"Look here!" said he.

"Look where?" said I.

"Why, there's going to be a comet," said Jill.

"Who cares?" said I.

Jill laid down the paper, and crunched a pop-corn all up before he answered that, then said he, "I don't see why father didn't tell us. I suppose he thought we'd be frightened, or something. Why, s'posing the world did come to an end? That's what this paper says. 'It is pre—' where is my place? Oh! I see—'predicted by learned men that a comet will come into con-conjunction with our plant'—no—'our planet this night. Whether we shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space, or suffocated with n-o-x—noxious gases, or scorched to a helpless crisp, or blasted at once, eternal an-ni-hi—'" A gust of wind grabbed the paper out of Jill's hand just then, and took it out of the window; so I never heard the rest.

"Father isn't a goose," said I. "He didn't think it worth while mentioning. He isn't going to be afraid of a comet at his time of life." So we didn't think any more about the comet till we got to Aunt John's, where we found company. It wasn't a relation, only an old school friend, and her name was Miss Togy; she had come without an invitation, but had to have the spare room because she was a lady. That was how Jill and I came to be put in the little chimney bedroom.

That little chimney bedroom is the funniest place you ever slept in. There had been a chimney once, and it ran up by the window, and grandfather had it taken away. It was a big, old-fashioned chimney, and it left the funniest little gouge in the room, so the bed went in as nice as could be. We couldn't see much but the ceiling when we got to bed.

"It's pretty dark," said Jill; "I shouldn't wonder if it did blow up a storm a little—wouldn't it scare—Miss—Bogy!"

"Togy," said I.

"Well, T-o—" said Jill; and right in the middle of it he went off as sound as a weasel.

The next thing I can remember is a horrible noise. I can't think of but one thing in this world it was like, and that isn't in this world so much. I mean the last trumpet, with the angel blowing as he blows in my old primer. The next thing I remember is hearing Jill sit up in bed—for I couldn't see him, it was so dark—and his piping out the other half of Miss Togy's name just as he had left it when he went to sleep.

"Gy—Bogy!—Fogy!—Soaky!—Oh," said Jill, coming to at last, "I thought—why, what's up?"

I was up, but I couldn't tell what else was for a little while. I went to the window. It was as dark as a great rat-hole out-of-doors, all but a streak of lightning and an awful thunder, as if the world was cracking all to pieces.

"Come to bed!" shouted Jill, "you'll get struck, and then that will kill me."

I went back to bed, for I didn't know what else to do, and we crawled down under the clothes and covered ourselves all up.

"W-would—you—call—Aunt—John?" asked Jill. He was most choked. I came up for air.

"No," said I, "I don't think I'd call Aunt John." I should have liked to call her by that time, but then I should have felt ashamed.

"I s'pose she has got her hands full with Miss Croaky, anyway," chattered Jill, bobbing up and under again. By that time the storm was the worst storm I had ever seen in my life. It grew worse and worse—thunder, lightning, and wind—wind, lightning, and thunder; rain and roar and awfulness. I don't know how to tell how awful it was.

In the middle of the biggest peal we'd had yet, up jumped Jill. "Jack!" said he, "that comet!" I'd never thought of the comet till that minute; I felt an ugly feeling and cold all over. "It is the comet!" said Jill. "It is the day of judgment, Jack."

Then it happened. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to get my head under the clothes. First there was a creak, then a crash, then we felt a shake as if a giant pushed his shoulder up through the floor and shoved us. Then we doubled up. And then we began to fall. The floor opened, and we went through. I heard the bed-post hit as we went by. Then I felt another crash; then we began to fall again; then we bumped down hard. After that we stopped falling. I lay still. My heels were doubled up over my head. I thought my neck would break. But I never dared to stir, for I thought I was dead. By and by I wondered if Jill were dead too, so I undoubled my neck a little and found some air. It seemed just as uncomfortable to breathe without air when you were dead as when you weren't.

I called out softly, "Jill!" no answer. "Jill!" not a sound. "O—Jill!" But he did not speak, so then I knew Jill must be dead, at any rate. I couldn't help wondering why he was so much deader than I that he couldn't answer a fellow. Pretty soon I heard a rustling noise under my feet, then a weak, sick kind of a voice, just the kind of a noise I always supposed ghosts would make if they could talk.

"Jack?"

"Is that you, Jill?"

"I—suppose—so. Is it you, Jack?"

"Yes. Are you dead?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

"I guess I must be if you are. How awfully dark it is."

"Awfully dark! It must have been the comet."

"Yes; did you get much hurt?"

"Not much—I say, Jack?"

"What?"

"It is the judgment day."

Jill broke up, so did I; we lay as still as we could. If it were the judgment day—"Jill!" said I.

"Oh, dear me!" sobbed Jill.

We were both crying by that time, and I don't feel ashamed to own up, either.

"If I'd known," said I, "that the day of judgment was coming on the twelfth of August, I wouldn't have been so mean about that jack-knife of yours with the notch in it."

"And I wouldn't have eaten your luncheon that day last winter when I got mad at you," said Jill.

"Nor we wouldn't have cheated mother about smoking, vacations," said I.

"I'd never have played with the Bailey boys out behind the barn," said Jill.

"I wonder where the comet went to?" said I.

"'Whether we shall be plunged into,'" quoted Jill, in a horrible whisper, from that dreadful newspaper, "'shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space—or suffocated with noxious gases—or scorched to a helpless crisp—or blasted—'"

"When do you think they will come after us?" I interrupted Jill.

That very minute somebody came. We heard a step and then another, then a heavy bang. Jill howled out a little. I didn't, for I was thinking how the cellar door banged like that. Then came a voice, an awful hoarse and trembling voice as ever you heard.

"George Zacharias!"

Then I knew it must be the judgment day and that the angel had me in court to answer him, for you couldn't expect an angel to call you Jack after you was dead.

"George Zacharias!" said the awful voice again. I didn't know what else to do, I was so frightened, so I just hollered out "Here!" as I do at school.

"Timothy!" came the voice once more.

Now Jill had a bright idea. Up he shouted, "Absent!" at the top of his lungs.

"George! Jack! Jill! where are you? Are you killed? Oh, wait a minute and I'll bring a light."

This did not sound so much like judgment day as it did like Aunt John. I began to feel better. So did Jill. I sat up. So did he. It wasn't a minute till the light came into sight, and something that looked like a cellar door, the cellar steps, and Aunt John's spotted wrapper, and Miss Togy in a night-gown, away behind as white as a ghost. Aunt John held the light above her head and looked down. I don't believe I shall ever see an angel that will make me feel any better to look at than Aunt John did that night.

"O you blessed boys!" said Aunt John—she was laughing and crying together. "To think that you should have fallen through the old chimney to the cellar floor and be sitting there alive in such a funny heap as that!"

And that was just what we had done. The old flooring (not very secure) had given away in the storm; and we'd gone down through two stories, where the chimney ought to have been, jam! into the cellar on the coal heap, and all as good as ever excepting the bedstead.

FOOTNOTE:

[66] From "Trot's Wedding Journey."



DE APPILE TREE[67]

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Dat's a mighty quare tale, 'bout de appile tree In de pah'dise gyardin, whar Adam runned free, Whar de butter-flies drunk honey wid ole mammy bee. Talk about yo good times, I bet you he had 'em—Adam— Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree.

He woke one mawnin wid a pullin at he sleeve; He open his eye, an' dar was Eve— He shook her han', wid a "Honey, don' grieve. You's de only gal on earth for me An' dats de truf, believe." Talk about yo good times, I'll bet you dey had 'em—Adam— Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree.

Den Eve took a bite er de appile fruit En Adam he bit, en den dey scoot. Dar's whar de niggah leahn de quick cally hoot, Ben a runnin' ever since from somebody's boot. En runned en hide behin' de fig tree—Adam— Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree.

Dey had der frolics, en dey had dere flings, Den arter dat, de fun tuck wings, Honey's mighty sweet, but bees has stings An' dey came into de shadder dat de storm cloud brings. Talk about yo hahd times, u-h-m uhm, I bet you dey had 'em—Adam— Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree.

Kase outer de gyardin dey had fur tuh skin. Ter fin' de crack whar Satan crept in Dey sarch fur and wide, dey sarch mighty well. Eve, she knowed, but she 'fused fur ter tell. Ole Satan's trail was all rubbed out 'Ceppen a track er two, whar he walked about. Talk about troubles, I bet you dey had 'em—Adam— Adam en Eve, en all dere kin.

Well, when dey got back de gate wuz shut. An' dat wuz de pay, what Adam got. In dat gyardin he went no moh. De ober-seer gib him a shobel en a hoe, A mule, en a plow, en a swingle tree, Talk about yo hahd times, I bet you dey had 'em—Adam— En all uh his chillen bofe slave en free.

En de chillen ob Adam, en de chillen's kin, Dey all got smeared wid de pitch ob sin. Dey shut dere eyes, to de great here-atter, En flung sin aroun', wid a turrible splatter. En cahooted wid Satan, en dat wat de matter— An' troubles, well. I bet you dey had 'em—Adam— De chillen ob Adam, what forgot ter pray, dey had 'em, And dey keep on a hadden 'em down tuh dis day.

But dat wa'n't de las' ob de appile tree, Kase she scatter her seeds bofe fur en free, And dat's whut de mattah wid you en me, I knows de feelin's what brought on de fall, Dat same ole appile, an' ole Satan's call, Lor' bless yo chile, I knows 'em all.

I'm kinder lop-sided en pigeon toed But jes' you watch me keep in de middle ob de road. Kase de troubles I'se got is a mighty heavy load. Talk about troubles, I got 'em en had 'em, Same as Adam.

An' don' yo see I mighty well know Dat I got 'em from Adam long ago, From Adam en Eve en de appile tree, When dey runned free In de pahdise gyardin Wid butter-flies en honey bee?

FOOTNOTE:

[67] By permission of D. Appleton & Co.



MR. DOOLEY ON LA GRIPPE MICROBES

FINLEY PETER DUNNE

Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage consisting of one part syrup, two parts quinine and fifteen parts strong waters.

"What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna.

"I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! It feels as if a dhray had r-run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not. Well, ye'er lucky. Ye'er a lucky man.

"I wint to McGuire's wake las' week. They give him a dacent sind-off. No porther. An' himsilf looked natural—as fine a corpse as iver Gavin laid out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as pr-roud iv McGuire as if he ownded him; fetched half th' town in to look at him an' give ivery wan iv thim his ca-ards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. 'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinty-five, thanks be,' says Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me ca-ards,' he says. 'I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says.

"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lasteways 'tis me opinion iv it, though th' docther says I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' McGuires is a clane fam'ly, but th' docther says a bug got into me system. 'What sort iv bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Yez have Mickrobes in ye'er lung,'he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thims th' lah grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it has growed an' multiplied till ye'er system does be full iv thim,' he says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'ma-archin' an' counthermarchin' through ye.' 'Glory be to th' saints,' says I. 'Had I betther swallow some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has had a fallin' out an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he says, 'an lave thim alone,' he says. 'Whin they find who they're in,' he says, 'they'll quit ye.'

"So I wint to bed an' waited, while th' Mickrobes had fun with me. Monday all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wur-ruds come up bechune th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wixford an' th' whole pa-arty wint over to me lift lung, where they could get th' air, an' had it out. Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine an' manetime some Mickrobes that was wur-r-kin' f'r th' tiliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long.

"They was tired out th' nex' day till about 5 o'clock, whin thim that was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms an' I knew they're was goin' to be doings in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes in me head do but invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' avnin'. They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At 6 o'clock they begun to move fr'm me shins to me thrawt. They come in platoons an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands an' more thin wan hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes in dhrays. A throlley line was started up me back an ivry car r-run into a wagon load iv scrap iron at th' base iv me skull.

"Th' Mickrobes in me head must've done thimsilves proud. Ivery few minutes some wan iv th' kids 'd be sint out with th' can an' I'd say to mesilf: 'There they go, carryin' th' trade to Schwartzmeister's because I'm sick an' can't wait on thim.' I was daffy, Jawn, d'ye mind? Th' likes iv me fillin' a pitcher f'r a little boy-bug! Ho, ho! Such dhreams. An' they had a game iv forty-fives, an' there was wan Mickrobe there that larned to play th' game in th' County Tipp'rary, where 'tis played on stone, an' iv'ry time he led thrumps he'd like to knock me head off. 'Who's thrick is that?' says th' Tipp'rary Mickrobe. 'Tis mine,' says a little red-headed Mickrobe fr'm th' County Roscommon. They tipped over th' chairs an' tables, an' in less time thin it takes to tell th' whole pa-arty was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back iv me skull an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' leppin' matches in me forehead, but they all stopped to mix in. Oh, 'twas a grand shindig—tin millions iv thim min, women an' childher rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', icepicks an' hurlin' sticks, clubs, brickbats an' beer kags flyin' in th' air. How manny iv thim was kilt I'll niver know, f'r I wint as daft as a hen an' dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign club, that'd sweep th' prim'ries an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up me legs was as weak as a day-old babby's an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an' excipt thim wist iv Ireland fenians—th' Mickrobes."



A DOCTRINAL DISCUSSION

HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS

Looking wearily over the far-stretching fields of corn, the leaves twisting in the heat, and contemplating the discouraging cotton prospect, old Uncle Henry, the plantation carpenter, said, half jestingly to a negro passing, "Uncle Ben, why don't you pray for rain?"

"Ef I had faith enough, I could fetch er rain, for don't de Book say, ef you have faith as er mustard seed you can move mountains? I say you done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry. Ef you was still en de faith, an' ask anythin', you goin' ter git it."

"Why don't you ask fer er million dollars; what you hoein' out dah en de sun fer, when all you got ter do is ter ask de Lord fer money?"

"Dat ain't de question, dat ain't hit. You dodgin' now!"

"No, I ain't dodgin'—"

"Yes, you is. De Lord don't sen' ter people what dey axes fer deyse'ves. He only sen' blessin's. Ef I ax fer er million er money, hit 'u'd be 'cause I'd natch'ly want ter quit work, an' dat's erg'in' his law. By de sweat er de brow de Book says, dat's how hit's got ter come ef hit come lawful."

"Well, why don't you git rain, then? Hyah's Mr. Ed'ards waitin' an' waitin' fer rain, payin' you ter hoe, an' one good rain 'd do more fer him 'n all the hoein' in the worl'."

"I didn't say I could fetch rain, Unc' Henry, I didn't say hit!"

"What did you say then?"

"I said, ef I had faith."

"You b'lieve ef you had faith you could fetch er rain?"

"Yes, I do!"

"Well, ain't dat faith? Ef you b'lieve hit, hit's faith. Trouble is, you don't b'lieve hit yo'se'f."

"Yes I do. You done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry, dat's what ails you."

"No, I ain't parted from no faith, but I got too much sense ter b'lieve any man can git rain by asking fer hit."

"Don't de Book say, 'Ask, an' you shall receive'?"

"Not rain. Hit mean grace. When hit comes ter rain, de Lord don't let nobody fool wid him; he look atter de rain, 'specially hisse'f. Why, man, look at hit right! S'pose two men side by side pray diffunt—an' wid faith—what happen? Yonder's Mr. Ed'ards's oats ter be cut nex' week, an' on 'tother side de fence Unc' Jim's gyarden burnin' up. Mr. Ed'ards wants dry weather, an' Jim want rain, an' dey bofe pray deir own way! Bofe got faith, now, bofe got faith, an' one pray fer rain while t'other pray fer dry weather; what de Lord goin' do? Is he goin' ter split er rain on dat fence? Answer me! Don't turn yo' back ter me; answer me, Ben!"

"You want my answer?"

"Yes, I want hit. Don't stan' dah a stammerin'! What de Lord goin' do?"

"You want my answer? Well, hyah 'tis. De Lord 'u'd sen' 'nough rain to help de gyarden, but not 'nough ter hurt de oats. Dat's my answer!"

"You don't know what you all talkin' bout! Send 'nough rain ter help de gyarden, an' not 'nough to hurt de oats! You reckon Mr. Ed'ards let er nigger stay on dis place an' pray fer rain when he cuttin' oats? You reckon er nigger goin' ter come hyah an' run er market-gyarden wid 'im on sheers, an' him er prayin' fer dry wedder when cabbage oughter be headin' up? No, sah! You c'n pray fer grace, an' when you gits grace you're all right, rain er no rain; but you better not resk yo'se'f on rain. Folks got ter have somebody ter settle when hit shall rain, an' when hit sha'n't rain. Faith ain' got nothin' ter do 'ith hit. It takes horse sense. Why, ef de Lord was ter tie er rope to de flood-gates, an' let hit down hyah ter be pulled when dey need rain, somebody'd git killed ev'y time dey pulled hit. Folks wid oats ter cut 'u'd lie out wid dey guns an' gyard dat rope, an' folks wid cabbages 'd be sneakin' up in de dyark tryin' ter git hold er hit. Fus' thing you know, er cem'tery grow up roun' dyah an' nobody lef' ter pull de rope!"

"Faith 'u'd fetch it. Yes, sah, hit'll fetch hit."

"You got any?"

"Not 'nough ter fetch rain."

"Yo' fam'bly got any?"

"Not 'nough fer rain."

"Well den it look like faith es 'bout as scyarce an' hard ter git as rain. Has Macedony Church got any?"

"Plenty."

"Got 'nough fer rain?"

"Plenty."

"Well den you go down dyah to prayer-meeting ter-night; an' take yo' fambly, an' all de niggers in de settlement what' got faith,—don't get none but faith niggers,—an' see ef you git er rain. You git rain, an' I'll give up. I hyah you all been prayin' fer me ter come in chu'ch—cause de ole roof wants patchin' I reckon. Git de rain an' you gits me too. Go on, an' try hit. I ain't got no time ter waste. Fus' thing you know, rain'll be pourin' down, an' dat dah chu'ch'll be leakin' faster'n a sieve. You goin' ter git rain, Ben?"

"Yes, I'm going' ter try. An' ef we have faith we'll git hit. Hit's a dry moon; ain't narry drop of water dyah, but faith c'n do hit."

The next morning a thin little cloud floated out of the brazen east, a mere ghost of a cloud, and from it was sifted down for about two minutes the poorest apology that nature ever made to injured verdure. Soon it passed into nothingness, and the full sun blazed over the parched land once more. A triumphant laugh was heard out where the hands were hoeing, and Ben's voice was recognized above all the others. They were congratulating him upon his success, when up came old Henry, his sack of carpenter's tools on his back. Ben shouted,

"Hello, Unc' Henry. I told you we'd fetch hit."

"Ben, did you say hit only taks faith as er grain er mustard seed ter move er mountain?"

"Yes, sah."

"Well now, hyah's de whole of Macedony Church, full of faith niggers, a prayin' for rain, an' de whole pack o' 'em can't lay de dust!"



FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN[68]

S. W. GILLILAN

Superintindint wuz Flannigan; Boss of the siction wuz Finnigin; Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, Afther the wrick wuz all on agin. That is, this Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan.

Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan He writ tin pages—did Finnigin. An' he tould jist how the smash occurred— Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd Did Finnigin write to Flannigan Afther the cars had gone on agin. That wuz how Finnigin Repoorted to Flannigan.

Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin— Had more idjucation—had Flannigan; An' it wore 'm clane an' complately out To tell what Finnigin writ about In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. So he writed back to Finnigin: "Don't do sich a sin agin! Make 'em brief, Finnigin!"

Whin Finnigin got this frum Flannigan, He blushed rosy rid—did Finnigin; An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole moonth's pa-ay That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay Befoore Sup'rintindint—that's Flannigan— Gits a whack at this very same sin agin. From Finnigin to Flannigan Repoorts won't be long agin."

Wan da-ay on the siction of Finnigin, On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, A rail give way on a bit av a curve, An' some kyears went off as they made the swerve. "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan," An' he winked at McGorrigan As married a Finnigin.

He wus shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, As minny a railroader's been agin, An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright In Finnigin's shanty all that night— Bilin' down his repoort, wuz Finnigin. An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: Off agin, on agin, Gone agin.—Finnigin."

FOOTNOTE:

[68] By permission of the author.



GAVROCHE AND THE ELEPHANT[69]

VICTOR HUGO

[A story of how Gavroche, a street gamin of Paris, uses for a home the monument built in the form of a huge elephant, which Napoleon Bonaparte erected in 1823.]

The forest has a bird. Paris a child. The bird is called a sparrow. The child—a gamin. This little being is joyous; he has not food every day; no shoes on his feet; not much clothing on his body. He runs, he swears like a convict, he haunts all the wine shops, knows all the thieves—but he has no evil in his heart. Little Gavroche was one of these. He had been dispatched into life with a kick and had simply taken flight. The pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart.

One evening, little Gavroche was skipping along an alley, hands in his pockets and singing merrily, when he came upon a young man who had a wild, happy look in his eye, but no hat on his head.

"Whoa there, monsieur, where's your roof? You've got enough light in them blinkers of yours to light up my apartments—say, monsieur, you're either crazy or you've had an awful good time!"

"Be off with you, imp."

"Say, did you know there wus a goin' ter be war in this town in a few days and I'm goin' to enlist as general of the army—Forward—March—Say, monsieur, I believe I know you, yes, sir, I've seen you down in that Napoleon meetin' way down there in that cellar—"

"Oh, be off with you, imp!"

"Yes, sir, I'm goin' now. Sorry I can't walk with you further, but business calls me in the other direction.

"Good evenin', monsieur—Watch out there. Can't ye see where yer goin'? Little more an' ye'd been eatin' the dandelions! Good evenin', monsieur!"

A little further down the street, Gavroche was standing scrutinizing a shop window, when two little children came up to him crying.

"What's the matter with you, brats?"

"Boo-hoo—we—ain't got no place to sleep."

"The idea a bawlin' about that. Come along with me, I'll give ye a place to sleep. Say, hev ye got any shiners?"

"Boo-hoo—no—sir!"

"Well, come along with me. I'm rich. Ye can't hear 'em rattle, but all is not gold that rattles."

"Monsieur, we—boo-hoo—we asked that barber man over there to let us get warm in his store and—and—he wouldn't do—it—boo-hoo!"

"Well, now, don't bawl about that. He don't know no better. He's an Englishman. But I'll jes' take a note of that insult. [Takes paper from his pocket and writes.]—Get even with Barber at 63 Rue Saint Antoine. Too mean to occupy space here below. There now! that'll fix 'em. Hurry along here now or my hotel will be closed.—Say, brats, you stay here a minute. There is a poor little girl what's cold and she ain't got nothin' around her. You stay here till I gits back.

"There, little girl, take my scarf and put around you. This kind of life is alright fer boys but it's pretty tough on girls. Brr! it's rather chilly. And I'll eat a piece out o' Hades if it ain't re-raining again."

"Monsieur, boo-hoo—we—ain't had nothin' to eat—since—morning."

"Well, now don't bawl about that. Let me see—oh, here's a shop. Shovel in here.

"Boy, give us five centimes worth o' bread."

"For how many?"

"Well, there seem to be two uv 'em.

"Here—now take that—brat senior, and you take that, brat junior—now grub away. Ram that into your muzzle. Don't you understand? Well, classically speaking—eat. Well, I thought ye knew how to do that. [Whistles Marseillaise until they have finished, then stops suddenly and says to the boy behind the counter.]—Say, ain't them two nice specimens to be bawlin' jes' 'cause they ain't got no home?

"Hey there, are ye through? Well, shovel out, then. We've got to hurry or the elephant will have closed down his ears. Hey there, Montparnasse! See my two kids?"

"Well, where did you get them, Gavroche?"

"Oh, a gentleman made me a present of 'em, down the street—say, they've got hides like linseed plasters, hain't they?"

"Where are you taking them, Gavroche?"

"To my lodging—the Elephant."

"The Elephant!"

"Yes—the El-e-phant. Any complaints?"

"You don't mean Napoleon's monument?"

"I mean Napoleon's monument—You see when Napoleon left for Elba, he put me in charge of the Elephant. Forward, march, there, brats! Good evenin', Montparnasse."

On arriving at the Elephant, Gavroche climbed up and then invited his friends to come up.

"Hey, there, brat senior—see that ladder? Well, put your foot on—Now ye ain't agoin' ter be afraid are ye? Here, give me your hands—Now—up—There, you stand still now, till I git yer little brother up—Here, brat junior. Oh, can't you reach that ladder? Well, step on the Elephant's corn then—That's the way—Now—up—There! Now, gentlemen, you're on the inside of the Elephant. Don't ye feel something like Jonah? But stop yer talkin' now fer we're goin' straight ter bed. This way to yer sleepin' apartments—Here, brat junior, we'll wrap you up in this blanket."

"O, thank you, sir. It's so nice and warm."

"Well, that's what the monkeys thought. Here, senior, you take this mattress. Ye see, I stole these from the Jardin de Plants. But I told the animals over there that they were fer the Elephant and they said that was all right. Are ye in bed? Now I am goin' ter suppress de candelabra. [Blows out candle.] Whew! listen to it rain. How the rain do be runnin' down the legs of this here house. That's first class thunder too. Whew! that's no slouch uv a streak uv lightnin' nuther. Here, calm down there, gentlemen, or ye'll topple over this edifice. Time ter sleep now, good-night. Shut yer peepers!"

"Oh, sir?"

"Hey?"

"What's that noise?"

"Why—it's—rats."

"Oh, sir."

"Hey?"

"What is rats?"

"Oh—rats—is—mice."

"Sir?"

"Hey?"

"Why don't you get a cat?"

"Oh—I—I did have—a cat and—and the rats eat 'er up."

"Boo-hoo. Will they eat us up too?"

"Ah—no—they won't eat you. You ain't got enough meat on you. Besides I got 'em all screened off with a wire. They can't get at ye. See here—Ef yer goin' ter be afraid, take hold er my hand an' I'll lay down long side o' yer and go ter sleep—Now I fergot ter tell you gentlemen that when ye wake up—I'll be gone, fer business calls me early, but ye're to make this yer home jes' as long as yer wants ter and come here jes' whenever yer wants ter. Now fer the last time—good-night!"

FOOTNOTE:

[69] A dramatization from "Les Miserables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins.



THE HAZING OF VALIANT

ANONYMOUS

She was a small girl, but her sense of the ridiculous was tremendous. All summer long she sat on the sand and was nice to two boys, a sub-freshman and a sophomore. The sub-freshman's name was Valiant; he had a complexion that women envied, he was small and dainty and smelled sweet. The other, whose name was Buckley, was bigger and much more self-assertive.

One day the girl decided it would be fun to make them hate each other, and after that, when they were all three together, the sophomore would tell her how hard his class would haze the freshman in the Fall, while the sub-freshman only gazed out over the water and smiled. But one day the sophomore made a remark about "pretty pink-cheeked boys," which had better been left unsaid. Then arose the younger one and shaking impressively a slender pink-nailed finger he spoke, "You had better not try to haze me, Will Buckley."

In the good old days you had only to casually drop a word to a freshman on the way to recitation to wait for you when evening came, and he would turn up promptly, take his little dose meekly and go back to bed a better boy for it. But all that is changed now.

Twice had Buckley waited near the house where Valiant ate his dinner. He had tried several ways of getting into the house where Valiant lived, but without success; then for three successive nights he waited in an alley near by; on the third night Valiant came, but with him an upper classman friend. Buckley kept in the shadow but Valiant called out, "Oh, is that you, Mr. Buckley? How do you do? Aren't you coming in to see me?" Which was decidedly fresh.

"Not now, I'll drop in later. Which is your room?"

"That room up there, see?"

The next night Buckley got his gang together. They decided that a dip in the canal would be excellent for Valiant's health; if he felt cold after that he could climb a telephone pole for exercise. It was nearly two o'clock when they carried a ladder into the alley way. This was a particularly nervy go. A young professor and his young wife had a suite of rooms in this house; it was moonlight, and a certain owl-eyed proctor was pretty sure to pass not far away; but if they hurried they thought they could send a man up and get away without being caught.

Buckley was to get in the window, which was open, it being a warm night, the others were to hustle away with the ladder, and wait for him at a street several blocks distant. There was no doubt but that Valiant would have to come with him.

Buckley climbed up, got one foot over the sill, and was in the room. He leaned out and raised his hand. Silently the ladder disappeared. He turned and started across the room; when a soft voice said, "Is that you, dear?"

Then before all the blood in his body had time to freeze, he stepped out of the moonlight into the shadow and whispered, "Shsss!" Instinct made him do this.

Across the silence the soft voice came again, "Oh, I'm not asleep. But why did you stay so long, Guy dear?"

Buckley heard the squeaking of a bed-spring and as his knees stiffened he spied coming toward him something white with two black streaks hanging half way down, which as the thing came into the moonlight, he saw to be long braids of dark hair. It was a tall, slender figure clothed in a white garment. The face was young and beautiful. Buckley closed his eyes. But it came nearer and nearer. He stood up perfectly rigid in the darkness as two soft arms reached up and met about his neck.

Buckley did not budge and the soft voice began, "You have not forgiven me yet." It began to sob. "You know I did not mean it. Won't you forgive me? Tell me you do forgive me. Say it with your own lips, Guy dear. Speak to me, my husband!" Buckley didn't. A soft, fragrant hand came up along his cheek, which tingled, and over his eyes, which quivered. For fully a half minute he tried to think what to do, then he gritted his teeth and placed one arm about her waist and threw the other around her neck in such a way that he could draw it tight if necessary. Suddenly she raised her head, gave one startled look into his face, and with a shuddering gasp, she recoiled.

"For Heaven's sake, don't scream—I can explain!"

"Ugh, oh, let go! Who—let me go, or I'll screa-ch-ch-ch!"

Buckley pressed on the windpipe, feeling like three or four murderers as he did so. "Oh, please, if you scream it'll only make things awfully awkward. I got in here by mistake. Oh, please keep quiet. Promise me you'll not cry out, and I'll let you go."

"Yes, yes, I promise," said the scared voice. Buckley released his grasp. She fled across the room. He thought she was making for the door and sprang to stop her, but she only snatched up an afghan or something from the sofa, and holding it about her, retreated to the dark part of the room, moaning, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"I don't know who you are, but I wish you wouldn't cry. Please be calm. It's all a big mistake, I thought I was coming to my own room—"

"Your own room!"

"I mean my classmate's room,—I mean I thought a freshman roomed here. You aren't half so sorry as I am—oh, yes, you are—I mean I'm awfully sorry, and wish to apologize. I didn't mean anything."

"Mean anything!"

"Really I didn't. If you'll only let me go down and promise not to wake the house before I get out, why no one will ever know anything about it and I'll promise not to do it again."

"Just as soon as I get my breath I mean to wake up the whole house, and the whole town if I can." Buckley started across the room.

"Stop!"

"You promised not to scream."

"You forced me to promise. I am going to scream."

The bold, bad sophomore went down on his knees with his hands clasped toward the dark where the voice came from. "Oh, don't, please don't. Have pity on me."

"You stay right there in the moonlight."

"Right here?"

"Right there, and if you dare to move I'll scream with all my might." Buckley shivered and froze stiff.

And then he began to plead. "Please, oh, please, whoever you are, won't you forgive me and let me go? I wouldn't harm a girl for the world. I'll be fired—I mean expelled from college—I'll be disgraced for life. I'll—"

"Stop! While it may be true that you did not break into my room with intent to rob or injure a defenseless woman, yet, by your own confession you came to torment a weaker person. You came to haze a freshman. And when my husband—"

"Have mercy, have mercy. If I'm fired from college I'll be disgraced for life. All my prospects will be blighted; my life will be ruined, and my mother's heart broken."

She gave a little hysterical sob:—

"For your poor mother's sake, go!"

"Oh, thank you with all my heart. My mother would too if she could know. I don't deserve to be treated so well. I shall always think of you as my merciful benefactress. I can never forgive myself for causing you pain. Oh, thank you," and Buckley the proud sophomore groveled out of the room.

Next morning he received a letter, which read as follows:

"Just as a tall woman looks short in a man's make-up, so does a short man look tall in a woman's make-up, and you should know that blondes are hard to recognize in brunette wigs. You ought to know that a real girl wouldn't have behaved quite that way. You see you still have a number of things to learn, even though you are a soph. Hoping that you will learn to forgive yourself, I am,

"Your merciful benefactress, "H. G. VALIANT."



THE HINDOO'S PARADISE

ANONYMOUS

A Hindoo died, a happy thing to do, When twenty years united to a shrew. Released, he hopefully for entrance cries Before the gates of Brahma's paradise.

"Hast thou been through purgatory?" Brahma said, "No, but I've been married," and he hung his head. "Come in, come in, and welcome too, my son, Marriage and purgatory are as one."

In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, And knew the peace he ne'er had known before. But scarce had he entered the garden fair, When another Hindoo asked admission there.

The self-same question, Brahma asked, "Hast thou been through purgatory?" "No, what then?" "Thou canst not enter," did the God reply. "Why, he that entered first was there no more than I."

"All that is true, but he has married been, And so on earth, had suffered from all sin." "Married, 'tis well, I've been married twice." "Begone, we'll have no fools in Paradise."



IF I KNEW

ANONYMOUS

If I knew the box where the smiles are kept, No matter how large the key, Or strong the bolt, I would try so hard, 'Twould open, I know, for me. Then over the land and sea broadcast, I'd scatter the smiles to play, That the children's faces might hold them fast For many and many a day.

If I knew a box that was large enough To hold all the frowns I meet, I would like to gather them, every one, From the nursery, school and street, Then, holding and folding I'd pack them in, And turning the monster key I'd hire a giant to drop the box, Into the depths of the sea.



THE IMAGINARY INVALID[70]

JEROME K. JEROME

I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch—hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into—some fearful, devastating scourge I know—and, before I had glanced half down the list of "premonitory symptoms," it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it.

I sat for a while, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever—read the symptoms—discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it—wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus's Dance—found, as I expected, that I had that too,—began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom and so started alphabetically—read up ague, and learned that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid's knee.

I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this invidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid's knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me.

I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! Students would have no need to "walk the hospitals," if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk around me, and, after that, take their diploma.

Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever.

I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I'm ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. "What a doctor wants," I said, "is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each." So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:

"Well, what's the matter with you?"

I said:

"I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is not the matter with me. I have not got housemaid's knee. Why I have not got housemaid's knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I have got."

And I told him how I came to discover it all.

Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it—a cowardly thing to do, I call it—and immediately afterward butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out.

I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's and handed it in. The man read it and then handed it back. He said he didn't keep it.

I said:

"You are a chemist?"

"I am a chemist. If I was a cooeperative store and family hotel combined I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me."

I read the prescription. It ran:

"1 lb. beefsteak, every 6 hours, 1 ten-mile walk every morning, 1 bed at 11 sharp every night. And don't stuff up your head with things you don't understand."

FOOTNOTE:

[70] From "Three Men in a Boat," published by Henry Holt & Co.



JANE JONES[71]

BEN F. KING

Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time, An' says you must make it a rule To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn, An' never be absent from school. Remember the story of Elihu Burrit, An' how he clum up to the top, Got all the knowledge 'at ever he had Down in a blacksmithing shop! Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did— I dunno! O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top, Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop.

She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, But full of ambition an' brains; An' studied philosophy all his hull life, An' see what he got for his pains! He brought electricity out of the sky, With a kite an' a bottle an' key, An' we're owing him more 'n any one else For all the bright lights 'at we see. Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did— I dunno! O' course what's allers been hinderin' me Is not havin' any kite, lightning, er key.

Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all An' used to split rails when a boy; An' General Grant was a tanner by trade An' lived way out in Ill'nois. So when the great war in the South first broke out He stood on the side o' the right, An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things He won nearly every blamed fight. Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did— I dunno! Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight, For I ain't never had any battles to fight.

She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees When he first thought up his big scheme, An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too, An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream. But Queen Isabella jest listened to him, 'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth, 'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said, "Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!" Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did— I dunno! O' course that may be, but then you must allow They ain't no land to discover jest now!

FOOTNOTE:

[71] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.



KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE[72]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Tell you what I like the best— 'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melt On the vine,—some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else!

Orchard's where I'd ruther be— Needn't fence it in fer me! Jes' the whole sky overhead, And the whole airth underneath— Sorto' so's a man kin breathe Like he ort, and kind o' has Elbow-room to keerlessly Sprawl out len'thways on the grass Where the shadders thick and soft As the kivvers on the bed Mother fixes in the loft Allus, when they's company!

Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there— S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer Through the wavin' leaves above Like a feller 'at's in love And don't know it, ner don't kere! Ever'thing you hear and see Got some sort o' interest— Maybe find a bluebird's nest Tucked up there conveenently Fer the boy 'at's apt to be Up some other apple-tree! Watch the swallers skootin' past 'Bout as peert as you could ast; Er the Bob-white raise and whiz Where some other's whistle is.

Ketch a shadder down below, And look up to find the crow— Er a hawk,—away up there, 'Pearantly froze in the air!— Hear the old hen squak, and squat Over ever' chick she's got, Suddent-like—And she knows where That-air hawk is, well as you!— You jes' bet yer life she do!— Eyes a-glitterin' like glass, Waitin' till he makes a pass!

Pee-wees' singin', to express My opinion, 's second class, Yit you'll hear 'em more er less; Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, Weedin' out the lonesomeness; Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass, In them base-ball clothes o' his, Sportin' 'round the orchard jes' Like he owned the premises! Sun out in the fields kin sizz, But flat on yer back, I guess, In the shade's where glory is! That's jes' what I'd like to do Stiddy fer a year er two!

Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in My convictions!—'long about Here in June especially!— Under some old apple-tree, Jes' a-restin' through and through, I could git along without Nothin else at all to do Only jes' a-wishin' you Was a-gittin' there like me, And June war eternity!

Lay out there and try to see Jes' how lazy you kin be!— Tumble round and souse yer head In the clover-bloom, er pull Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes, And peek through it at the skies, Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead, Maybe, smilin' back at you In betwixt the beautiful Clouds o' gold and white and blue!— Month a man kin railly love— June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

March ain't never nothin' new! Aprile's altogether too Brash fer me! and May—I jes' 'Bominate its promises,— Little hints o' sunshine and Green around the timber-land— A few blossoms, and a few Chip-birds, and a sprout er two— Drap asleep, and it turns in 'Fore daylight and snows ag'in!—

But when June comes—Clear my th'oat With wild honey!—Rench my hair In the dew! and hold my coat! Whoop out loud! and th'ow my hat!— June wants me, and I'm to spare! Spread them shadders anywhere, I'll git down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that!

FOOTNOTE:

[72] From "Afterwhiles," published by the Bobbs-Merrill Co., Indianapolis, Ind.



LITTLE BREECHES[73]

JOHN HAY

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets, And free-will and that sort of thing, But I believe in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along— No four-year-old in the country Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight— And I'd larnt him to chew terbacker, Jest to keep his milk teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started— I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And searched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat—but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow-critters' aid— I jest flopped down on my marrow bones, Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed. By this the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night; We looked in, and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white. And thar sat Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter with me."

How did he get thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm, They just scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm; And I think that saving a little child And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne.

FOOTNOTE:

[73] By permission of Mrs. Hay.



THE LOW-BACKED CAR

SAMUEL LOVER

When first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market-day; A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay; But when that hay was blooming grass, And decked with flowers of spring, No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his owld poll, And looked after the low-backed car.

In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars With hostile scythes demands his tithes Of death—in warlike cars; While Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her bright eyes That knock men down in the market-town, As right and left they fly; While she sits in her low-backed car: Than battle more dangerous far— For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed car.

Sweet Peggy round her cart, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of love; While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin' As she sits in her low-backed car.

Oh! I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, And a lady for my bride; For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist, While we drove in the low-backed car To be married by Father Maher; Oh! my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh, Though it beat in a low-backed car.



MAMMY'S PICKANIN'

LUCY DEAN JENKINS

Now, whah d'ye s'pose dat chile is? My, he's got a head! He's a-hidin' frum his mammy 'Case it's time to go to bed.

Hyah, you, Petah Johnsing! Come inside dat fence. I done tole you yes'day You didn't hab no sense.

What's dat? A-waitin' fo' yo' daddy? (Bress his little hea't!) Why, chile! Yo' daddy won't be comin' Froo dat woodsy pa't

At dis time ob de ebenin'. Don't you see dat moon? Dat's de sign dat spooks 'Ll be a-trablin' soon.

I b'lieve I see 'em Comin'—Massy me! As sho' as you is breavin' Dar's one behind dat tree!

Ha! Ha! I t'ought dat 'd bring him. Come hyah, sweety hon', Come to yo' ole mammy, An' if dose spookies come

An' want my pickaninny, I'll swat 'em in de face; I'll take dar flowin' ga'ments, An' jest wipe up de place.

I'll take dat ar bu'nt hoe-cake, An' hit 'em on de head, Till dey'll be glad to go away, An' let my baby go to bed.

So, don't cry no mo', my honey, Jes' close yo' little eye, An' mammy'll rock ye in her a'ms, An' sing de— "Lullaby, Close yo' eye, Mammy's little dusky baby; Hush-a-bye, Close yo' eye, Mammy's little baby boy, Den hush-a-bye."

Now, what's de mattah, honey? Ain't you neber gwine ter sleep? Dose spookies ain't a-comin'; Dey's gwine off down de street.

Now shet yo' eyes up tight, An' go right off to sleep; An' to-morrow for yo' breakfus' You'll hab' possum for to eat.

So, don't cry no mo', my honey, Jes' close yo' little eye, While mammy rocks you in her a'ms An' sings de— "Lullaby," etc.



MANDALAY

RUDYARD KIPLING

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chuckin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat—jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o' mud— Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd— Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay—

When the mist was on the rice fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kullalo-lo!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay—

But that's all shove be'ind me—long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin,' why, you won't 'eed nothin' else." No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells! On the road to Mandalay—

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and— Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener, land! On the road to Mandalay—

Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be— By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea— On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!



MISTER COON AND MISTER RABBIT[74]

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Well one time Mr. Rabbit an' Mr. Coon live close ter one anudder in de same neighborhoods. How dey does now I ain't a-tellin' you, but in dem days dey wa'n't no hard feelin's 'twixt um. Dey jest went along like two ole cronies. Mr. Rabbit he was a fisherman an' Mr. Coon he was a fisherman. But Mr. Rabbit he kotch fish, an' Mr. Coon he fished for frogs. Mr. Rabbit he had mighty good luck, and Mr. Coon he had mighty bad luck. Mr. Rabbit he got fat an' slick an' Mr. Coon he got po' an' sick. Hit went on dis-a-way tell one day Mr. Coon met Mr. Rabbit in de big road. Dey shook han's dey did, an' den Mr. Coon he 'low: "Brer Rabbit, whar you git sech a fine chance er fish?" Mr. Rabbit laugh an' say, "I kotch 'em outen de river, Brer Coon. All I got to do is to bait my hook," sezee.

Den Mr. Coon he shake his head an' 'low, "Den how come I ain't ketch no frogs?" Mr. Rabbit sat down in de road an' scratched fer fleas an' den he 'low, "It's kaze you done make um all mad, Brer Coon. One time in de dark er de moon, you slipped down ter de branch an' kotch de ole king frog, an' ever sence dat time, w'enever you er passin' by, you kin year um sing out, fus' one an' den anudder, 'Yer he come! Dar he goes! Hit 'im in de eye! Hit 'im in de eye! Mash 'im an' smash 'im! Mash 'im an' smash 'im!' Yasser, dat w'at dey say. I year um constant, Brer Coon, an' dat des w'at dey say."

Den Mr. Coon up an' say, "Ef dat de way dey gwine on, how de name er goodness kin I ketch um, Brer Rabbit. I bleege ter have sumfin ter eat fer me an' my fambly connection."

Mr. Rabbit sorter grin in de corner ob de mouf an' den he say, "Well, Brer Coon, bein' ez you bin so sociable 'long wid me, an' ain't never showed your toofies w'en I pull yo' tail, I'll des whirl in an' hep you out."

Mr. Coon he say, "Thanky, thanky, Brer Rabbit!"

Mr. Rabbit hang his fish on a tree lim an' say, "Now, Brer Coon, you bleege ter do dis lik' I tell you." Mr. Coon 'lowed dat he would ef de good Lawd spared 'im.

Den Mr. Rabbit say, "Now, Brer Coon, you des rack down yonder an' git on de big san-bar 'twix' de river an' de branch. Wen you git dar you mus' stagger like you sick, an' den you mus' whirl roun' an' roun' an' drap down lak you dead. Arter you drap down, you mus' sorter jerk yo' legs once er twice an' den you mus' lay right still. If fly light on yo' nose let 'im stay dar. Don't move; don't wink yo' eye; don't switch yo' tail. Des lay right dar an' 'twont' be long for yo' hear from me. Yit don't yo' move till I give de word."

Mr. Coon he paced off he did, an' done des like Mr. Rabbit told him. He staggered roun' on de san'-bank, an' den he drapped down dead. Atter so long a time, Mr. Rabbit come lopin' 'long, an' soon's he got dar he squall out, "Coon dead!" Dis rousted de frogs, an' dey stuck dey heads up fer ter see w'at all de rippet was about. One great big green frog up an' holler, "W'at de matter? W'at de matter?" He talk like he got bad cold. Mr. Rabbit he 'low, "Coon dead!" Frog say, "Don't believe it! Don't believe it!" N'er frog say, "Yes, he is! Yes, he is!" Little bit er one say, "No, he ain't! No, he ain't!"

Dey keep on sputin till bimeby hit look like all de frogs in de neighborhood wuz dar. Mr. Rabbit look like he ain't a-kearin' what dey do er say. He sot down dar in de san' like he gwine in moanin' fer Mr. Coon. De frogs kep' gittin' closer and closer. Mr. Coon he ain't move. W'en a fly'd git on 'im, Mr. Rabbit he'd bresh 'im off.

Bimeby he 'low, "Ef you want ter git 'im outin de way, now's you time, cousin frogs. Des whirl in an' bury 'im, deep in de san'."

Big old frog say, "How we gwine ter do it? How we gwine ter do it?"

Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Dig de san' out from under 'im an' let 'im down in de hole." Den de frogs dey went ter work sure enough. Dey mus' 'a' been a hundred un um, an' dey make dat san' fly.

Mr. Coon he ain't move. De frogs dey dig an' scratch in de san' tell atter while dey had a right smaht hole an' Mr. Coon wuz down in dar.

Bimeby Big Frog holler, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?"

Mr. Rabbit' low, "Kin you jump out?"

Big Frog say, "Yes, I kin! Yes, I kin!"

Mr. Rabbit say, "Den 'tain't deep nuff."

Den de frogs dey dig an' dey dig tell bimeby Big Frog say, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?" Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, "I des kin! I des kin!" Mr. Rabbit say, "Dig it deeper." All de frogs keep on diggin' tell bimeby Big Frog holler out, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?"

Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, "No, I can't! No, I can't! Come he'p me! Come he'p me!"

Den Mr. Rabbit bust out laffin' an' holler out, "Rise up, sandy, an' git yo' meat." An' Mr. Coon riz.

FOOTNOTE:

[74] By permission of D. Appleton & Co.



MONEY MUSK

BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR

Ah, the buxom girls that helped the boys— The nobler Helens of humbler Troys— As they stripped the husks with rustling fold From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold,

By the candle-light in pumpkin bowls, And the gleams that showed fantastic holes In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin, From the hermit glim set up within;

By the rarer light in girlish eyes As dark as wells, or as blue as skies. I hear the laugh when the ear is red, I see the blush with the forfeit paid,

The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, The cider cup that the girls have kissed. And I see the fiddler through the dusk As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!"

The boys and girls in a double row Wait face to face till the magic bow Shall whip the tune from the violin, And the merry pulse of the feet begin.

In shirt of check, and tallowed hair, The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair Like Moses' basket stranded there On the brink of Father Nile. He feels the fiddle's slender neck, Picks out the note, with thrum and check; And times the tune with nod and beck, And thinks it a weary while. All ready! Now he gives the call, Cries, "Honor to the ladies!" All The jolly tides of laughter fall And ebb in a happy smile.

"Begin." D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, "First couple join right hands and swing!" As light as any blue-bird's wing "Swing once and a half times round." Whirls Mary Martin all in blue— Calico gown and stockings new, And tinted eyes that tell you true, Dance all to the dancing sound.

She flits about big Moses Brown, Who holds her hands to keep her down And thinks her hair a golden crown, And his heart turns over once! His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, It gives a second somerset! He means to win the maiden yet, Alas, for the awkward dance!

"Your stoga boot has crushed my toe!" "I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe!" "You clumsy fellow!" "Pass below!" And the first pair dance apart. Then "Forward six!" advance, retreat, Like midges gay in sunbeam street. 'Tis Money Musk by merry feet And the Money Musk by heart!

"Three quarters round your partner swing! Across the set!" The rafters ring, The girls and boys have taken wing And have brought their roses out! 'Tis "Forward six!" with rustic grace, Ah, rarer far than—"Swing to place!" Than golden clouds of old point-lace They bring the dance about.

Then clasping hands all—"Right and left!" All swiftly weave the measure deft Across the woof in loving weft, And the Money Musk is done! Oh, dancers of the rustling husk, Good night, sweet hearts, 'tis growing dusk, Good night for aye to Money Musk, For the heavy march begun!



THE ONE-LEGGED GOOSE[75]

F. HOPKINSON SMITH

The Colonel had been detained at his office, but had sent word that I was to wait for him. Chad was serving the coffee. "My Marsa John," he remarked, filling the cup with the smoking beverage, "never drank nuffin' but tea, eben at de big dinners when all de gemmen had coffee in de little cups—dat's one ob 'em you's drinkin' out ob now; dey ain't mo' 'an fo' on 'em left. Old marsa would have his pot of tea. Henny useter make it for him; makes it now for Miss Nancy.

"Henny was a young gal den, long 'fo' we was married. Henny b'longed to Colonel Lloyd Barbour, on de next plantation to ourn.

"Mo' coffee, Major?" I handed Chad the empty cup. He refilled it, and went straight on without drawing breath.

"Wust scrape I eber got into wid old Marsa John was ober Henny. I tell ye she was a harricane in dem days. She come into de kitchen one time where I was helpin' git de dinner ready an' de cook had gone to de spring-house, an' she says:

"'Chad, what ye cookin' dat smells so nice?'

"'Dat's a goose,' I says, 'cookin' for Marsa John's dinner. We got quality,' says I, pintin' to de dinin'-room do'.

"'Quality!' she says. 'Spec' I know what de quality is. Dat's for you and de cook.'

"Wid dat she grabs a caarvin' knife from de table, opens de do' ob de big oven, cuts off a leg ob de goose, an' dis'pears round de kitchen corner wid de leg in her mouf.

"'Fo' I knowed whar I was Marsa John come to de kitchen do' an' says, 'Gittin' late, Chad; bring in de dinner.' You see, Major, dey ain't no up an' down-stairs in de big house, like it is yer; kitchen an' dinin'-room all on de same flo'.

"Well, sah, I was scared to def, but I tuk dat goose an' laid him wid de cut side down on de bottom of de pan 'fo' de cook got back, put some dressin' an' stuffin' ober him, an' shet de stove do'. Den I tuk de sweet potatoes an' de hominy an' put 'em on de table, an' den I went back in de kitchen to git de baked ham. I put on de ham an' some mo' dishes, an' marsa says, lookin' up:

"'I t'ought dere was a roast goose, Chad?'

"'I ain't yerd nothin' 'bout no goose,' I says. 'I'll ask de cook.'

"Next minute I hyerd old marsa a-hollerin:

"'Mammy Jane, ain't we got a goose?'

"'Lord-a-massy! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu'thless nigger, ain't you tuk dat goose out yit?'

"'Is we got a goose?' said I.

"'Is we got a goose? Didn't you help pick it?'

"I see whar my hair was short, an' I snatched up a hot dish from de hearth, opened de oven do', an' slide de goose in jes as he was, an' lay him down befo' Marsa John.

"'Now see what de ladies 'll have for dinner,' says ole marsa, pickin' up his carvin' knife.

"'What'll you take for dinner, Miss?' says I. 'Baked ham?'

"'No,' says she, lookin' up to whar Marsa John sat. 'I think I'll take a leg ob dat goose.'

"Well, marsa cut off de leg an' put a little stuffin' an' gravy on wid a spoon, an' says to me, 'Chad, see what dat gemman 'll have.'

"'What'll you take for dinner, sah?' says I. 'Nice breast o' goose, or slice o' ham?'

"'No; I think I'll take a leg ob dat goose.'

"I didn't say nuffin', but I knowed bery well he wa'n't a-gwine to git it. But you oughter seen ole marsa lookin' for de udder leg ob dat goose! He rolled him ober on de dish, dis way an' dat way, an' den he jabbed dat ole bone-handled carvin' fork in him an' hel' him up ober de dish, an' looked under him an' on top ob him, an' den he says, kinder sad like:

"'Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?'

"'It didn't hab none,' says I.

"'You mean to say dat de gooses on my plantation on'y got one leg?'

"'Some ob 'em has an' some ob 'em ain't. You see, marsa, we got two kinds in de pond, an' we was a little hurried to-day, so Mammy Jane cooked dis one 'cause I cotched it fust.'

"'Well,' said he, 'I'll settle wid ye after dinner.'

"Well, dar I was shiverin' an' shakin' in my shoes, an' droppin' gravy, an' spillin' de wine on de table-cloth, I was dat shuck up; an' when de dinner was ober he calls all de ladies an' gemmen, an' says, 'Now come down to de duck-pond. I'm gwine ter show dis nigger dat all de gooses on my plantation got mo' den one leg.'

"I followed 'long, trapesin' after de whole kit an' b'ilin', an' when we got to de pond"—here Chad nearly went into a convulsion with suppressed laughter—"dar was de gooses sittin' on a log in de middle of dat ole green goose-pond wid one leg stuck down—so—an' de udder tucked under de wing."

Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my chair, the tears running down his cheeks.

"'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray goose! Dat's de berry match ob de one we had to-day.'

"Den de ladies all hollered an' de gemmen laughed so loud dey hyerd 'em at de big house.

"'Stop, you black scoun'rel!' Marsa John says, his face gittin' white an' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket. 'Shoo!'

"Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame grasshopper if ebery one ob dem gooses didn't put down de udder leg!

"'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober my head, 'I'll show you.'

"'Stop, Marsa John!' I hollered; ''tain't fair, 'tain't fair.'

"'Why ain't it fair?' says he.

"''Cause,' says I, 'you didn't say "Shoo!" to de goose what was on de table.'"

"And did he thrash you?"

"Marsa John? No, sah! He laughed loud as anybody; an' den dat night he says to me as I was puttin' some wood on de fire, 'Chad, where did dat leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him all about Henny, an' how I was 'fraid the gal would git whipped, an' how she was on'y a-foolin', thinkin' it was my goose; an' den old marsa look in de fire a long time, an' den he says: 'Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?'

"'Yes, marsa,' says I.

"Well, de nex' mawnin' Marse John had his black hoss saddled, an' I held de stir'up fur him to git on, an' he rode ober to de Barbour plantation an' didn't come back till plumb black night. When he come up I held de lantern so I could see his face, for I wa'n't easy in my mind all day; but it was all bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's.

"'Chad,' he says, handin' me de bridle reins, 'I bought yo' Henny dis evenin' from Colonel Barbour, she's comin' ober to-morrow, an' you can bofe git married next Sunday.'"

FOOTNOTE:

[75] Used by permission of and arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass., publishers of the works of F. Hopkinson Smith.



THE PESSIMIST[76]

BEN F. KING

Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air, Quick as a flash 'tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we've got, Thus thro' life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes.

FOOTNOTE:

[76] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.



SCHNEIDER SEES LEAH

ANONYMOUS

I vant to dold you vat it is, dot's a putty nice play. De first dime dot you see Leah, she runs cross a pridge, mit some fellers chasin' her mit putty big shticks. Dey ketch her right in de middle of der edge, und der leader (dot's de villen), he sez of her, "Dot it's better ven she dies, und dot he coodent allow it dot she can lif." Und de oder fellers hollers out, "So ve vill;" "Gife her some deth;" "Kill her putty quick;" "Shmack her of der jaw," und such dings; und chust as dey vill kill her, de priest says of dem, "Don'd you do dot," und dey shtop dot putty quick. In der nexd seen, dot Leah meets Rudolph (dot's her feller) in de voods. Before dot he comes in, she sits of de bottom of a cross, und she don'd look pooty lifely, und she says, "Rudolph, how is dot, dot you don'd come und see about me? You didn't shpeak of me for tree days long. I vant to dold you vot it is, dot ain't some luf. I don'd like dot." Vell, Rudolph he don'd was dere, so he coodent sed something. But ven he comes in, she dells of him dot she lufs him orful, und he says dot he guess he lufs her orful too, und vants to know vood she leef dot place, and go oud in some oder country mit him. Und she says, "I told you, I vill;" und he says, "Dot's all right," und he tells her he vill meet her soon, und dey vill go vay dogedder. Den he kisses her und goes oud, und she feels honkey dory bout dot.

Vell, in der nexd seen, Rudolph's old man finds oud all about dot, und he don'd feel putty goot; und he says of Rudolph, "Vood you leef me, und go mit dot gal?" und Rudolph feels putty bad. He don'd know vot he shall do. Und der old man he says, "I dold you vot I'll do. De skoolmaster (dot's de villen) says dot she might dook some money to go vay. Now, Rudolph, my poy, I'll gif de skoolmaster sum money to gif do her, und if she don'd dook dot money, I'll let you marry dot gal." Ven Rudolph hears dis, he chumps mit joyness, und says, "Fader, fader, dot's all righd. Dot's pully. I baed you anydings she voodent dook dot money." Vell, de old man gif de skoolmaster de money, und dells him dot he shall offer dot of her. Vell, dot pluddy skoolmaster comes back und says dot Leah dook dot gold right avay, ven she didn't do dot. Den de old man says, "Didn't I told you so?" und Rudolph gits so vild dot he svears dot she can't haf someding more to do mit him. So ven Leah vill meet him in de voods, he don'd vas dere, und she feels orful, und goes avay. Bime-by she comes up to Rudolph's house. She feels putty bad, und she knocks of de door. De old man comes oud, und says, "Got out of dot, you orful vooman. Don'd you come round after my boy again, else I put you in de dooms." Und she says, "Chust let me see Rudolph vonce, und I vill vander avay." So den Rudolph comes oud, und she vants to rush of his arms, but dot pluddy fool voodent allow dot. He chucks her avay, und says, "Don'd you touch me, uf you please, you deceitfulness gal." I dold you vot it is, dot looks ruff for dot poor gal. Und she is extonished, und says, "Vot is dis aboud dot?" Und Rudolph, orful mad, says, "Got oudsiedt, you ignomonous vooman." Und she feels so orful she coodent said a vord, und she goes oud.

Afterwards, Rudolph gits married to anoder gal in a shurch. Vell, Leah, who is vandering eferyveres, happens to go in dot shurchyard to cry, chust at de same dime of Rudolph's marriage, vich she don'd know someding aboud. Putty soon she hears de organ, und she says dere is some beeples gitten married, und dot it vill do her unhappiness goot if she sees dot. So she looks in de vinder, und ven she sees who dot is, my graciousness, don'd she holler, und shvears vengeance. Putty soon Rudolph chumps oud indo der shurchyard to got some air. He says he don't feel putty good. Putty soon dey see each oder, und dey had a orful dime. He says of her, "Leah, how is dot you been here?" Und she says mit big scornfulness, "God oud of dot, you beat. How is dot, you got cheek to talk of me afder dot vitch you hafe done?" Den he says, "Vell, vot for you dook dot gold, you false-hearded leetle gal?" und she says, "Vot gold is dot? I didn't dook some gold." Und he says, "Don'd you dold a lie about dot!" She says slowfully, "I told you I didn't dook some gold. Vot gold is dot?" Und den Rudolph tells her all aboud dot, und she says, "Dot is a orful lie. I didn't seen some gold;" und she adds mit much sarkasmness, "Und you beliefed I dook dot gold. Dot's de vorst I efer heered. Now, on accound of dot, I vill gif you a few gurses." Und den she swears mit orful voices dot Mister Kain's gurse should git on him, und dot he coodent never git any happiness eferyvere, no matter vere he is. Den she valks off. Vell, den a long dime passes avay, und den you see Rudolph's farm. He has got a nice vife, und a putiful leetle child. Putty soon Leah comes in, being shased, as ushual, by fellers mit shticks. She looks like she didn't ead someding for two monds. Rudolph's vife sends off dot mop, und Leah gits avay again. Den dat nice leedle child comes oud, und Leah comes back; und ven she sees dot child, don'd she feel orful aboud dot, und she says mit affectfulness, "Come here, leedle child, I voodn'd harm you;" und dot nice leedle child goes righd up, and Leah chumps on her, und grabs her in her arms, und gries, and kisses her. Oh! my graciousness don'd she gry aboud dot. You got to blow your noses righd avay. I vant to dold you vat it is, dot looks pully.

Und den she says vile she gries, "Leedle childs, don'd you got some names?" Und dot leedle child shpeaks oud so nice, pless her leedle hard, und says, "Oh! yes. My name dot's Leah, und my papa tells me dot I shall pray for you efery nighd." Oh! my goodnessness, don'd Leah gry orful ven she hears dot. I dold you vat it is, dot's a shplaindid ding. Und quick come dem tears in your eyes und you look up ad de vall, so dot nobody can'd see dot, und you make oud you don'd care aboud it. But your eyes gits fulled up so quick dot you couldn'd keep dem in, und de tears comes down of your face like a shnow storm, und den you don'd care a tarn if efery body sees dot. Und Leah kisses her und gries like dot her heart's broke, und she dooks off dot gurse from Rudolph und goes avay. De child den dell her fader and muder aboud dot, und dey pring her back. Den dot mop comes back und vill kill her again, but she exposes dot skoolmaster, dot villen, und dot fixes him. Den she falls down in Rudolph's arms, und your eyes gits fulled up again, und you can'd see someding more. I like to haf as many glasses of beer as dere is gryin' chust now. You couldn't help dot any vay. Und if I see a gal vot don'd gry in dot piece, I voodn't marry dot gal, efen if her fader owned a pig prewery. Und if I see a feller vot don'd gry, I voodn't dook a trink of lager bier mit him. Vell, afder de piece is oud, you feel so bad, und so goot, dot you must ead a few pieces of hot stuff do drife avay der plues. But I told you vat it is, dot's a pully piece, I baed you, don'd it?



THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN

JOHN G. SAXE

I long have been puzzled to guess, And so I have frequently said, What the reason could really be That I never have happened to wed; But now it is perfectly clear I am under a natural ban; The girls are already assigned— And I'm a superfluous man!

Those clever statistical chaps Declare the numerical run Of women and men in the world Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one: And hence in the pairing, you see, Since wooing and wedding began, For every connubial score They've got a superfluous man!

By twenties and twenties they go, And giddily rush to their fate, For none of the number, of course, Can fail of the conjugal mate; But while they are yielding in scores To nature's inflexible plan, There's never a woman for me— For I'm a superfluous man!

It isn't that I am a churl, To solitude over-inclined, It isn't that I am at fault In morals or manners or mind; Then what is the reason, you ask, I'm still with the bachelor clan? I merely was numbered amiss— And I'm a superfluous man!

It isn't that I am in want Of personal beauty or grace, For many a man with a wife Is uglier far in the face. Indeed, among elegant men I fancy myself in the van; But what is the value of that, When I'm a superfluous man?

Although I am fond of the girls, For aught I could ever discern, The tender emotion I feel Is one that they never return; 'Tis idle to quarrel with fate, For, struggle as hard as I can, They're mated already, you know, And I'm a superfluous man!

No wonder I grumble at times, With women so pretty and plenty, To know that I never was born To figure as one of the Twenty; But yet, when the average lot With critical vision I scan, I think it may be for the best That I'm a superfluous man!



THE USUAL WAY

ANONYMOUS

There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, And they met—in the usual way.

Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!" And he was—in the usual way.

So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about, But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out; And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not stay, But she did—in the usual way.

Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by; "We must say good-by," she whispered by the alders old and gray, And they did—in the usual way.

And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro, And day by day the fishes swam securely down below, Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, Very much—in the usual way.

And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do? Does he cherish her and love her? does she honor and obey? Well, they do—in the usual way.



THE WEDDING FEE

R. M. STREETER

One morning, fifty years ago,— When apple trees were white with snow Of fragrant blossoms, and the air Was spellbound with the perfume rare,— Upon a farm horse, large and lean, And lazy with its double load, A sun-browned youth and maid were seen Jogging along the winding road.

Blue were the arches of the skies; But bluer were that maiden's eyes. The dewdrops on the grass were bright; But brighter was the loving light That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid, Where those bright eyes of blue were hid; Adown the shoulders brown and bare Rolled the soft waves of golden hair, Where, almost strangled with the spray, The sun, a willing sufferer, lay.

It was the fairest sight, I ween, That the young man had ever seen; And with his features all aglow, The happy fellow told her so! And she without the least surprise Looked on him with those heavenly eyes; Saw underneath that shade of tan The handsome features of a man; And with a joy but rarely known She drew that dear face to her own, And by her bridal bonnet hid— I cannot tell you what she did!

So, on they ride until among The new-born leaves with dewdrops hung, The parsonage, arrayed in white, Peers out,—a more than welcome sight. Then, with a cloud upon his face, "What shall we do," he turned to say, "Should he refuse to take his pay From what is in the pillow-case?" And glancing down his eye surveyed The pillow-case before him laid, Whose contents reaching to its hem, Might purchase endless joy for them. The maiden answers, "Let us wait, To borrow trouble where's the need?" Then, at the parson's squeaking gate Halted the more than willing steed.

Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung; The latchless gate behind him swung. The knocker of that startled door, Struck as it never was before, Brought the whole household pale with fright; And there, with blushes on his cheek, So bashful he could hardly speak, The farmer met their wondering sight.

The groom goes in, his errand tells, And, as the parson nods, he leans Far o'er the window-sill and yells, "Come in! He says he'll take the beans!"

Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound, She and the bean-bag reached the ground. Then, clasping with each dimpled arm The precious product of the farm, She bears it through the open door; And, down upon the parlor floor, Dumps the best beans vines ever bore.

Ah! happy were their songs that day, When man and wife they rode away. But happier this chorus still Which echoed through those woodland scenes: "God bless the priest of Whitinsville! God bless the man who took the beans!"



WHEN MALINDY SINGS[77]

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy— Put dat music book away; What's de use to keep on tryin'? Ef you practice twell you're gray, You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin' Lak de ones dat rants and rings F'om de kitchen to de big woods When Malindy sings.

You ain't got de nachel o'gans Fu' to make de soun' come right, You ain't got de tunes an' twistin's Fu' to make it sweet an' light. Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy, An' I'm tellin' you fu' true, When hit comes to raal right singin' 'Tain't no easy thing to do.

Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah, Lookin' at de lines an' dots, When dey ain't no one kin sense it, An' de chune comes in, in spots; But fu' real melojous music, Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings, Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me When Malindy sings.

Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy? Blessed soul, tek up de cross! Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey? Well, you don't know what you los'. Y'ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin', Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things, Hush dey moufs an' hides dey faces When Malindy sings.

Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin', Lay his fiddle on de she'f; Mockin' bird quit tryin' to whistle, 'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f. Folks a-playin' on de banjo Draps dey fingahs on de strings— Bless yo' soul—fu'gits to move 'em, When Malindy sings.

She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs, "Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah Sinnahs' tremblin' steps an' voices, Timid-lak, a-drawin' neah; Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages," Simply to de cross she clings, An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin' When Malindy sings.

Who dat says dat humble praises Wif de Master nevah counts? Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music, Ez hit rises up an' mounts— Floatin' by de hills an' valleys, Way above dis buryin' sod, Ez hit makes its way to glory To de very gates of God!

Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music Of an edicated band; An' it's dearah dan de battle's Song o' triumph in de lan'. It seems holier dan evenin' When de solemn chu'ch-bell rings, Ez I sit an' calmly listen While Malindy sings.

Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me! Mandy, mek dat chile keep still; Don't you hyeah de echoes callin', F'om de valley to de hill? Let me listen, I can hyeah it, Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings, Sof' an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," Ez Malindy sings.

FOOTNOTE:

[77] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of the Hearthside," 1899.



WHEN THE COWS COME HOME

AGNES E. MITCHELL

With klingle, klangle, klingle, Way down the dusty dingle, The cows are coming home; Now sweet and clear and faint and low, The airy tinklings come and go, Like chimings from some far off tower, Or patterings of some April shower That makes the daisies grow; Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle, 'Way down the darkening dingle The cows come slowly home; And old-time friends and twilight plays, And starry nights and sunny days, Come trooping up the misty ways When the cows come home.

With jingle, jangle, jingle, Soft tunes that sweetly mingle, The cows are coming home. Malvine and Pearl and Florimel, Dekamp, Redrose and Gretchen Schnell, Queen Bell and Sylph and Spangled Sue— Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo" And clang her silver bell; Goling, golang, golinglelingle, With faint far sounds that mingle, The cows come slowly home; And mother-songs of long-gone years, And baby joys and childish tears, And youthful hopes and youthful fears, When the cows come home.

With ringle, rangle, ringle, By twos and threes and single The cows are coming home. Through violet air we see the town And the summer sun a slipping down, And the maple in the hazel glade Throws down the path a longer shade, And the hills are growing brown; To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleringle, By threes and fours and single The cows are coming home; The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, The same sweet June-day rest and calm, The same sweet scent of bud and balm, When the cows come home.

With tinkle, tankle, tinkle, Through fern and periwinkle The cows are coming home; A-loitering in the checkered stream Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, Clarine, Peachbloom and Phoebe Phillis Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies In a drowsy dream; To-link, to-lank, to-linklelinkle, O'er banks with butter cups a-twinkle, The cows come slowly home; And up through memory's deep ravine Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, And the crescent of the silver queen, When the cows come home.

With klingle, klangle, klingle, With loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle The cows are coming home; And over there in Merlin hill, Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will; The dew drops lie on the tangled vines, And over the poplars Venus shines, And over the silent mill; Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle With ting-a-ling and jingle The cows come slowly home; Let down the bars, let in the train Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain, For dear old times come back again, When the cows come home.



V

DRAMATIC NOT IN THE DRAMA

THE CONFESSIONAL

ANONYMOUS

'Twas twilight, and the early lighted lamps Were flickering down into the Arno's tide While yet the daylight lingered in the skies, Silvering and paling, when I saw him first. I was returning from my work, and paused Upon the bridge of Santa Trinita To rest, and think how fair our Florence is. And I remember, o'er the hazy hills, Far, far away, how exquisitely fair The twilight seemed that night. My heart was soft With tender longings, misted with a dim, Sad pleasure as a mirror with the breath. Ah, never will those feelings come again!

I was in a mood to take a stamp From any passing chance, even like those clouds That caught the tenderest thrill of dying day, When, by some inward sense, I know not what, I felt that I was gazed at, drawn away By eyes that had a strange magnetic will. And so I turned from those far hills to see— A stranger? No; even then he did not seem A stranger, but as one I once had known, Not here in Florence, not in any place, But somewhere in my spirit known and seen. I felt his eyes were fixed upon me, And a sweet, serious smile was on his lips: Nor could I help but look and smile again.

I know not what it was went to and fro Between us in that swift smile and glance. We neither spoke; But something went that thrilled me through and through. And that quick clash of souls Had struck a spark that set my soul on fire.

And I was happy, oh, so happy then! It seemed as if this earth could never add One little drop more to the joy I owned, For all that passionate torrent pent within My heart had found its utterance and response.

He was Venetian, and that radiant hair We black-haired girls so covet haloed round His sunny northern face and soft blue eyes. I know not why he loved me—me, so black, With this black skin that every Roman has, With this black hair, black eyes, that I so hate.

Why loved he not Beata? she is fair, But yet he often swore to me Beata's body Was not worth one half my finger, And then kissed me full upon the mouth as if to seal his oath; Ah! glorious seal—I feel those lips there now! And on my forehead, too, one kiss still glows Like a great star. Ah! well! those days are gone. No! no! They are not gone; I love him madly now. I love him madly as I loved him then.

Ah, God! how blissfully those days went by! You could not fill a golden cup more full Of rubied wine than was my heart with joy. Long mornings in his studio, there I sat And heard his voice; or, when he did not speak, I felt his presence like a rich perfume, Fill all my thoughts. I was his model. Hours and hours I posed For him to paint his Cleopatra, fierce, With her squared brows, and full Egyptian lips; A great gold serpent on her rounded arm, And a broad band of gold around her head.

At last the autumn came, the stricken, bleeding autumn. Something weighed upon his mind I could not understand. I knew all was not right, yet dared not ask. At last few words made all things plain; "Love, I must go to Venice." "Must?" "Yes, must." "Then I go, too." "No, no; ah, Nina, no. Four weeks pass swiftly; one short month, and then I shall return to Florence, and to you."

Vain were my words. He went, alas! he went With all the sunshine, and I wore alone The weary weeks out of that hateful month. Another month I waited, nervous, fierce With love's impatience. When that month was gone My heart was all afire; I could not stay. Consumed with jealous fears that wore me down Into a fever, necklace, earrings—all I sold, and on to Venice rushed. How long That dreary, never-ending journey seemed! I cursed the hills up which we slowly dragged, The long, flat plains of Lombardy I cursed, That kept me back from Venice.

But at last in a black gondola I swam along The sea-built city, and my heart was big With the glad thought that I was near to him. Yes, gladness came upon me that soft night, And jealousy was hushed, and hope led on My dancing heart. In vain I strove to curb My glad impatience—I must see him then, At once, that very night; I could not wait The tardy morning—'twas a year away. I only gave the gondolier his name, And said, "You know him?" "Yes." "Then row me quick to where he is."

He bowed and on he went, And as we swept along, I leaned me out And dragged my burning fingers in the wave, My hurried heart forecasting to itself our meeting, What he'd say and think, How I should hang upon his neck and say: "I could not longer live without you, dear."

At last we paused. The gondolier said, "This is the palace." I was struck aghast. It flared with lights, that from the windows gleamed And trickled down into the black canal. "Stop! stop!" I cried; "'tis some mistake. Why are these lights? This palace is not his. He owns no palace." "Pardon," answered he, "I fancied the signora wished to see The marriage festa—and all Venice knows The bride receives to-night." "What bride, whose bride?" I asked, impatient. "Count Alberti's bride, Whose else?" he answered, with a shrug. My heart, From its glad, singing height, dropped like a lark Shot dead, at these few words. The whole world reeled, And for a moment I was crushed and stunned. Then came the wild revulsion of despair; Then, calm more dreadful than the fiercest pain. "Row me to the steps," I said. I leaped On their wet edge, and stared in at the door Where all was hurry, rush, and flare of light.

My eyes ran, lightning, zigzag, through the crowd In search of him—he was not there. Ah, God! I breathed. He was not there! I inly cursed My unbelief, and turned me round to go. There was a sudden murmur near the door, And I beheld him—walking at her side. Oh! cursed be the hour I saw that sight, And cursed be the place! I saw those eyes That used to look such passion into mine Turned with the selfsame look to other eyes, Yes, light blue eyes, that upward gazed at him. I could not bear their bliss. I scarcely knew what happened then; I knew I felt for the stiletto in my vest With purpose that was half mechanical, As if a demon used my hand for his. I felt the red blood singing through my brain, I struck—before me, at my feet, she fell.

Who was the queen then? Ah! your rank and wealth, Your pearls and splendors—what did they avail Against the sharp stiletto's little point? You should have thought of that before you dared— You had all the world beside—to steal The only treasure that the Roman girl e'er had. You will not smile again as then you smiled. Thank God, you'll never smile again for him! I was avenged, avenged, until I saw The dreadful look he gave me as he turned From her dead face and looked in mine. Ah, God! It haunts me, scares me, will not let me sleep.

When will he come and tell me he forgives And loves me still? Oh, bid him come, Come quickly, come and let me die in peace. I could not help it; I was mad; But I repent, I suffer; he at least Should pity and forgive. Oh, make him come And say he loves me, and then let me die. I shall be ready then to die; but now I cannot think of God; my heart is hell, Until I know he loves me still.



JEAN VALJEAN AND THE GOOD BISHOP[78]

VICTOR HUGO

Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was traveling on foot, entered the little town of Digne, France.

It would be difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thick-set and robust. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, which, burned and tanned by the sun and wind, was dripping with perspiration. He wore a cravat which was twisted into a long string; trousers of blue drilling worn and threadbare, and an old gray tattered blouse, patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cotton cloth, sewed on with a twine string. On his back, a soldier's knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new; in his hand, an enormous knotty stick. Iron-shod shoes enveloped his stockingless feet.

No one knew him. He was evidently a chance passer-by, but nevertheless he directed his footsteps toward the village inn (the best in the country-side), and entered the kitchen. The host, on hearing the door open, addressed him without lifting his eyes from the stove.

"What is it this morning?"

"Food and lodging."

"Nothing easier—by paying for it."

"I have money, I can pay."

"In that case we are at your service."

"When will dinner be ready?"

"Immediately."

While the newcomer was depositing his knapsack upon the floor, the host tore off the corner of an old newspaper, wrote a line or two on the margin and handed it to a lad standing near. After whispering a few words in his ear, the lad set off at a run toward the town hall. In a few moments he returned, bringing the paper. The host read it attentively, remained silent a moment and then took a step in the direction of the traveler.

"I cannot receive you, sir!"

"What! Are you afraid I won't pay you? I have money—I can pay."

"You have money, but I have no room."

"Well, put me in the stable."

"The horses occupy all the space there."

"In the loft then—But come, we can settle that after dinner."

"I cannot give you your dinner."

"Bah! I'm hungry. I have been on foot since sunrise and I wish to eat."

"Well, I have nothing."

"Nothing—and all that?"

"All that is engaged by messieurs and wagoners,—twelve of them."

"There's enough food there for twenty."

"I tell you, it is all engaged and paid for in advance."

"Well, I'm at a public inn and hungry. I shall remain."

"Stop! Do you want me to tell you who you are—you are Jean Valjean—Go!"

The man dropped his head, picked up his knapsack and took his departure.... That evening the Bishop of the little town of Digne was sitting with his sister and housekeeper, talking over his day's work among his parishioners, when there came a violent knock at the door.