"They returned to the big house, an' by-an'-by told me of their adventure.

"'Don't be discouraged,' I said. 'You will find skunks in every walk of life, but when you do, always throw down your cards an' quit the game. They can deal from the bottom of the pack. You haven't a ghost of a show with 'em.'

"Being driven out of the cabin, Mrs. Bill gave most of her leisure to the farm-house, where I had spent an hour or more every day.

"Suddenly I saw that a wonderful thing had happened to me. I was in love with those kids, an' they with me. The whole enterprise had been a bluff conceived in the interest of the Warburtons. I hadn't really intended to build a house, but suddenly I got busy with all the mechanics I could hire in Pointview, and the house began to grow like a mushroom.

"Another wonderful thing happened. Mrs. Warburton fell in love with the kids, and they with her. She romped with them on the lawn; she took them out to ride every day; she put them to bed every night; she insisted upon buying their clothes; she bought them a pony an' a little omnibus; she built them a playhouse for their comfort. The whole villa began to revolve around the children. They called her mama an' they called me papa, a sufficiently singular situation.



VI

IN WHICH THE PURSUIT OF LIZZIE BECOMES HIGHLY SERIOUS

Dan had been out of town, an' immediately on his return he came to my office.

"'How's business?' I asked.

"'Well, the ham war was a little hard on us, but we're picking up,' says he. 'They're still selling hams way below a decent price over at Henshaw's. I don't see how they can do it.'

"'I do,' I says.

"'Please explain," says Dan.

"'Don't you know that Lizzie was buyin' most o' those hams that you sold way below the wholesale price, an' that she's now makin' a good profit on 'em?' I says.

"'Great Scott!' Dan exclaimed, as he sank in a chair.

"'The fact is, Dan, the only way to keep up with that girl is to marry her,' says I. 'Get busy. If you don't somebody else will. Put a mortgage on her an' foreclose it as soon as possible. As a floatin' asset Lizzie is dangerous.'

"Dan picked up his hat an' started for the door.

"'Tell her she must do business or you'll cut the price of Pettigrews,' I suggested.

"'Good idea!' he answered, as he went away.

"Meanwhile Mr. an' Mrs. Bill Warburton were hot on the trail of Lizzie.

"Bill came to me one day an' said: 'Those babies have solved the problem; my wife is happy and in excellent health. She sleeps an' eats as well as ever, an' her face has a new look—you have observed it?'

"'Certainly, Bill, an' you're goin' to hear some rather chesty an' superior talk. I saw what was the matter long ago—she was motor-sick, an' tiara-sick, an' dog-sick, an' horse-sick. She was sick of idleness an' rich food an' adulation. She has discovered that there are only three real luxuries—work, children, motherhood—that to shirk responsibility is to forfeit happiness. I have been a little disappointed in you, Bill. Your father was a minister; he had the love of men in his soul. You seem to have taken to dogs an' horses with an affection almost brotherly. I don't blame you so much. When men get rich they naturally achieve a passion for the things that money will buy. They think they've got to improve the breed o' dogs an' horses, an' they're apt to forget the breed o' men. You've been pursuin' Happiness with dogs, horses, an' motor-cars. You never can catch her in that way—never. Don't you remember, Bill, that in the old days we didn't pursue Happiness? Why, Happiness pursued us an' generally caught us. Some days she didn't succeed until we were all tired out, an' then she led us away into the wonderful land o' dreams, an' it was like heaven. You never get Happiness by pursuin' her—that's one dead sure thing. Happiness is never captured. She comes unbidden or not at all. She travels only in one path, an' you haven't found it. Bill, we've strayed a little. Let's try to locate the trail o' Happiness. I believe we're gettin' near it.

"'Last year a colt of yours won a classic event of the turf. How much finer it would be if you had some boys in training for the sublime contests of life, an' it wouldn't cost half so much. You know, there are plenty of homeless boys who need your help. Wouldn't it pay better to develop a Henry M. Stanley—once a homeless orphan—than a Salvator or an Ormonde or a Rayon d'Or?'

"'Pound away,' said Bill. 'Nail an' rivet me to the cross. I haven't a word to say, except this: What in the devil do ye want me to do?'

"'Well, ye might help to redeem New England,' I said. 'The Yankee blood is runnin' out, an' it's a pity. To-day the Yankees are almost a childless race. Do ye know the reason?'

"He shook his head.

"'It costs so much to live,' I says. 'We can't afford children. To begin with, the boys an' girls don't marry so young. They can't stand the expense. They're all keepin' up with Lizzie, but on the wrong road. The girls are worse than the boys. They go out o' the private school an' beat the bush for a husband. At first they hope to drive out a duke or an earl; by-an'-by they're willin' to take a common millionaire; at last they conclude that if they can't get a stag they'll take a rabbit. Then we learn that they're engaged to a young man, an' are goin' to marry as soon as he can afford it. He wears himself out in the struggle, an' is apt to be a nervous wreck before the day arrives. They are nearin' or past thirty when he decides that with economy an' no children they can afford to maintain a home. The bells ring, the lovely strains from "Lohengrin" fill the grand, new house o' God, an' overflow into the quiet streets o' the village, an' we hear in them what Wagner never thought of—the joyful death-march of a race. Think of it, Bill, this old earth is growin' too costly for the use o' man. We prefer autos an' diamonds an' knick-knacks! Life has become a kind of a circus where only the favored can pay the price of admission, an' here in America, where about all the great men we have had were bred in cabins, an' everything worth a fish-hook came out o' poverty! You have it in your power to hasten the end o' this wickedness,' I said. 'For one thing, you can make the middleman let go of our throats in this community. Near here are hundreds of acres o' land goin' to waste. Buy it an' make it produce—wool, meat, flax, grains, an' vegetables. Start a market an' a small factory here, an' satisfy yourself as to what is a just price for the necessaries of life. If the tradesmen are overchargin' us, they'll have to reduce prices. Put your brain an' money into it; make it a business. At least, you'll demonstrate what it ought to cost to live here in New England. If it's so much that the average Yankee can't afford it by honest work—if we must all be lawyers or bankers or brokers or graspin' middle-men in order to live—let's start a big Asylum for the Upright, an' give 'em a chance to die comfortably. But it isn't so. I can raise potatoes right here for thirty cents a bushel, as good as those you pay forty cents a peck for at Sam Henshaw's. You'll set an example of inestimable value in this republic of ours. Dan has begun the good work, an' demonstrated that it will pay.'

"'It's a good idea—I'm with you,' he said. 'If we can get the boys an' girls to marry while the bloom is on the rye, it's worth while, an' I wouldn't wonder if indirectly we'd increase the crop of Yankees an' the yield of happiness to the acre.'

"'Bill, you're a good fellow,' I said. 'You only need to be reminded of your duty—you're like many another man.'

"'And I'll think you the best fellow in the world if you'll let us keep those kids. We enjoy them. We've been having a lot of fun lately.'

"'I can't do that,' I said, 'but I'll keep 'em here until we can get some more. There are thousands of them as beautiful, as friendless, as promising as these were.'

"'I wish you could let us have these,' he urged. 'We wouldn't adopt them, probably, but we'd do our best for them—our very best.'

"'I can't,' I answered.

"'Why?'

"'Because they've got hold of my old heart—that's why. I hadn't looked for that, Bill, but the little cusses have conquered me.'

"'Great God!' he exclaimed. 'I hadn't thought of that. And my wife told me this morning that she loves that three-year-old boy as dearly as she loves me. They've all won her heart. What shall I do?'

"'Let me think it over,' I said, an' shook his hand an' left, an' I knew that I was likely to indulge in the makin' of history right away.

"I went home an' sat down an' wrote the best brief of my career—an appeal to the Supreme Court o' this planet—a woman's heart. It was a letter to one whose name I honored although I had not written it in years.

"Next mornin' I plunged into a lawsuit an' was workin' night an' day, until the jury came in with a verdict an' court adjourned for the Christmas holidays.

"An' that day a decision was handed down in my appeal to the court of last resort. It was a cablegram from an Italian city, an' a verdict in my favor. I am to get in that case the best fee on record—a wife and the love of a dear and beautiful woman. We went to school together, and I am ashamed that I didn't ask her to marry me years ago. So much for me had Lizzie an' the kids accomplished.

"I was to dine with the Warburtons Christmas Eve, and be Santa Claus for the children. I bought a set o' whiskers an' put on my big fur coat and two sets o' bells on the mare, an' drove to the villa, with a full pack in the buggy an' a fuller heart in my breast.

"Bill an' Mrs. Bill an' I went over to the farm-house together with our arms full. The children were in a room up-stairs with Mrs. Hammond waiting for Santa Claus. Below we helped the two maids, who were trimming the Christmas tree—and a wonderful tree it was when we were done with it—why, sir, you'd have thought a rainbow was falling into a thicket on the edge of a lake. My friend, it was the tree of all fruits.

"We filled the little stockings hanging on the mantel. Then they helped me to put on my beard an' the greatcoat an' cap an' the pack over all, an' Mrs. Bill an' I went out-of-doors. We stood still an' listened for a moment. Two baby voices were calling out of an upper window: 'Santa Claus, please come, Santa Claus!' Then we heard the window close an' the chatter above stairs, but we stood still. Mrs. Bill seemed to be laughing, but I observed that her handkerchief had the centre of the stage in this little comedy.

"In half a minute I stole down the road an' picked up the bells that lay beside it, an' came prancin' to the door with a great jingle, an' in I went an' took my stand by the Christmas tree. We could hear the hurry of small feet, an' eager, half-hushed voices in the hall overhead. Then down the stairway came my slender battalion in the last scene of the siege. Their eyes were wide with wonder, their feet slow with fear. The little captain of three years ran straight to Mrs. Bill an' lay hold of her gown, an' partly hid himself in its folds, an' stood peekin' out at me. It was a masterful bit of strategy. I wonder how he could have done it so well. She raised him in her arms an' held him close. A great music-box in a corner began to play:

"'O tannenbaum! O tannenbaum! wie grun sind deine blaetter!'



"Then with laughter an' merry jests we emptied the pack, an' gathered from the tree whose fruit has fed the starving human heart for more than a thousand years, an' how it filled those friends o' mine!

"Well, it was the night of my life, an' when I turned to go, its climax fell upon me. Mrs. Bill kneeled at my feet, an' said with tears in her eyes, an' her lips an' voice trembling:

"'O Santa Claus! you have given me many things, but I beg for more—five more.'

"The city had fallen. Its queen was on her knees. The victorious army was swarming into the open gate of her arms. The hosts of doubt an' fear were fleeing.

"I refuse to tell you all that happened in the next minute or two. A witness has some rights when testifyin' against his own manhood.

"I helped the woman to her feet, an' said:

"'They are yours. I shall be happy enough, and, anyhow, I do not think I shall need them now.'

"An' so I left them as happy as human beings have any right to be. At last they had caught up with Lizzie, an' I, too, was in a fair way to overtake her.

"An' how fared Dan in his pursuit of that remarkable maiden? Why, that very night Lizzie an' Dan had been shakin' the tree o' love, an' I guess the fruit on it was fairly ripe an' meller. Next day they came up to my house together.

"Dan couldn't hold his happiness, an' slopped over as soon as he was inside the door.

"'Mr. Potter,' says he, with more than Christmas merriment, 'we're going to be married next month.'

"Before I could say a word he had gathered Lizzie up in his arms an' kissed her, an' she kissed back as prompt as if it had been a slap in a game o' tag.

"'You silly man,' she says, 'you could have had me long ago.'

"'If I'd only 'a' known it,' he says.

"'Oh, the ignorance o' some men!' she says, lookin' into his eyes.

"'It exceeds the penetration o' some women,' I says.

"They came together ag'in quite spiteful. I separated 'em.

"'Quit,' I says. 'Stop pickin' on each other. It provokes you an' me too. You're like a pair o' kids turned loose in a candy store. Behave yerselves an' listen to reason.'

"Lizzie turned upon me as if she thought it was none o' my business. Then she smiled an' hid her face on the manly breast o' Dan.

"'Now Lizzie,' I says, 'get yer mind in workin' order as soon as ye can. Dan, you go over an' stand by the window. I want you to keep at least ten paces apart, an' please don't fire 'til ye get the signal. I'm goin' to give a prize for the simplest weddin' that ever took place in Pointview,' I says. 'It will be five hundred dollars in gold for the bride. Don't miss it.'

"'The marriage will occur at noon,' says Lizzie. 'There'll be nothing but simple morning frocks. The girls can wear calico if they wish. No jewels, no laces, no elaborate breakfast."

"'An' no presents, but mine, that cost over five dollars each,' I says.

"An' that's the way it was—like old times. No hard work wasted in gettin' ready, no vanity fair, no heart-burnin', no bitter envy, no cussin' about the expense. There was nothing but love an' happiness an' goodwill at that wedding. It was just as God would have a wedding, I fancy, if He were the master o' ceremonies, as He ought to be.

"They are now settled on a thousand acres o' land here in New England. Dan has eight gangs o' human oxen from Italy at work for him getting in his fertilizers. He rides a horse all day an' is as cordy as a Roman gladiator. Do you know what it means? Ten thousand like him are going into the same work, the greed o' the middleman will be checked, an' one o' these days the old earth 'll be lopsided with the fruitfulness of America."



VII

IN WHICH THE HONORABLE SOCRATES POTTER CATCHES UP WITH LIZZIE

Early in June I was invited to the wedding of Miss Betsey Smead and the Honorable Socrates Potter. Miss Betsey had inherited a large estate, and lived handsomely in the Smead homestead, built by her grandfather. She was a woman of taste and refinement, but, in deference to Socrates, no doubt, the invitations had been printed in the office of the local newspaper. There could have been no better example of honest simplicity. The good news sent me in quest of my friend the lawyer. I found him in Miss Betsey's library. He was in high spirits and surrounded by treasures of art.

"Yes, I'm in luck," he began. "Miss Betsey is a dear soul. We're bound to be happy in spite of all this polished brass an' plate an' mahogany. There's nothin' here that I can put my feet on, except the rugs or the slippery floor or the fender. Everything has the appearance o' bein' more valuable than I am. If it was mine I'd take an axe an' bring things down to my level. I'm kind o' scairt for fear I'll sp'ile suthin' er other. Sometimes I feel as if I'd like to crawl under the grand pyano an' git out o' danger. Now look at old gran'pa Smead in his gold frame on the wall. He's got me buffaloed. Watches every move I make. Betsey laughs an' tells me I can sp'ile anything I want to, but gran'pa is ever remindin' me o' the ancient law o' the Smeads an' the Persians."

"Mr. Potter, I owe so much to you," I said. "I want to make you a present—something that you and your wife will value. I've thought about it for weeks. Can you—"

He interrupted me with a smile and these gently spoken words:

"Friends who wish to express their good-will in gifts are requested to consider the large an' elegant stock o' goods in the local ninety-nine-cent store. Everything from socks to sunbursts may be found there. Necklaces an' tiaras are not prohibited if guaranteed to be real ninety-nine-centers. These days nobody has cheap things. That makes them rare an' desirable. All diamonds should weigh at least half a pound. Smaller stones are too common. Everybody has them, you know. Why, the wife of the butcher's clerk is payin' fifty cents a week on a solitaire. Gold, silver, an' automobiles will be politely but firmly refused—too common, far too common! Nothin' is desired likely to increase envy or bank loans or other forms of contemporaneous crime in Pointview. We would especially avoid increasin' the risk an' toil of overworked an' industrious burglars. They have enough to do as it is—poor fellows—they hardly get a night's rest. Miss Betsey's home has already given 'em a lot o' trouble."

His humor had relieved its pressure in the deep, good-natured chuckle of the Yankee, as he strode up an' down the floor with both hands in his trousers pockets.

"Look at that ol' duffer," he went on, as he pointed at the stern features of grandpa Smead. "Wouldn't ye think he'd smile now an' then. Maybe he'll cheer up after I've lived here awhile."

He moved a couple of chairs to give him more room, an' went on:

"Now, there's Bill Warburton. I supposed he was a friend o' mine, but we had a fight in school, years ago, an' I guess he's never got over it. Anyhow, I caught him tryin' to slip an automobile on me—just caught him in time. There he was tryin' to rob me o' the use o' my legs an' about fifteen hundred a year for expenses an' build me up into a fat man with indigestion an' liver-complaint. I served an injunction on him.

"Another man has tried to make me the lifelong slave of a silver service. He'd gone down to Fifth Avenue an' ordered it, an' I suppose it would 'a' cost thousands. Tried to sneak it on me. Can ye think o' anything meaner? It would 'a' cost me a pretty penny for insurance an' storage the rest o' my life, an' then think of our—ahem—our poor children! Why, it would be as bad as a mortgage debt. Every time I left home I would have worried about that silver service; every time the dog barked at night I would have trembled in my bed for the safety o' the silver service; every time we had company I would have been afraid that somebody was goin' to scratch the silver service; an' when I saw a stranger in town, I would have said to myself: 'Ah, ha! it may be that he has heard of our silver service an' has come to steal it.' I would have begun to regard my servants an' many other people with dread an' suspicion. Why, once I knew a man who had a silver service, an' they carried it up three nights to the attic every night for fifty years. They figured that they'd walked eleven hundred miles up an' down stairs with the silver service in their hands. The thought that they couldn't take it with 'em hastened an' embittered their last days. Then the heirs learned that it wasn't genuine after all.

"Of course, I put another injunction upon that man. 'If we've ever done anything to you, forgive us,' I said, 'but please do not cripple us with gold or silver.'"

He stopped and put his hand upon my shoulder and continued:

"My young friend, if you would make us a gift, I wish it might be something that will give us pleasure an' not trouble, something that money cannot buy an' thieves cannot steal—your love an' good wishes to be ours as long as you live an' we live—at least. We shall need no token o' that but your word an' conduct."

I assured him of all he asked for with a full heart.

"Should I come dressed?" was my query.

"Dressed, yes, but not dressed up," he answered. "Neither white neckties nor rubber boots will be required."

"How are Mr. and Mrs. Bill?"

"Happier than ever," said he. "Incidentally they've learned that life isn't all a joke, for one of those little brownies led them to the gate of the great mystery an' they've begun to look through it an' are' wiser folks. Two other women are building orphan lodges on their grounds, an' there's no tellin' where the good work will end."

We were interrupted by the entrance of Miss Betsey Smead. She was a comely, bustling, cheerful little woman of about forty-five, with a playful spirit like that of Socrates himself.

"This is my financee," said Socrates. "She has waited for me twenty-five years."

"And he kept me waiting—the wretch!—just because my grandfather left me his money," said Miss Betsey.

"I shall never forgive that man," said Socrates, as he shook his fist at the portrait. "An' she was his only grandchild, too."

"And think how comfortable he might have been here, and how I've worried about him." Miss Betsey went on: "Here, Soc., put your feet on this piano seat. Now you look at home."

"When I achieve the reformation of Betsey I shall have a kitchen table to put my feet on!" said Soc., as I left them.

Then I decided that I would send him a kitchen table.

THE END