one of a half dozen who gripped the rope and started to pull the ancient apple woman to the deck.

They had her halfway up the side when an undersized third officer discovered what they were doing. He called to a steward, and the steward sprang to obey.

"Turn a hose on her!" cried the officer. "Turn a hose on the old woman!"

The steward rushed for the hose. He ran with it to the side of the ship with the intention of squirting on the old woman, who was swinging in midair and exhorting the six men who were dragging her to the deck.

"Pull!" she cried. "Sure, I'll give every one of ye a rosy red apple an' me blessing with it."

The steward aimed the muzzle of the hose, and Big Ivan of the Bridge let go of the rope and sprang at him. The fist of the great Russian went out like a battering ram; it struck the steward between the eyes, and he dropped upon the deck. He lay like one dead, the muzzle of the hose wriggling from his limp hands.

The third officer and the interpreter rushed at Big Ivan, who stood erect, his hands clenched.

"Ask the big swine why he did it," roared the officer.

"Because he is a coward!" cried Ivan. "They wouldn't do that in America!"

"What does the big brute know about America?" cried the officer.

"Tell him I have dreamed of it," shouted Ivan. "Tell him it is in my Dream. Tell him I will kill him if he turns the water on this old woman."

The apple seller was on deck then, and with the wisdom of the Celt she understood. She put her lean hand upon the great head of the Russian and blessed him in Gaelic. Ivan bowed before her, then as she offered him a rosy apple he led her toward Anna, a great Viking leading a withered old woman who walked with the grace of a duchess.

"Please don't touch him," she cried, turning to the officer. "We have been waiting for your ship for six hours, and we have only five dozen apples to sell. It's a great man he is. Sure he's as big as Finn MacCool."

Some one pulled the steward behind a ventilator and revived him by squirting him with water from the hose which he had tried to turn upon the old woman. The third officer slipped quietly away.

The Atlantic was kind to the ship that carried Ivan and Anna. Through sunny days they sat up on deck and watched the horizon. They wanted to be among those who would get the first glimpse of the wonderland.

They saw it on a morning with sunshine and soft wind. Standing together in the bow, they looked at the smear upon the horizon, and their eyes filled with tears. They forgot the long road to Bobruisk, the rocking journey to Libau, the mad buckjumping boat in whose timbers the sea devils of the Baltic had bored holes. Everything unpleasant was forgotten, because the Dream filled them with a great happiness.

The inspectors at Ellis Island were interested in Ivan. They walked around him and prodded his muscles, and he smiled down upon them good-naturedly.

"A fine animal," said one. "Gee, he's a new white hope! Ask him can he fight?"

An interpreter put the question, and Ivan nodded. "I have fought," he said.

"Gee!" cried the inspector. "Ask him was it for purses or what?"

"For freedom," answered Ivan. "For freedom to stretch my legs and straighten my neck!"

Ivan and Anna left the Government ferryboat at the Battery. They started to walk uptown, making for the East Side, Ivan carrying the big trunk that no other man could lift.

It was a wonderful morning. The city was bathed in warm sunshine, and the well-dressed men and women who crowded the sidewalks made the two immigrants think that it was a festival day. Ivan and Anna stared at each other in amazement. They had never seen such dresses as those worn by the smiling women who passed them by; they had never seen such well-groomed men.

"It is a feast day for certain," said Anna.

"They are dressed like princes and princesses," murmured Ivan. "There are no poor here, Anna. None."

Like two simple children, they walked along the streets of the City of Wonder. What a contrast it was to the gray, stupid towns where the Terror waited to spring upon the cowed people. In Bobruisk, Minsk, Vilna, and Libau the people were sullen and afraid. They walked in dread, but in the City of Wonder beside the glorious Hudson every person seemed happy and contented.

They lost their way, but they walked on, looking at the wonderful shop windows, the roaring elevated trains, and the huge skyscrapers. Hours afterward they found themselves in Fifth Avenue near Thirty-third Street, and there the miracle happened to the two Russian immigrants. It was a big miracle inasmuch as it proved the Dream a truth, a great truth.

Ivan and Anna attempted to cross the avenue, but they became confused in the snarl of traffic. They dodged backward and forward as the stream of automobiles swept by them. Anna screamed, and, in response to her scream, a traffic policeman, resplendent in a new uniform, rushed to her side. He took the arm of Anna and flung up a commanding hand. The charging autos halted. For five blocks north and south they jammed on the brakes when the unexpected interruption occurred, and Big Ivan gasped.

"Don't be flurried, little woman," said the cop. "Sure I can tame 'em by liftin' me hand."

Anna didn't understand what he said, but she knew it was something nice by the manner in which his Irish eyes smiled down upon her. And in front of the waiting automobiles he led her with the same care that he would give to a duchess, while Ivan, carrying the big trunk, followed them, wondering much. Ivan's mind went back to Bobruisk on the night the Terror was abroad.

The policeman led Anna to the sidewalk, patted Ivan good-naturedly upon the shoulder, and then with a sharp whistle unloosed the waiting stream of cars that had been held up so that two Russian immigrants could cross the avenue.

Big Ivan of the Bridge took the trunk from his head and put it on the ground. He reached out his arms and folded Anna in a great embrace. His eyes were wet.

"The Dream is true!" he cried. "Did you see, Anna? We are as good as they! This is the land where a muzhik is as good as a prince of the blood!"

The President was nearing the close of his address. Anna shook Ivan, and Ivan came out of the trance which the President's words had brought upon him. He sat up and listened intently:

We grow great by dreams. All big men are dreamers. They see things in the soft haze of a spring day or in the red fire of a long winter's evening. Some of us let those great dreams die, but others nourish and protect them, nurse them through bad days till they bring them to the sunshine and light which come always to those who sincerely hope that their dreams will come true.

The President finished. For a moment he stood looking down at the faces turned up to him, and Big Ivan of the Bridge thought that the President smiled at him. Ivan seized Anna's hand and held it tight.

"He knew of my Dream!" he cried. "He knew of it. Did you hear what he said about the dreams of a spring day?"

"Of course he knew," said Anna. "He is the wisest man in America, where there are many wise men. Ivan, you are a citizen now."

"And you are a citizen, Anna."

The band started to play "My Country, 'tis of Thee," and Ivan and Anna got to their feet. Standing side by side, holding hands, they joined in with the others who had found after long days of journeying the blessed land where dreams come true.



JAMES FRANCIS DWYER

Mr. Dwyer is an American by adoption, an Australian by birth. He was born in Camden, New South Wales, April 22, 1874; and received his education in the public schools there. He entered newspaper work, and in the capacity of a correspondent for Australian papers traveled extensively in Australia and in the South Seas, from 1898 to 1906. In 1906 he made a tour through South Africa, and at the conclusion of this went to England. He came to America in 1907, and since that time has made his home in New York City. He has been a frequent contributor to Collier's, Harper's Weekly, The American Magazine, The Ladies' Home Journal, and other periodicals. He has published five books, nearly all dealing with the strange life of the far East. His first book, The White Waterfall, published in 1912, has its scene in the South Sea Islands. A California scientist, interested in ancient Polynesian skulls, goes to the South Seas to investigate his favorite subject, accompanied by his two daughters. The amazing adventures they meet there make a very interesting story. The Spotted Panther is a story of adventure in Borneo. Three white men go there in search of a wonderful sword of great antiquity which is in the possession of a tribe of Dyaks, the head-hunters of Borneo. There are some vivid descriptions in the story and plenty of thrills. The Breath of the Jungle is a collection of short stories, the scenes laid in the Malay Peninsula and nearby islands. They describe the strange life of these regions, and show how it reacts in various ways upon white men who live there. The Green Half Moon is a story of mystery and diplomatic intrigue, the scene partly in the Orient, partly in London.

In his later work Mr. Dwyer has taken up American themes. The Bust of Lincoln, really a short story, deals with a young man whose proudest possession is a bust of Lincoln that had belonged to his grandfather; the story shows how it influences his life. The story The Citizen had an interesting origin. On May 10, 1915, just after the sinking of the Lusitania, President Wilson went to Philadelphia to address a meeting of an unusual kind. Four thousand foreign-born men, who had just become naturalized citizens of our country, were to be welcomed to citizenship by the Mayor of the city, a member of the Cabinet, and the President of the United States. The meeting was held in Convention Hall; more than fifteen thousand people were present, and the event, occurring as it did at a time when every one realized that the loyalty of our people was likely to be soon put to the test, was one of historic importance. Moved by the significance of this event, Mr. Dwyer translated it into literature. His story, "The Citizen," was published in Collier's in November, 1915.



LIST OF AMERICAN SHORT STORIES CLASSIFIED BY LOCALITY

I. THE EAST

NEW ENGLAND

A New England Nun; A Humble Romance, Mary Wilkins-Freeman. Meadow-Grass; The Country Road, Alice Brown. A White Heron; The Queen's Twin, Sarah Orne Jewett. Pratt Portraits; Later Pratt Portraits, Anna Fuller. The Village Watch Tower, Kate Douglas Wiggin. The Old Home House, Joseph C. Lincoln. Hillsboro People, Dorothy Canfield. Out of Gloucester; The Crested Seas, James B. Connolly. Under the Crust, Thomas Nelson Page. Dumb Foxglove, Annie T. Slosson. Huckleberries Gathered From New England Hills, Rose Terry Cooke.

NEW YORK CITY

The Four Million; The Voice of the City; The Trimmed Lamp, O. Henry. Van Bibber and Others, Richard Harding Davis. Doctor Rast, James Oppenheim. Toomey and Others, Robert Shackleton. Vignettes of Manhattan, Brander Matthews. The Imported Bridegroom, Abraham Cahan. Little Citizens; Little Aliens, Myra Kelly. The Soul of the Street, Norman Duncan. Wall Street Stories, Edwin Le Fevre. The Optimist, Susan Faber. Every Soul Hath Its Song, Fannie Hurst.

NEW JERSEY

Hulgate of Mogador, Sewell Ford. Edgewater People, Mary Wilkins-Freeman.

PENNSYLVANIA

Old Chester Tales; Doctor Lavender's People, Margaret Deland. Betrothal of Elypholate, Helen R. Martin. The Passing of Thomas, Thomas A. Janvier. The Standard Bearers, Katherine Mayo. Six Stars, Nelson Lloyd.

II. THE SOUTH

ALABAMA

Alabama Sketches, Samuel Minturn Peck. Polished Ebony, Octavius R. Cohen.

ARKANSAS

Otto the Knight; Knitters in the Sun, Octave Thanet.

FLORIDA

Rodman the Keeper, Constance F. Woolson.

GEORGIA

Georgia Scenes, A. B. Longstreet. Free Joe; Tales of the Home-Folks, Joel Chandler Harris. Stories of the Cherokee Hills, Maurice Thompson. Northern Georgia Sketches, Will N. Harben. His Defence, Harry Stilwell Edwards. Mr. Absalom Billingslea; Mr. Billy Downes, Richard Malcolm Johnston.

KENTUCKY

Flute and Violin; A Kentucky Cardinal, James Lane Allen. In Happy Valley, John Fox, Jr. Back Home; Judge Priest and his People, Irvin S. Cobb. Land of Long Ago; Aunt Jane of Kentucky, Eliza Calvert Hall.

LOUISIANA

Holly and Pizen; Aunt Amity's Silver Wedding, Ruth McEnery Stuart. Balcony Stories; Tales of Time and Place, Grace King. Old Creole Days; Strange True Stories of Louisiana, George W. Cable. Bayou Folks, Kate Chopin.

TENNESSEE

In the Tennessee Mountains; Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains, Charles Egbert Craddock. (Mary N. Murfree.)

VIRGINIA

In Ole Virginia, Thomas Nelson Page. Virginia of Virginia, Amelie Rives. Colonel Carter of Cartersville, F. Hopkinson Smith.

NORTH CAROLINA

North Carolina Sketches, Mary N. Carter.

III. THE MIDDLE WEST

INDIANA

Dialect Sketches, James Whitcomb Riley.

ILLINOIS

The Home Builders, K. E. Harriman.

IOWA

Stories of a Western Town; The Missionary Sheriff, Octave Thanet. In a Little Town, Rupert Hughes.

KANSAS

In Our Town; Stratagems and Spoils, William Allen White.

MISSOURI

The Man at the Wheel, John Hanton Carter. Stories of a Country Doctor, Willis King.

MICHIGAN

Blazed Trail Stories, Stewart Edward White. Mackinac and Lake Stories, Mary Hartwell Catherwood.

OHIO

Folks Back Home, Eugene Wood.

WISCONSIN

Main-Travelled Roads, Hamlin Garland. Friendship Village; Friendship Village Love Stories, Zona Gale.



IV. THE FAR WEST

ARIZONA

Lost Borders, Mary Austin. Arizona Nights, Stewart Edward White.

ALASKA

Love of Life; Son of the Wolf, Jack London.

CALIFORNIA

The Cat and the Cherub, Chester B. Fernald. The Luck of Roaring Camp; Tales of the Argonauts, Bret Harte. The Splendid Idle Forties, Gertrude Atherton.

NEW MEXICO

The King of the Broncos, Charles F. Lummis. Santa Fe's Partner, Thomas A. Janvier.

WYOMING

Red Men and White; The Virginian; Members of the Family, Owen Wister. Teepee Tales, Grace Coolidge.

PHILIPPINE ISLANDS

Caybigan, James N. Hopper.



NOTES AND QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

THE RIGHT PROMETHEAN FIRE

In Greek mythology, the work of creating living things was entrusted to two of the gods, Epimetheus and Prometheus. Epimetheus gave to the different animals various powers, to the lion strength, to the bird swiftness, to the fox sagacity, and so on until all the good gifts had been bestowed, and there was nothing left for man. Then Prometheus ascended to heaven and brought down fire, as his gift to man. With this, man could protect himself, could forge iron to make weapons, and so in time develop the arts of civilization. In this story the "Promethean Fire" of love is the means of giving little Emmy Lou her first lesson in reading.

1. A test that may be applied to any story is, Does it read as if it were true? Would the persons in the story do the things they are represented as doing? Test the acts of Billy Traver in this way, and see if they are probable.

2. In writing stories about children, a writer must have the power to present life as a child sees it. Point out places in this story where school life is described as it appears to a new pupil.

3. One thing we ought to gain from our reading is a larger vocabulary. In this story there are a number of words worth adding to our stock. Define these exactly: inquisitorial; lachrymose; laconic; surreptitious; contumely.

Get the habit of looking up new words and writing down their meanings.

4. Can you write a story about a school experience?

5. Other books containing stories of school life are:

Little Aliens, Myra Kelly; May Iverson Tackles Life, Elizabeth Jordan; Ten to Seventeen, Josephine Daskam Bacon; Closed Doors, Margaret P. Montague. Read a story from one of these books, and compare it with this story.

THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE

Central Park, New York, covers an era of more than eight hundred acres, with a zoo and several small lakes. On one of the lakes there are large boats with a huge wooden swan on each side. Richard Harding Davis located one of his stories here: See "Van Bibber and the Swan Boats," in the volume called Van Bibber and Others.

1. How is this story like the preceding one? What difference in the characters? What difference in their homes?

2. How does Myra Kelly make you feel sympathy for the little folks? In what ways have their lives been less fortunate than the lives of children in your town?

3. What is peculiar about the talk of these children? Do they all speak the same dialect? Many of the children of the East Side never hear English spoken at home.

4. What touches of humor are there in this story?

5. What new words do you find? Define garrulous, pedagogically, cicerone.

6. Where did Miss Kelly get her materials for this story? See the life on page 37.

7. What other stories by this author have you read? This is from Little Citizens; other books telling about the same characters are Little Aliens, and Wards of Liberty.

8. Other books of short stories dealing with children are: Whilomville Stories, by Stephen Crane; The Golden Age, by Kenneth Grahame; The Madness of Philip, by Josephine Daskam Bacon; The King of Boyville, by William Allen White; New Chronicles of Rebecca, by Kate Douglas Wiggin. Read one of these, and compare it with Myra Kelly's story.

THE TENOR

1. Point out the humorous touches in this story.

2. Is the story probable? To answer this, consider two points: would Louise have undertaken such a thing as answering the advertisement? and would she have had the spirit to act as she did at the close? Note the touches of description and characterization of Louise, and show how they prepare for the events that follow.

3. One of the most effective devices in art is the use of contrast; that is, bringing together two things or persons or ideas that are very different, perhaps the exact opposite of each other. Show that the main effect of this story depends on the use of contrast.

4. Read the paragraph on page 43 beginning, "It happened to be a French tenor." Give in your own words the thought of this paragraph. Is it true? Can you give examples of it?

5. Compare the length of this story with that of others in the book. Which authors get their effects in a small compass? Could any parts of this story be omitted?

6. Other stories by H. C. Bunner that you will enjoy are "The Love Letters of Smith" and "A Sisterly Scheme" in Short Sixes.

THE PASSING OF PRISCILLA WINTHROP

1. Does the title fit the story well? Why?

2. Notice the familiar, almost conversational style. Is it suited to the story? Why?

3. Show how the opening paragraph introduces the main idea of the story.

4. To make a story there must be a conflict of some sort. What is the conflict here?

5. How does the account of Julia Neal's career as a teacher (page 64) prepare for the ending of the story?

6. Do you have a clear picture in your mind of Mrs. Winthrop? Of Mrs. Worthington? Why did not the author tell about their personal appearance?

7. Point out humorous touches in the next to the last paragraph.

8. Is this story true to life? Who is the Priscilla Winthrop of your town?

9. What impression do you get of the man behind this story? Do you think he knew the people of his town well? Did he like them even while he laughed at them? What else can you say about him?

10. Other books of short stories dealing with life in a small town are: Pratt Portraits, by Anna Fuller; Old Chester Tales, by Margaret Deland; Stories of a Western Town, by Octave Thanet; In a Little Town, by Rupert Hughes; Folks Back Home, by Eugene Wood; Friendship Village, by Zona Gale; Bodbank, by Richard W. Child. Read one of these books, or a story from one, and compare it with this story.

11. In what ways does life in a small town differ from life in a large city?

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

This story, taken from the volume called The Four Million, is a good example of O. Henry's method as a short-story writer. It is notable for its brevity. The average length of the modern short story is about five thousand words; O. Henry uses a little over one thousand words. This conciseness is gained in several ways. In his descriptions, he has the art of selecting significant detail. When Della looks out of the window, instead of describing fully the view that met her eyes, he says: "She looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in a grey backyard." A paragraph could do no more. Again, the beginning of the story is quick, abrupt. There is no introduction. The style is often elliptical; in the first paragraph half the sentences are not sentences at all. But the main reason for the shortness of the story lies in the fact that the author has included only such incidents and details as are necessary to the unfolding of the plot. There is no superfluous matter.

Another characteristic of O. Henry is found in the unexpected turns of his plots. There is almost always a surprise in his stories, usually at the end. And yet this has been so artfully prepared for that we accept it as probable. Our pleasure in reading his stories is further heightened by the constant flashes of humor that light up his pages. And beyond this, he has the power to touch deeper emotions. When Della heard Jim's step on the stairs, "she turned white just for a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest things, and now she whispered, 'Please God, make him think I am still pretty.'" One reads that with a little catch in the throat.

In his plots, O. Henry is romantic; in his settings he is a realist. Della and Jim are romantic lovers, they are not prudent nor calculating, but act upon impulse. In his descriptions, however, he is a realist. The eight-dollar-a-week flat, the frying pan on the back of the stove, the description of Della "flopping down on the couch for a cry," and afterwards "attending to her cheeks with the powder-rag,"—all these are in the manner of realism.

And finally, the tone of his stories is brave and cheerful. He finds the world a most interesting place, and its people, even its commonplace people, its rogues, its adventurers, are drawn with a broad sympathy that makes us more tolerant of the people we meet outside the books.

1. Compare the beginning of this story with the beginning of "Bitter-Sweet." What difference do you note?

2. Select a description of a person that shows the author's power of concise portraiture.

3. What is the turn of surprise in this story? What other stories in this book have a similar twist at the end?

4. What is the central thought of this story?

5. Other stories of O. Henry's that ought not to be missed are "An Unfinished Story" and "The Furnished Room" in The Four Million; "A Blackjack Bargainer" in Whirligigs; "Best Seller" and "The Rose of Dixie" in Options; "A Municipal Report" in Strictly Business; "A Retrieved Reformation" in Roads of Destiny; and "Hearts and Crosses" in Hearts of the West.

THE GOLD BRICK

This story, first published in the American Magazine, was reprinted in a volume called The Gold Brick, published in 1910. The quotation "chip at crusts like Hindus" is from Robert Browning's poem "Youth and Art." The reference to "Old Walt" at the end of the story is to Walt Whitman, one of the great poets of democracy.

1. To make a story interesting, there must be a conflict. In this the conflict is double: the outer conflict, between the two political factions, and the inner conflict, in the soul of the artist. Note how skilfully this inner struggle is introduced: at the moment when Kittrell is first rejoicing over his new position, he feels a pang at leaving the Post, and what it stood for. This feeling is deepened by his wife's tacit disapproval; it grows stronger as the campaign progresses, until the climax is reached in the scene where he resigns his position.

2. If you knew nothing about the author, what could you infer from this story about his political ideals? Did he believe in democracy? Did he have faith in the good sense of the common people? Did he think it was worth while to make sacrifices for them? What is your evidence for this?

3. How far is this story true to life, as you know it? Do any newspapers in your city correspond to the Post? To the Telegraph? Can you recall a campaign in which the contest was between two such groups as are described here?

4. Does Whitlock have the art of making his characters real? Is this true of the minor characters? The girl in the flower shop, for instance, who appears but for a moment,—is she individualized? How?

5. Is there a lesson in this story? State it in your own words.

6. What experiences in Whitlock's life gave him the background for this story?

7. What new words did you gain from this? Define meritricious; prognathic; banal; vulpine; camaraderie; vilification; ennui; quixotic; naive; pharisaism. What can you say of Whitlock's vocabulary?

8. Other good stories dealing with politics are found in Stratagems and Spoils, by William Allen White.

HIS MOTHER'S SON

1. Note the quick beginning of the story; no introduction, action from the start. Why is this suitable to this story?

2. Why is slang used so frequently?

3. Point out examples of humor in the story.

4. In your writing, do you ever have trouble in finding just the right word? Note on page 123 how Edna Ferber tries one expression after another, and how on page 122 she finally coins a word—"unadjectivable." What does the word mean?

5. Do you have a clear picture of Emma McChesney? Of Ed Meyers? Note that the description of Meyers in the office is not given all at once, but a touch here and then. Point out all these bits of description of this person, and note how complete the portrait is.

6. What have you learned in this story about the life of a traveling salesman?

7. What qualities must a good salesman possess?

8. Was Emma McChesney a lady? Was Ed Meyers a gentleman? Why do you think so?

9. This story is taken from the book called Roast Beef, Medium. Other good books of short stories by this author are Personality Plus, and Cheerful—by Request.

BITTER-SWEET

1. Note the introduction, a characteristic of all of Fannie Hurst's stories. What purpose does it serve here? What trait of Gertie's is brought out? Is this important to the story?

2. From the paragraph on page 139 beginning "It was into the trickle of the last——" select examples that show the author's skill in the use of words. What other instances of this do you note in the story?

3. Read the sketch of the author. What episode in her life gave her material for parts of this story?

4. Notice how skillfully the conversation is handled. The opening situation developes itself entirely through dialogue, yet in a perfectly natural way. It is almost like a play rather than a story. If it were dramatized, how many scenes would it make?

5. What does the title mean? Does the author give us the key to its meaning?

6. What do you think of Gertie as you read the first part of the conversation in the restaurant? Does your opinion of her change at the end of the story? Has her character changed?

7. Is the ending of the story artistic? Why mention the time-clock? What had Gertie said about it?

8. State in three or four words the central idea of the story. Is it true to life?

9. What is the meaning of these words: atavism; penumbra; semaphore; astigmatic; insouciance; mise-en-scene; kinetic?

10. Other books of stories dealing with life in New York City are The Four Million, and The Voice of the City, by O. Henry; Van Bibber and Others, by Richard Harding Davis; Every Soul Hath Its Song, by Fannie Hurst; Doctor Rast, by James Oppenheim.

THE RIVERMAN

1. In how many scenes is this story told? What is the connection between them?

2. Is there anything in the first description of Dicky Darrell that gives you a slight prejudice against him?

3. Why was the sympathy of the crowd with Jimmy Powers in the birling match?

4. Comment on Jimmy's remark at the end of the story. Did he mean it, or is he just trying to turn away the praise?

5. What are the characteristics of a lumberman, as seen in Jimmy Powers?

6. Read the sketch of Stewart Edward White, and decide which one of his books you would like to read.

FLINT AND FIRE

1. What does the title mean?

2. How does the author strike the keynote of the story in the opening paragraph?

3. Where is the first hint of the real theme of the story?

4. Point out some of the dialect expressions. Why is dialect used?

5. What turn of surprise comes at the end of the story? Is it probable?

6. What characteristics of New England country people are brought out in this story? How does the author contrast them with "city people"?

7. Does this story read as if the author knew the scenes she describes? Read the description of Niram plowing (page 191), and point out touches in it that could not have been written by one who had always lived in the city.

8. Read the account of how this story was written, (page 210). What first suggested the idea? What work remained after the story was first written? How did the author feel while writing it? Compare what William Allen White says about his work, (page 75).

9. Other stories of New England life that you will enjoy reading are found in the following books: New England Nun, Mary E. Wilkins; Cape Cod Folks, S. P. McLean Greene; Pratt Portraits, Anna Fuller; The Country Road, Alice Brown; Tales of New England, Sarah Orne Jewett.

THE ORDEAL AT MT. HOPE

1. This story contains three characters who are typical of many colored people, and as such are worth study. Howard Dokesbury is the educated colored man of the North. What are the chief traits of this character?

2. Aunt Caroline is the old-fashioned darky who suggests slavery days. What are her chief characteristics?

3. 'Lias is the new generation of the Southern negro of the towns. What are his characteristics?

4. Is the colored American given the same rights as others? Read carefully the opening paragraph of the story.

5. What were the weaknesses of the colored people of Mt. Hope? How far are they true of the race? How were they overcome in this case?

6. There are two theories about the proper solution of what is called "The Negro Problem." One is, that the hope of the race lies in industrial training; the other theory, that they should have higher intellectual training, so as to develope great leaders. Which theory do you think Dunbar held? Why do you think so?

7. Other stories dealing with the life of the colored people are: Free Joe, and Tales of the Home Folks, by Joel Chandler Harris; Polished Ebony, by Octavius R. Cohen; Aunt Amity's Silver Wedding, by Ruth McEnery Stuart; In Ole Virginia, by Thomas Nelson Page.

ISRAEL DRAKE

The Pennsylvania State Police have made a wonderful record for maintaining law and order in the rural sections of the state. The history of this organization was told by Katherine Mayo in a book called Justice to All. In a later book, The Standard Bearers, she tells various incidents which show how these men do their work. The book is not fiction—the story here told happened just as it is set down, even the names of the troopers are their real names.

1. Do you get a clear picture of Drake from the description? Why are several pages given to telling his past career?

2. Where does the real story begin?

3. Who was the tramp at the Carlisle Station? When did you guess it?

4. What are the principles of the State Police, as you see them in this story?

5. Why was such an organization necessary? Is there one in your state?

6. What new words did you find in this story? Define aura, primeval, grisly.

THE STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPH OF ISIDRO

In this story the author introduces a number of unfamiliar words, chiefly of Spanish origin, which are current in the Philippines. The meanings are given below.

baguio, hurricane. barrio, ward; district. carabao, a kind of buffalo, used as a work animal. cabo, head officer. cibay, a boys' game. daledale, hurry up! de los Reyes, of the King. de la Cruz, of the cross. hacienda, a large plantation. ladrones, robbers. maestro, teacher. nipa, a palm tree or the thatch made from it. palay, rice. pronto, quickly. pueblo, town. que barbaridad!—what an atrocious thing! volador, kite.

1. Why does the story end with Isidro's crying? What did this signify? What is the relation of this to the beginning of the story?

2. Has this story a central idea? What is it?

3. This might be called a story of local color, in that it gives in some detail the atmosphere of an unfamiliar locality. What are the best descriptive passages in the story?

4. Judging from this story, what are some of the difficulties a school teacher meets with in the Philippines? What must he be besides a teacher?

5. What other school stories are there in this book? The pupils in Emmy Lou's school, (in Louisville, Ky.) are those with several generations of American ancestry behind them; in Myra Kelly's story, they are the children of foreign parents; in this story they are still in a foreign land—that is, a land where they are not surrounded by American influences. The public school is the one experience that is common to them all, and therefore the greatest single force in bringing them all to share in a common ideal, to reverence the great men of our country's history, and to comprehend the meaning of democracy. How does it do these things?

THE CITIZEN

1. During the war, President Wilson delivered an address at Philadelphia to an audience of men who had just been made citizens. The quoted passages in this story are taken from this speech. Read these passages, and select the one which probably gave the author the idea for this story.

2. Starting with the idea, that he would write a story about someone who followed a dream to America, why should the author choose Russia as the country of departure?

3. Having chosen Russia, why does he make Ivan a resident of a village far in the interior? Why not at Libau?

4. Two incidents are told as occurring on the journey: the charge of the police at Bobrinsk, and the coming on board of the apple woman at Queenstown. Why was each of these introduced? What is the purpose of telling the incident on Fifth Avenue?

5. What have you learned about the manner in which this story was written? Compare it with the account given by Dorothy Canfield as to how she wrote her story.

6. What is the main idea in this story? Why do you think it was written? Edward Everett Hale wrote a story called "A Man without a Country." Suggest another title for "The Citizen."

7. Has this story in any way changed your opinion of immigrants? Is Big Ivan likely to meet any treatment in America that will change his opinion of the country?

8. The part of this story that deals with Russia affords a good example of the use of local color. This is given partly through the descriptions, partly through the names of the villagers—Poborino, Yanansk, Dankov; partly through the Russian words, such as verst (about three quarters of a mile), ruble (a coin worth fifty cents), kopeck (a half cent), muzhik (a peasant). How is local color given in the conversations?

9. For a treatment of the theme of this story in poetry, read "Scum o' the Earth," by Robert Haven Schauffler, in Rittenhouse's Little Book of Modern Verse. This is the closing stanza:

"Newcomers all from the eastern seas, Help us incarnate dreams like these. Forget, and forgive, that we did you wrong. Help us to father a nation, strong In the comradeship of an equal birth, In the wealth of the richest bloods of earth."

THE END