Part 2 — CHAPTER IX GETTING THE AUTHOR’S MOOD (continued 3)

Madge began to speak:

“But the dog,” she said. “You haven’t considered the dog.”

Skiff Miller looked puzzled.

“Have you thought about him?” she asked.

“Don’t know what you’re drivin’ at,” was the response.

“Maybe the dog has some choice in the matter,” Madge went on. “Maybe he has his likes and desires. You have not considered him. You give him no choice. It had never entered your mind that possibly he might prefer California to Alaska. You consider only what you like. You do with him as you would with a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay.”

This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller was visibly impressed as he debated it in his mind. Madge took advantage of his indecision.

“If you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be your happiness also,” she urged.

Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a glance of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval.

“What do you think?” the Klondiker suddenly demanded.

It was her turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“D’ye think he’d sooner stay in California?”

She nodded her head with positiveness. “I’m sure of it.”

Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at the same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted animal.

“He was a good worker. He’s done a heap of work for me. He never loafed on me, an’ he was a joe-dandy at hammerin’ a raw team into shape. He’s got a head on him. He can do everything but talk. He knows what you say to him. Look at ’m now. He knows we’re talkin’ about him.”

The dog was lying at Skiff Miller’s feet, head close down on paws, ears erect and listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to follow the sound of speech as it fell from the lips of first one and then the other.

“An’ there’s a lot of work in ’m yet. He’s good for years to come. An’ I do like him.”

Once or twice after that Skiff Miller opened his mouth and closed it again without speaking. Finally he said:

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Your remarks, ma’am, has some weight in them. The dog’s worked hard, and maybe he’s earned a soft berth an’ has got a right to choose. Anyway, we’ll leave it up to him. Whatever he says goes. You people stay right here settin’ down; I’ll say ‘good-by’ and walk off casual-like. If he wants to stay, he can stay. If he wants to come with me, let ’m come. I won’t call ’m to come an’ don’t you call ’m to come back.”

He looked with sudden suspicion at Madge, and added, “Only you must play fair. No persuadin’ after my back is turned.”

“We’ll play fair,” Madge began, but Skiff Miller broke in on her assurances.

“I know the ways of women,” he announced. “Their hearts is soft. When their hearts is touched they’re likely to stack the cards, look at the bottom of the deck, an’ lie—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am—I’m only discoursin’ about women in general.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Madge quavered.

“I don’t see as you’ve got any call to thank me,” he replied; “Brown ain’t decided yet. Now, you won’t mind if I go away slow. It’s no more’n fair, seein’ I’ll be out of sight inside a hundred yards.”

Madge agreed and added, “And I promise you faithfully that we won’t do anything to influence him.”

“Well, then, I might as well be gettin’ along,” Skiff Miller said, in the ordinary tones of one departing.

At this change in his voice Wolf lifted his head quickly, and still more quickly got to his feet when the man and woman shook hands. He sprang up on his hind legs, resting his fore-paws on her hip and at the same time licking Skiff Miller’s hand. When the latter shook hands with Walt, Wolf repeated his act, resting his weight on Walt and licking both men’s hands.

“It ain’t no picnic, I can tell you that,” were the Klondiker’s last words, as he turned and went slowly up the trail.

For the distance of twenty feet Wolf watched him go, himself all eagerness and expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and retrace his steps. Then, with a quick, low whine, Wolf sprang after him, overtook him, caught his hand between his teeth with reluctant tenderness and strove gently to make him pause.

Failing in this, Wolf raced back to where Walt Irvine sat, catching his coat-sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after the retreating man.

Wolf’s perturbation began to wax. He desired ubiquity. He wanted to be in two places at the same time, with the old master and the new, and steadily the distance was increasing. He sprang about excitedly, making short, nervous leaps and twists, now toward one, now toward the other, in painful indecision, not knowing his own mind, desiring both and unable to choose, uttering quick, sharp whines and beginning to pant.

He sat down abruptly on his haunches, thrusting his nose upward, his mouth opening and closing with jerky movements, each time opening wider. The jerking movements were in unison with the recurrent spasms that attacked the throat, each spasm severer and more intense than the preceding one. And in accord with jerks and spasms the larynx began to vibrate, at first silently, accompanied by the rush of air expelled from the lungs, then sounding a low, deep note, the lowest in the register of the human ear. All this was the nervous and muscular preliminary to howling.

But just as the howl was on the verge of bursting from the full throat, the wide open mouth was closed, the paroxysms ceased, and he looked long and steadily at the retreating man. Suddenly Wolf turned his head, and over his shoulder just as steadily regarded Walt. The appeal was unanswered. Not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no suggestion and no clew as to what his conduct should be.

A glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the trail excited him again. He sprang to his feet with a whine, and then, struck by a new idea, turned his attention to Madge. Hitherto he had ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left. He went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm with his nose—an old trick of his when begging for favors. He backed away from her and began writhing and twisting playfully, curveting and prancing, half rearing and striking his fore-paws to the earth, struggling with all his body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening ears to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was in him and that was denied him utterance.

This too he soon abandoned. He was depressed by the coldness of these humans who had never been cold before. No response could he draw from them, no help could he get. They did not consider him. They were as dead.

He turned and silently gazed after the old master. Skiff Miller was rounding the curve. In a moment he would be gone from view. Yet he never turned his head, plodding straight onward; slowly and methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was occurring behind his back.

And in this fashion he went out of view. Wolf waited for him to reappear. He waited a long minute, quietly, silently without movement as though turned to stone—withal stone quick with eagerness and desire. He barked once, and waited. Then he turned and trotted back to Walt Irvine. He sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet, watching the trail where it curved emptily from view.

The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed suddenly to increase the volume of its gurgling noise. Save for the meadow larks, there was no other sound. The great yellow butterflies drifted silently through the sunshine and lost themselves in the drowsy shadows. Madge gazed triumphantly at her husband.

A few minutes later Wolf got upon his feet. Decision and deliberation marked his movements. He did not glance at the man and woman. His eyes were fixed up the trail. He had made up his mind. They knew it. And they knew, so far as they were concerned, that the ordeal had just begun.

He broke into a trot and Madge’s lips pursed, forming an avenue for the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth. But the caressing sound was not made. She was impelled to look at her husband, and she saw the sternness with which he watched her. The pursed lips relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly.

Wolf’s trot broke into a run. Wider and wider were the leaps he made. Not once did he turn his head, his wolf’s brush standing out straight behind him. He cut sharply across the curve of the trail and was gone.—From “Love of Life,” copyrighted by The Macmillan Co., New York, and used by their kind permission.

THE SIGN OF THE CROSS

By Wilson Barrett

It was a festival day in Rome. Nero had decreed it. In the Circus was to be given a performance the like of which had never before been witnessed. The whole city was excited by the rumors of the numbers of Christians doomed to die, and of the ferocity of the beasts they were to encounter.

The dungeon beneath the amphitheatre in which the Christians were imprisoned was a large, gloomy, stone vault, destitute of furniture of any kind.

Great was the contrast between the dark, damp cell and the sunlit arena, crowded with eager, gayly dressed patricians. In the dungeon were scores of men and women waiting for the signal to pass forth to a certain and cruel death; in the auditorium was a seething mass of humanity, thousands upon thousands impatiently awaiting their coming forth, and gloating already in imagination upon the horrors they must undergo.

The roars of the hungry beasts could be faintly heard, even when the doors were closed; so could the equally merciless howls of the blood-thirsty populace. How they were to die had not been told the martyrs; only this they knew, that they were to die, and that every endeavor would be made to make their deaths as horrible, revolting and cruel as possible.

Among them were a few that trembled and felt sick with physical fear, but not one murmured. Their eyes were mentally fixed upon the Cross.

Again there was a loud call of the trumpets. The doors were thrown open, and the arena beyond could be seen by the prisoners, flooded with golden sunshine.

“Now, then, march!”

For a moment there was a pause, but almost before it could be realized Mercia’s clear, sweet voice rang out the first words of their beloved hymn:

Singing these words with uplifted eyes and undaunted hearts, those noble martyrs went calmly and resignedly through the dark Valley of the Shadow of Death to the everlasting peace that awaited them beyond.

Mercia, a beautiful girl, was left alone in the dungeon. It was generally understood that Marcus Superbus, the handsome, wealthy young Prefect of Rome, was madly in love with this Christian girl, and the adventuress who hoped to entrap Marcus prevailed upon Nero to make Mercia’s punishment unique and horrible.

She sank upon her knees with her face pressed against the iron bars. Presently the door leading to the corridor was unbarred. Two officers entered, ushering in Marcus, who started on finding Mercia alone. Dismissing the guards, he closed the door and gazed with infinite tenderness upon the white figure at his feet—Mercia.

For a time Marcus could not speak; his heart felt like bursting with grief for this beautiful girl. Here in this loathsome dungeon she could still preserve her courage and could still pray for forgiveness for her persecutors.

“Mercia! Mercia!”

“What would you with me?”

“I came to save thee. I have knelt to Nero for thy pardon. He will grant it upon one condition—that thou dost renounce thy false worship—”

“It is not false! It is true and everlasting.”

“Everlasting? Nothing is everlasting! There is no after-life; the end is here. Men come and go; they drink their little cup of woe or happiness, and then sleep—the sleep that knows no awakening.”

“Art thou sure of that? Ask thyself, are there no inward monitors that silently teach thee there is a life to come?”

“All men have wishes for a life to come, if it could better this.”

“It will better this, if this life be well lived. Hast thou lived well?”

“No; thou hast taught me that I never knew the shame of sin until I knew thy purity. Ah! whence comes thy wondrous grace?”

“If I have any grace it comes from Him who died on Calvary’s cross that grace might come to all.”

“Thou dost believe this?”

“I do believe it.”

“But thou hast no proof.”

“Yes. The proof is here.”

“Oh, thou dost believe so? All men, all nations have their gods. This one bows down to a thing of stone, and calls it his god; another to the sun, and calls it his god. A god of brass—a god of gold—a god of wood. Each tells himself his is the true god. All are mistaken.”

“All are mistaken.”

“And thou? What is thy God? A fantasy—a vision—a superstition. Wilt thou die for such a thing?”

“I will die for my Master gladly.”

“Mercia, hear me! Thou shalt not die! I cannot let thee go! I love you so! I love you so!”

“Thou hast told me so before, and wouldst have slain thy soul and mine.”

“I grant it. I did not know. I was blind! Now I see my love for thee is love indeed. The brute is dead in me, the man is living. Thy purity that I would have smirched hath cleansed me. Live, Mercia! Live and be my wife!”

“Thy wife? Thy wife? Oh, Marcus, hear me. This love I speak of came, I know not whence, nor how, then; now I know it came from Him who gave me life. I receive it joyfully because He gave it. Think you He gave it to tempt me to betray Him? Nay, Marcus, He gave it to me to uphold and strengthen me. I will be true to Him!”

“Thou wilt love?”

“I will not deny Him who died for me!”

“Mercia, if thy God exists He made us both, the one for the other. Hearken! I am rich beyond all riches. I have power, skill, strength; with these the world would be my slave, my vassal. Nero is hated, loathed—is tottering on his throne. I have friends in plenty who would help me—the throne of Cæsar might be mine—and thou shalt share it with me if thou wilt but live. The crown of an Empress shall deck that lovely head if thou wilt but live—only consent to live!”

“My crown is not of earth, Marcus; it awaits me there.”

“I cannot part from thee and live, Mercia! I have, to save thy precious life, argued and spoken against thy faith, thy God, but to speak truth to thee, I have been sorely troubled since I first saw thee. Strange yearnings of the spirit come in the lonely watches of the night; I battle with them, but they will not yield. I tremble with strange fears, strange thoughts, strange hopes. If thy faith be true, what is this world?—a little tarrying-place, a tiny bridge between two vast eternities, that from which we have traveled, that towards which we go. Oh, but to know! How can I know, Mercia? Teach me how to know!”

“Look at the Cross, and pray, ‘Help Thou my unbelief.’ Give up all that thou hast, and follow Him!”

“Would He welcome even me?”

“Yea, even thee, Marcus.”

Now there sounded on their ears another call from the trumpets. The brazen doors slid back, the guards entered, followed this time by Tigellinus.

“Prefect, the hour has come. Cæsar would have this maid’s decision. Doth she renounce Christus and live, or cling to him and die?”

“Mercia, answer him!”

“I cling to Him and die. Farewell, Marcus!”

“No, not ‘Farewell.’ Death cannot part us. I, too, am ready! My lingering doubts are dead; the light hath come! Return to Cæsar; tell him Christus hath triumphed. Marcus, too, is a Christian.”

His face shone with the same glorious radiance that had transfigured the features of Mercia. They were glorified by the presence of Him who had promised to them, even as He had promised to the penitent thief dying on the Cross beside Him—“Verily, I say unto thee, this day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”

THE LITTLE FIR TREE

By Hans Christian Andersen

Once there was a Little Fir Tree, slim and pointed and shiny, which stood in a forest in the midst of some big fir trees, broad and tall and shadowy green. The Little Fir Tree was very unhappy because he was not big like the others. When the birds came flying into the woods and lit on the branches of the big trees, and built their nests there, he used to call up to them, “Come down, come down, rest in my branches!” But they always said, “Oh, no, no, you are too little.”

And when the splendid wind came blowing and singing through the forest, it bent and rocked and swung the tops of the big trees and murmured to them. Then the Little Fir Tree looked up and called—“Oh, please, dear wind, come down and play with me!” But he always said, “Oh, no, you are too little, you are too little.” And in the winter the white snow fell softly, softly, and covered the great trees all over with wonderful caps and coats of white. The Little Fir Tree close down in the cover of the others would call up, “Oh, please, dear snow, give me a cap too! I want to play too!” But the snow always said—“Oh, no, no, no, you are too little, you are too little.”

The worst of all was when men came with sledges and teams of horses. They came to cut the big trees and carry them away. And when one had been cut down and carried away, the others talked about it, and nodded their heads. And the Little Fir Tree listened, and heard them say that when you were carried away so, you might become the mast of a mighty ship and go far away over the ocean and see many wonderful things, or you might be a part of a fine house in a great city and see much of life. The Little Fir Tree wanted greatly to see life but he was always too little; the men passed him by. But, by and by, one cold winter’s morning, men came with a sledge and horses and after they had cut here and there, they came to the circle of trees round the Little Fir Tree and looked all about. “There are none little enough,” they said. Oh! how the Little Fir Tree pricked up his needles. “Here is one,” said one of the men; “it is just little enough.” And he touched the Little Fir Tree. The little Fir Tree was happy as a bird, because he knew they were about to cut him down. And when he was being carried away on the sledge he lay wondering so contentedly whether he should be the mast of a ship or part of a fine house in the city. But when they came to the town he was taken out and set upright in a tub and placed on the edge of a sidewalk in a row of other fir trees all small, but none so little as he. And then the Little Fir Tree began to see life. People kept coming to look at the trees and take them away, but always when they saw the Little Fir Tree, they shook their heads and said, “It is too little, too little!” Until finally two children came along, hand in hand, looking carefully at all the small trees. When they saw the Little Fir Tree, they cried out, “We’ll take this one; it is just little enough!” They took him out of his tub and carried him away between them. And the happy Little Fir Tree spent all his time wondering what it could be that he was just little enough for; he knew it could hardly be a mast or a house since he was going away with children. He kept wondering while they took him in through some big doors and set him up in another tub on the table in a bare little room. Pretty soon they went away and came back again with a big basket carried between them. Then some pretty ladies, with white caps on their heads and white aprons over their blue dresses, came bringing little parcels. The children took things out of the basket and began to play with the Little Fir Tree, just as he had often wished the birds and wind and snow to do; he felt their soft little touches on his head and his twigs and his branches, and when he looked down at himself, as far as he could look, he saw that he was all hung with gold and silver chains!

There were strings of fluffy white stuff drooping around him. His twigs held little gold nuts and pink rosy balls and silver stars. He had little pink and white candles in his arms, but last and most wonderful of all, the children hung a beautiful white floating doll angel over his head! The Little Fir Tree could not breathe for joy and wonder. What was it that he was now? Why was this glory for him? After a time every one went away and left him. It grew dusk and the Little Fir Tree began to hear strange sounds through the closed doors. Sometimes he heard a child crying. He was beginning to be lonely. It grew more and more shadowy. All at once the doors opened and the two children came in. Two of the pretty ladies were with them. They came to the Little Fir Tree and quickly lighted all the pink and white candles. Then the two pretty ladies took hold of the table with the Little Fir Tree on it and pushed it, very smoothly and quickly, out of the doors, across a hall and in at another door. The Little Fir Tree had a sudden sight of a long room with many little white beds in it, of children propped up on pillows in the beds, and of other children in great wheel chairs and others hobbling about or sitting in little chairs. He wondered why all the little children looked so white and tired; he did not know he was in a hospital. But before he could wonder any more, his breath was quickly taken away by the shout those little white children gave. “Oh, Oh! M—M—” they cried. “How pretty!” “How beautiful!” “Oh, isn’t it lovely?” He knew they must mean him, for all their shining eyes were looking straight at him. He stood straight as a mast and quivered in every needle for joy. Presently one weak little voice called out, “It’s the nicest Christmas tree I ever saw!” And then, at last, the Little Fir Tree knew what he was; he was a Christmas tree! And from his shiny head to his feet he was glad, through and through, because he was just little enough to be the nicest kind of a tree in the world.

A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK

By Juliet Wilbur Tompkins

The two were amazingly, even absurdly alike, as they faced each other across the library table. The very scowl that lay heavy on the girl’s forehead was an obvious inheritance from the parental scowl opposite.

“I’m a self-made man, Paula—plain Western goods. It’s too late to teach me fancy values. I don’t go a hang on anything but facts. Some folks can put a paper frill around a mutton chop and call it lamb, but that ain’t my way. I see things as they are.”

“Well, I’m the daughter of a self-made man, and of a New England school-teacher too; if you can beat that combination for seeing things, as they are—”

“It’s your notion that you see this young feller as he is?”

“I do. And he has got just the things that you and I haven’t and need.”

“He has, eh? You might mention one or two.”

“Ancestry.”

“Oh, pshaw!”

“Well, then, a sense of humor.”

“A—what?” If she had said a “top-knot,” he could not have looked more amazedly disgusted.

“A sense of humor. And he’s got common sense too. He’s poor and alone in the world and not awfully practical, but I tell you, father, there’s stuff in him that we hustlers have got to get into our families sooner or later, if we’re going to the top. And—I—am.”

“H’m. On sixty dollars a month?”

“If necessary. Oh, I don’t pretend that Ralph has done much in business yet. Few men have, at nineteen.”

“At nineteen I had been at work seven years, and had been raised six times, both in salary and position. This young feller tells me he has been at work three years, and has been raised once—in salary only.”

“And that once was since he became interested in me; there is one thing you have got to take into account, father—that Ralph with me will have a very different career from Ralph without me.”

“But, Paula, is that just your notion of a husband?”

“Ralph is just my notion of a husband.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but he ain’t mine, and that settles it. You’ll live to thank me for it.”

“Well, here’s fair warning: I don’t give him up.”

“Oh, I guess you will.”

“You are trying to make the worst mistake of your life, father,” she said reasonably. “Now a mushy daughter would give in and let you repent it later; but I think it’s a lot better to save you from it, and you’ll live to thank me yet.”

“I’ll live to take you East and leave you there with your Aunt Jennie, till you’ve got sense, if I hear any more of this.”

“Well, then, you won’t hear any more about it.” And she went out.

“The little cuss!” he muttered. Then he sat down and wrote a letter beginning, “Dear Jennie,” and ending, “For heaven’s sake, wire that you will take her, or she’ll be off with him—by the front door and in broad daylight, understand. She’s a straight little cuss. What an everlasting shame she wasn’t a boy!”

Even as he signed: “Your aff. Bro.,” the massive front door banged; but he was too absorbed to notice it. Paula, calm and serious, carrying a suit-case, took a car for the station where a young man was nervously pacing the platform. He stood watching her for a moment before she saw him. The clear red of her cheeks was no deeper than usual, her blue eyes were unclouded, in all her handsome, well-dressed person there was not one hurried movement. She even paused to compare her watch with the station clock. An irrepressible laugh brought the color back to his face. “Oh, Paula, so you are here,” as he hurried to meet her. “You elope as calmly as you would go shopping.”

“It’s a far more sensible proceeding! Have you the tickets?”

“Not yet, dear Paula, I want you enough to commit almost any crime—you know that, and yet I can’t quite square it with myself—this running away with a man’s daughter. And—such a rich man, confound it! I’ve been awake all night thinking over one thing. You swept me off my feet yesterday; but to-day—”

“But, Ralph, I gave father fair warning. And this happens to be a case where he is wrong and I am right. I don’t think that just because I’m—I’m fond of you, but I can see, you know, just what you have got, and what the other men I know haven’t got, better than father can. He will see it too, some day, and thank me—I told him so. I’m not really eloping, since eighteen is the age for a girl in this state. And the fact that you’re not of age yet doesn’t matter, for you haven’t any parents or guardians to object. And father needn’t give us any money—we can get along with yours and mine. Now the train is due in three minutes and, of course, you needn’t marry me if you don’t want to. But if you do, you’d better get the tickets.”

Three hours later the two emerged from a cab in front of an imposing courthouse and followed endless lengths of unclean, tessellated pavement until they reached a door bearing the significant sign: “Marriage Licenses.” The clerk had the engraved forms out before anything coherent had been said. He was a hurried, dry little man, who appeared suffering to say, “Step lively, please!” at every pause.

“Parents or guardian’s consent?”

“I have no parents or guardian.”

“Can’t issue license to you then.”

“What?—why—why not?”

“Law of the state.”

“But I am of age!”

“Oh, yes, you can get married all right, but he can’t.”

“But what can we do?”

“Wait two years, or get a guardian and obtain his consent.” And Cupid turned firmly back to the papers on his desk.

They went out into the corridor and, finding a bench in a windowed recess, dropped helplessly down on it while Ralph gave voice to his personal opinion of the state law.

“Swearing isn’t going to help, Ralph,” said Paula decidedly. “Now we’ve got to consider everything.”

“But the old fool—when I haven’t a soul who could raise the least—”

“Yes, dear. Now suppose we take up each possibility in turn. It’s half-past twelve, and there isn’t a train back till five-twenty, too late to head off my letter to father.”

“Oh, it would be too flat!”

“And yet we don’t know a soul in this city, and we can’t stay here unmarried.”

“I was a beast, an ass, to get you into such a mess. Perhaps some sort of a minister could marry us without a license. I know they do in some states.”

“Go ask him.” But he came back dejectedly.

“Can’t be done; I ought to be hanged!”

“Well, suppose we go and get lunch. I want a cup of coffee and a ham sandwich.”

They found it near by, at a marble counter, and presently took up their problem with renewed courage.

“Of course, we can’t stay here unmarried. If we don’t find a way before five-twenty—we must go back—and father will probably take me East by the next train.”

“And quite right. I wouldn’t let my daughter marry a blithering idiot who could get her into a scrape like this.”

“I shouldn’t mind father’s rage, but I should hate his crowing. I can’t bear to be beaten like this, but of course, if you don’t try to think, we might as well go back to the station.”

“But what can thinking do against a set of darn fool state laws?” he burst out. “If I had only had the sense to set up a guardian—” He broke off at her gasp of excitement. Her eyes were fixed on space, big with a growing idea, for a breathless moment; then she turned to him radiant, both fists clenched on the counter.

“Ralph, I’ll adopt you! Anybody of age can adopt anybody who isn’t. Then I will give my consent and there we are!”

He stared at her speechlessly; then he hid his face in his hands and gave way to wild laughter.

“Have you anything against it?”

“No—no! Nothing!”

“Come on, then. We shall have to hurry.”

“The Court,” to whom they were referred for information, proved to be a huge, middle-aged, kindly person. If marriage was difficult under the state laws, adoption was comparatively easy.

“Now what is the very shortest time in which it could be done?”

“Oh, it need not take much time. A couple of weeks would be ample.”

Two pairs of dismayed eyes consulted each other.

“Couldn’t you do it in less?”

“Why, I don’t know. If the circumstances were extraordinary—”

“Couldn’t you do it before five o’clock to-day?”

“To-day?”

“We came down here to be married, but were refused a license because I am not of age, and hadn’t anybody to give consent. But if this lady, who is of age, could legally adopt me before the marriage bureau closed, then, you see, she could give the necessary consent.”

The Court laughed until his whole bulk was a heaving frame of merriment. But he was absorbed again in an instant, and after a moment’s deliberation he took down their names and ages and wrote briefly:

“And you say the child is willing?”

“He seems to be.”

Half an hour later, Paula Dennison had been formally appointed guardian of her future lord and master, and had given her written consent to his marriage. The Court himself conducted them to the license bureau, explained matters to the dry little clerk, dryer and more hurried than ever, witnessed the marriage, kissed the bride, escorted them down-stairs, and put them into a cab.

The Court was still standing to smile after the departing carriage when another came lurching up from the direction of the station. Even before it could stop, a middle-aged man had burst out and was striding up the steps with dark and concerted purpose on his flushed face. The Court stared at him, at first absently, then with dawning suspicion—chin, blue eyes, carriage—surely such a resemblance could not be a mere coincidence! After a brief hesitation he discreetly followed, and suspicion grew to conviction as the man turned to the marriage license bureau. The Court, lurking in the shadow of the open door, heard him demand whether a young woman named Dennison had tried to get married there to-day.

“Married fifteen minutes ago.”

“But they couldn’t be—the boy wasn’t of age. ’Tain’t legal. You had no right to issue a license. Why, I’ll have you—”

“The applicant had the written consent of his guardian.”

“But he hadn’t got a guardian—I found that out before I started. He was fooling you. It’s a—”

Paula’s written consent was laid before his eyes.

“The lady took out papers of guardianship, and so her consent was valid.”

“Adopted him? Adopted him and then married him! The little cuss! Adopted him, by golly! Oh, why wasn’t she a boy? Oh, well, I guess it’s all right. Adopted him! And I never thought of that!”

THE HONOR OF THE WOODS

Anonymous

The principal character of this story is John Norton, an aged trapper and scout in the Adirondacks, who is adored by the people for his bravery and courage. And although he has not rowed in a race for over forty years, he has decided to enter a free for all contest, to be pulled on the Saranac. He does this, because guides have brought him word that “perfessionals” are to pull. And he thinks it would be an “eternal shame if them city boasters beat the men born in the woods and on their own waters too.” Another important character in our story is a young boy, of whom John Norton always speaks as “the Lad,” a good-hearted, simple-minded boy, whom the trapper has befriended and who worships the old man. At the hotel all is expectation. A great crowd has gathered in anticipation of the morrow’s races, for the guides had brought word that “Old John Norton was not only coming, but that he was going to enter the race.” The thought that they were going to see this celebrated man stirred the people with a feeling of intense curiosity.

In the crowd were several aged men who remembered the fame the trapper had as an oarsman fifty years ago. And one of their number closed a heated verbal debate about the merits of the various contestants with, “I tell you, sir, there ain’t a man on God’s green earth kin beat John Norton at the oars.” On the other hand the professionals had their backers—college boys, English tourists, lawyers, clergymen, and bankers. Thus stood the feeling when a boat, with the Lad at the oar and the trapper at the paddle, came out from behind an island into plain view of the hundreds that were watching for it. As the boat came on talking ceased, and amid a profound silence it drew up within fifty feet of the landing. Suddenly an old man leaning on a stout stick flourished it in the air, and exclaimed in a voice that shook with the intensity of his emotion, “John Norton, he saved my life at the battle of Salt Lakes forty years ago. Three cheers for John Norton!” Then such a cheer arose as to burst the stillness into fragments and, thrice repeated, rolled its roar across the lake and against the distant hills, until their hollow caverns resounded again, while on the instant a hundred white handkerchiefs, waved by whiter hands, sprang into sight and filled the air with their snowy flutterings. For one instant the color came and went in the face of the surprised trapper. He then arose and stood at his utmost height. Meanwhile the eyes of the great multitude had time to take in his splendid proportions, and the grave majesty of his countenance. He then settled back and the boat moved toward the landing. It was high noon on the Saranac, and a brighter day was never seen. The lake had not stirred a ripple, and the air was that cool, fragrant air so good to breathe in a race. The “free for all” was to be pulled at one o’clock. The entries were closed the evening before, and stood seven in all: the three professionals, the brother guides, known as Fred and Charley, the old trapper and the Lad.

The boats were already in position. The course ran straight down the lake to a line of seven buoys, so that each boat had its own buoy to turn around and thence pull back again. The length of the course was just four miles, a longer race by half than was ever before pulled on those waters. The boats were by no means the same length and width—the Lad’s was by far the heaviest.

The number of spectators was a wonder to all; where all the people came from was a mystery. The long piazza of the hotel, the wharf, even the roof of the boathouse swarmed with human beings. The shore on either side was lined with spectators for the distance of half a mile.

“Now, boys,” said the trapper, “ye must remember that a four-mile race is a good deal of a pull, and the goin’ off ain’t half so decidin’ as the comin’ in. I don’t conceit that we can afford to fool any time, for them perfessionals have come here to row, and they look to me as if they had a good deal of that sort of stuff in them; but it won’t do to get flustrated at the start, and if ye see fit to follow I’ll set ye a jegmatical sort of a stroke that will send us out to the buoys yonder without any rawness in the windpipe or kinks in the legs. But still if ye don’t think yer a-pullin’ fast enough take yer lick, fur in such a race as this is likely to be, a man should follow his own notions and act accordin’ to his gifts.”

“Do you think we will win, old trapper?” asked Fred. “I dunno, boy, I sartinly dunno, but I don’t like yer oars, especially that left one. There’s a kink in the shank of it that hadn’t orter be there.”

“Your oars are big enough to hold anyway and I hold you will win.”

“Thank ye, boys, thank ye; yis, I sartinly shall try, for it would be a mortal shame to have that prize to go out of the woods, an’ if nothin’ gives way I’ll give ’em a touch of the stuff that’s in me, the last mile, that’ll make ’em get down to work in earnest, but if anything happens I have great hopes of the Lad there, for his gifts are wonderful at the oars and—”

“Ready there,” came the clear voice of the starter; “ready there for the word.”

“Aye, aye, ready it is,” replied the trapper. “Now, Lad, if anything happens to me and you see I can’t win, John Norton will never forgive you if you don’t pull like a sinner runnin’ from jedgment.”

“Ready there, all of you; One, two, three, GO.”

The oars of the professionals dropped on the water as if their blades were controlled by one man, and their stroke was so tense and quick that the light boats fairly jumped ahead. The trapper and the Lad had been slower to get away and were a full length behind before they got fairly into motion. The Lad was the last to get started and so careless and ungainly was his appearance that the crowd, who cheered at the passage of the others, laughed and groaned at him. For forty rods the race continued without change in the relative position of the boats.

The oars flashed, dropped and flashed again, as the professionals swept their oars ahead. Some rods behind the trapper and Fred were rowing side by side, stroke for stroke, long, steady and strong.

“Yis, yis, I understand; but don’t ye worry, four miles is four miles. Still if yer a-gittin’ narvous we’ll lengthen out a little jest to show ’em we ain’ more’n half asleep.” So saying the old man set his comrades so long and sharply pulled a stroke that the two boats doubled their rate of speed and came up even with the boats ahead. “There now, I guess we’ll ease up a leetle, for the time to really pull ain’t come yet. I tell you, boy, that rifle is a-goin’ to stay here in the woods. There’s the Lad back there can beat us both, but he won’t try ’cause he thinks it would tickle an old man like me to win the prize. Easy, boy, easy, let ’em git ahead if they want to, the comin’ in is what decides the race.” Thus the boats rushed on their way, while the multitude watched with eager eyes the receding racers. The party of the trapper was in the ascendant, for the spurt he had made revealed the tremendous power of the man and showed that old age had not weakened his enormous strength. At last a man who stood on the edge of the boathouse called out: “They have turned the buoys; the professionals are ahead.”

“How far behind is John Norton?”

“He and the guides are four rods astern at least.”

“Where is the Lad?”

“Oh, he’s out of the race; he’s fully ten rods behind the trapper and Fred.” By this time the boats were plainly in view—the contestants were barely a mile away.

“Now, boys,” said the trapper, “the time has come for us to show the stuff that’s in us. Are ye ready for the stroke, boys?” A groan of pain interrupted the trapper. The oars of Charley were trailing—his strength had given out and his nose was bleeding profusely. “Never mind,” whispered the trapper to Fred, “you must win this race if your whole family dies—all right, long and quick now.” The young man obeyed. He threw the full force of his strength on the oars. The sudden vigor was too much for the wood; there was a crash and the guide was thrown on his side. The trapper was now thoroughly aroused. The boats were within a hundred yards of the home-line and the Lad was fully fifteen astern. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but through it a voice arose: “John Norton, now is your time, pull.”

The old man gathered himself for a supreme effort, and then occurred a catastrophe so overwhelming that it hushed the roar of the crowd. He had torn the rowlocks from the gunnels. For a moment there was silence; even the professionals intermitted a stroke; but the Lad turned his face ahead. The old man arose and stood erect in the boat. He shook the heavy oars in the air as if they had been reeds and shouted in a voice that sounded awful in its intensity: “Now, Lad, row for the sake of John Norton, and save his gray hairs from shame. Pull with every ounce of strength the Almighty has given you, or the honor of the woods is gone.”

It was worth a thousand miles of travel and a year of life to see what happened. The Lad suddenly sat erect and his stroke lengthened to the full reach of oar and arm. His boat seemed to spring into the air, it flew on the top of the water, and, as it passed the trapper, he shouted wildly, “Go it, Lad, go it, Lad, the honor of the woods be on ye! Give it to ’em, give it to ’em, ye’ll beat ’em yit, sure as judgment day.”

Except his voice, not a sound was heard. Men clutched their fists till the nails cut the skin of their palms. One of the professionals fainted unnoticed, another threw up his oars, crazed by the excitement, while the third pulled in grim desperation; but he pulled in vain, for the Lad’s boat caught him within fifty feet of the line and shot across it half a length to the front. And then there arose such a shout as had not been heard that day. “Three cheers for the Lad, three cheers for the Lad,”—and the honor of the woods was saved.

TRAVERS’ FIRST HUNT

By Richard Harding Davis

Young Travers, who had been engaged to a girl down on Long Island for the last three months, only met her father and brother a few weeks before the day set for the wedding.

The brother was a master of hounds near South Hampton; the father and son talked horse all day and until one o’clock in the morning, for they owned fast thoroughbreds, and entered them at Sheepshead Bay, and other race tracks.

Old Mr. Paddock, the father of the girl, had often said that when a young man asked for his daughter’s hand, he would ask him in return, not if he lived straight, but if he could ride straight; and that on his answering in the affirmative, depended her parent’s consent.

Travers had met Miss Paddock and her mother in Europe. He was invited to their place in the fall when the hunting season opened, and had spent the evening most pleasantly and satisfactorily with his fiancée in the corner of the drawing-room. But as soon as the women had gone, young Paddock joined him and said: “You ride, of course?”

Travers had never ridden, but had been prompted what to answer by Miss Paddock, and so said there was nothing he liked better. As he expressed it, he would rather ride than sleep.

“That’s good!” said Paddock. “I’ll give you a mount on Satan to-morrow morning at the meet. He is a bit nasty at the start of the season, and ever since he killed Wallis, the second groom, last year, none of us care much to ride him; but you can manage him, no doubt. He’ll just carry your weight.”

Mr. Travers dreamed that night of taking large, desperate leaps into space on a wild horse that snorted forth flames, and that rose at solid stone walls as though they were hay-racks. He was tempted to say he was ill in the morning, which was, considering the state of his mind, more or less true, but concluded as he would have to ride sooner or later during his visit, and if he died breaking his neck, it would be in a good cause, he determined to do his best.

He didn’t want to ride at all for two excellent reasons: First, because he wanted to live for Miss Paddock’s sake, and second, because he wanted to live for his own sake.

The next morning was a most forbidding and doleful looking morning, and young Travers had great hopes that the meet would be declared off, but just as he lay in doubts the servant knocked at his door with his riding things and his hot water.

He came down-stairs looking very miserable indeed. Satan had been taken to the place where they were to meet, and Travers viewed him on his arrival there with a sickening sense of fear as he saw him pulling three grooms off their feet.

Travers decided that he would stay with his feet on solid earth just as long as he could, and when the hounds were thrown off and the rest had started at a gallop, he waited, under pretense of adjusting his gaiters, until they were well away. Then he clenched his teeth, crammed his hat down over his ears, and scrambled up on the saddle. His feet fell quite by accident into the stirrups, and the next moment he was off after the others, with an indistinct feeling that he was on a locomotive that was jumping the ties.

Satan was in among and had passed the other horses in less than five minutes, and was so near the hounds that the whippers-in gave a cry of warning. But Travers could just as soon have pulled a boat back that was going over the Niagara Falls as Satan, and it was only that the hounds were well ahead that saved them from having Satan run them down.

Travers had to hold to the saddle with his left hand to keep himself from falling off, and sawed and sawed on the reins with his right. He shut his eyes whenever Satan jumped, and never knew how he happened to stick on; but he did stick on, and was so far ahead that in the misty morning no one could see how badly he rode. As it was for daring and speed he led the field, and not even young Paddock was near him from the start.

There was a broad stream in front of him—and a hill just on the other side. No one had ever tried to take this at a jump, it was considered more of a swim than anything else, and the hunters always crossed it by the bridge on the left. Travers saw the bridge and tried to jerk Satan’s head in that direction, but Satan kept right on as straight as an express train over the prairies. Fences and trees and furrows passed by and under Travers like a panorama run by electricity, and he only breathed by accident. They went on at the stream and the hill beyond as though they were riding on a stretch of turf, and though the whole field sent up a shout of warning and dismay, Travers could only gasp and shut his eyes. He remembered the fate of the second groom and shivered.

Then the horse rose like a rocket, lifting Travers so high in the air that he thought Satan would never come down again, but he did come down with his feet bunched on the opposite bank.

The next instant he was up and over the hill and stopped, panting, in the center of the pack that was snarling and snapping around the fox. And then Travers showed that he was a thorough-bred, even though he could not ride, for he hastily fumbled for his cigar case, and when the others came pounding up over the hill, they saw him seated nonchalantly on his saddle, puffing critically at his cigar and giving Satan patronizing pats on his head.

“My dear girl,” said old Mr. Paddock to his daughter as they rode back, “if you love that young man and want to keep him, make him promise to give up riding. A more reckless and more brilliant horseman I have never seen; he took that double jump at the gate and at the stream like a centaur, but he will break his neck sooner or later, and he ought to be stopped.” Young Paddock was so delighted with his future brother-in-law’s riding that that night in the smoking room he made him a present of Satan before all the men.

“No,” said Travers gloomily, “I can’t take him; your sister has asked me to give up what is dearer to me than anything next to herself, and that is my riding; you see she is absurdly anxious for my safety, and she has asked me never to ride again, and I have given my word.”

A chorus of sympathetic remonstrances rose from the men.

“Yes, I know,” said Travers, “but it just shows what sacrifices a man will make for the woman he loves.”

MARY’S NIGHT RIDE

By George W. Cable

Mary Richling, the heroine of this story, was the wife of John Richling, a resident of New Orleans. At the breaking out of the Civil War she went to visit her parents in Milwaukee. About the time of the bombardment of New Orleans, she received news of the dangerous illness of her husband, and decided at once to reach his bedside, if possible. Taking with her her baby daughter, a child of three years, she proceeded southward, where, after several unsuccessful attempts to secure a pass, she finally determined to break through the lines.

About the middle of the night Mary Richling was sitting very still and upright on a large, dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in the black shadow of a great oak. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose naked saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the full moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there emerged from the shadow of woods on either side and divided into a main right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary’s left. Off in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires. Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness.

She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next moment a man came out of the bushes on the left and, without a word, took the bridle of the led horse from her fingers and vaulted into the saddle. The hand that rested for a moment on the cantle grasped a navy-six. He was dressed in dull homespun, but he was the same who had been dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the lesser road.

“If we’d of gone three hundred yards further, we’d a run into the pickets. I went nigh enough to see the videts settin’ on their horses in the main road. This here ain’t no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I’ve got one of the niggers to show us the way.”

“Where is he?” whispered Mary, but, before her companion could answer, a tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a clear, open forest and followed the long, rapid, swinging strides of the negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his arms, and directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle with her skirts gathered carefully under her; so they went down into the cold stream, the negro first with arms outstretched above the flood, then Mary and then the white man, or let us say plainly the spy, with the unawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on the farther side without a shoe or garment wet, save the rags of their dark guide.

Again they followed him along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of housedogs, now the doleful call of the chuckwill’s widow, and once Mary’s blood turned for an instant to ice at the unearthly shriek of a hoot-owl just above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim, narrow road, and the negro stopped.

“Dess keep dis yer road fo’ ’bout half mile an’ yo’ strike ’pon de broad main road. Tek de right, an’ you go whar yo’ fancy take you. Good-by, Miss. Good-by, Boss; don’t yo’ fergit yo’ promise to tek me throo to de Yankees when you come back. I feered yo’ gwine fergit it, Boss.”

The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half mile was soon passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length Mary’s companion looked back as they rode single file with Mary in the rear, and said softly, “There’s the road.”

As they entered it and turned to the right, Mary, with Alice in her arms, moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferent horsemanship having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush. His horse was just quickening his pace to regain the lost position when a man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of the highway, snatched a carbine from the earth and cried, “Halt!”

The dark, recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen enveloped in their blankets lying about a few red coals. Mary turned a frightened look backward and met the eye of her companion.

“Move a little faster,” said he, in a low, clear voice. As he did so, she heard him answer the challenge, as his horse trotted softly after hers.

“Don’t stop us, my friend; we’re taking a sick child to the doctor.”

“Halt, you hound!” the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back three or four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw also her companion, his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost an agony, rise in his stirrups with the stoop of his shoulders all gone, and wildly cry, “Go!” She smote her horse and flew. Alice woke and screamed.

The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousand echoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, and there went close by Mary’s ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the same moment she recognized—once, twice, thrice—just at her back, where the hoofs of her companion’s horse were clattering, the tart rejoinders of his navy six.

“Go! lay low! lay low! cover the child!” But his words were needless. With head bowed forward and form crouched over the crying, clinging child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and sunbonnet and loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, Mary was riding for life and liberty and her husband’s bedside.

“Go on! go on! They’re saddling up! Go! Go! We’re going to make it! Go-oo!” And they made it.

PEABODY’S LEAP A LEGEND OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN

Many are the places, scattered over the face of our beautiful country, whose wild and picturesque scenery is worthy of the painter’s pencil or the poet’s pen. Some of them, which were once celebrated for their rich stores of “legendary lore,” are now only sought to view their natural scenery, while the traditions which formerly gave them celebrity are buried in oblivion. Such is the scene of the following adventure—a romantic glen, bounded on the north side by a high and rocky hill which stretches itself some distance into Lake Champlain, terminating in a precipice, some thirty feet in height, and once known by the name of “Peabody’s Leap.”

At the time of this adventure, Timothy Peabody was the only white man that lived within fifty miles of the place, and his was the daring spirit that achieved it. In an attack on one of the frontier settlements his family had all been massacred by the merciless savages, and he had sworn that their death should be avenged. The better to accomplish this dread purpose, he had removed to this solitary place and constructed the rude shelter in which he dwelt, till the blasts of winter drove him to the homes of his fellow-men, again to renew the contest when spring had awakened nature into life and beauty. He was a man who possessed much rude cunning, combined with a thorough knowledge of Indian habits, by which he had always been enabled to avoid the snares of his subtle enemies. Often when they had come with a party to take him, he escaped their lures, and after destroying his hut, on their return homeward some of their boldest warriors were picked off by his unerring aim—or, on arriving at their settlement, they learned that one of their swiftest hunters had been ambushed by him, and fallen a victim of his deadly rifle. He had lived in this way for several years, and had so often baffled them, that they had at last become weary of the pursuit, and, for some time, had left him unmolested.

About this time, a party of Indians made a descent on one of the small settlements, and had taken three men prisoners, whom they were carrying home to sacrifice for the same number of their men that had been shot by Peabody. It was towards the close of day when they passed his abode; most of the party in advance of the prisoners, who, with their hands tied, and escorted by five or six Indians, were almost wearied out by their long march, and but just able to crawl along. He had observed this advance guard, and let them pass unmolested, for he suspected there were prisoners in the rear, and intended to try some “Yankee trick” to effect their rescue. He accordingly followed on in the trail of the party, keeping among the thick trees which on either side skirted the path. He had proceeded but a short distance before he heard the sharp report of a rifle apparently very near him, and which he knew must be one of the Indians who had strolled from the main body to procure some game for their evening meal. From his acquaintance with their habits and language, he only needed a disguise to enable him to join with the party if necessary and, aided by the darkness which was fast approaching, with but little danger of detection. The resolution was quickly formed, and as quickly put into operation, to kill this Indian and procure his dress.

He had got but a few paces before he discovered his intended victim, who had just finished loading his rifle. To stand forth and boldly confront him would give the savage an equal chance, and if Tim proved the best shot, the party on hearing the report of two rifles at once would be alarmed and commence a pursuit. The chance was, therefore, two to one against him, and he was obliged to contrive a way to make the Indian fire first. Planting himself, then, behind a large tree, he took off his fox-skin cap, and placing it on the end of his rifle, began to move it to and fro. The Indian quickly discovered it, and was not at a loss to recollect the owner by the cap. Knowing how often the white warrior had eluded them, he determined to despatch him at once, and without giving him notice of his dangerous proximity, he instantly raised his rifle, and its contents went whizzing through the air. The ball just touched the bark of the tree, and pierced the cap, which rose suddenly like the death-spring of the beaver, and then fell amid the bushes. The Indian, like a true sportsman, thinking himself sure of his victim, did not go to pick up his game till he had reloaded his piece, and dropping it to the ground, was calmly proceeding in the operation, when Timothy as calmly stepped from his hiding-place, exclaiming—“Now, you tarnal kritter, say yer prayers as fast as ever you can.”

This was a short notice for the poor Indian. Before him, and scarcely ten paces distant, stood the tall form of Peabody, motionless as a statue—his rifle to his shoulder—his finger on the trigger, and his deadly aim firmly fixed on him. He was about to run, but he had not time to turn around, ere the swift-winged messenger had taken his flight; the ball pierced his side—he sprang in the air, and fell lifeless on the ground.

No time was now to be lost. Peabody immediately proceeded to strip the dead body and to array himself in the accouterments, consisting of a hunting shirt, a pair of moccasins, or leggins, and the wampum belt and knife. A little of the blood besmeared on his sunburnt countenance served for the red paint, and it would have taken a keen eye in the gray twilight and thick gloom of the surrounding forest to have detected the counterfeit Indian. Shouldering his rifle, he again started in pursuit, and followed the band till they arrived in the glen, where their canoes were secreted. Here they stopped, and began to make preparations for their expected supper, previous to their embarkation for the opposite shore. The canoes were launched and their baggage deposited in them. A fire was blazing brightly and the party were walking around, impatiently waiting the return of the hunter.

The body of Timothy was safely deposited behind a fallen tree, where he could see every motion, and hear every word spoken in the circle. Here he had been about half an hour. Night had drawn her sable curtain around the scene or, in other words, it was dark. The moon shone fitfully through the clouds which almost covered the horizon, only serving occasionally to render the darkness visible. The Indians now began to evince manifest signs of impatience for the return of their comrade. They feared that a party of the whites had followed them and taken him prisoner, and at last resolved to go in search of him. The plan, which was fortunately overheard by Timothy, was to put the captives into one of the canoes, under the care of five of their number, who were to secrete themselves in case of an attack, massacre the prisoners, and then go to the assistance of their brethren.

As soon as the main body had started, Peabody cautiously crept from his hiding-place to the water and, sliding in feet foremost, moved along on his back, his face just above the surface, to the canoe which contained the rifles of the guard. The priming was quickly removed from these, and their powder-horns emptied, replaced, and the prisoners given notice of their intended rescue, at the same time warning them not to show themselves above the gunwale till they were in safety. He next, with his Indian knife, separated the thong which held the canoe to the shore, intending to swim off with it till he had got far enough to avoid observation, then get in, and paddle for the nearest place where a landing could be effected. All this was but the work of a moment, and he was slowly moving off from the shore, as yet unobserved by the guard, who little expected an attack from this side. But, unfortunately, his rifle had been left behind, and he was resolved not to part with “Old Plumper,” as he called it, without at least one effort to recover it. He immediately gave the captives notice of his intention, and directed them to paddle slowly and silently out, and in going past the headland, to approach as near as possible, and there await his coming.

The guard by this time had secreted themselves, and one of the number had chosen the same place which Timothy himself had previously occupied, near which he had left his old friend. He had almost got to the spot, when the Indian discovered the rifle, grasped it, and springing upon his feet, gave the alarm to his companions. Quick as thought, Tim was upon him, seized the rifle, and wrenched it from him with such violence as to throw him breathless to the ground. The rest of the Indians were alarmed, and, sounding the war-whoop, rushed upon him.

It was a standard maxim with Timothy, that “a good soldier never runs till he is obliged to,” and he now found that he should be under the necessity of suiting his practice to his theory. There was no time for deliberation; he instantly knocked down the foremost with the butt of his rifle, and bounded away through the thicket like a startled deer. The three remaining Indians made for the canoe in which the rifles were deposited, already rendered harmless by the precaution of Timothy. This gave him a good advantage, which was not altogether unnecessary, as he was much encumbered with his wet clothes, and before he reached the goal he could hear them snapping the dry twigs close behind him. The main body likewise got the alarm, and were but a short distance from him when he reached the headland. Those who were nearest he did not fear, unless they came to close action, and he resolved to send one more of them to his long home before he leaped from the precipice.

“It’s a burning shame to wet so much powder,” he exclaimed; “I’ll have one more pop at the tarnal red-skins.” Tim’s position was quickly arranged to put his threat in execution. His rifle was presented, his eye glanced along its barrel, and the first one that showed his head received its deadly contents. Another, and still another Indian, were thus disposed of, and then, taking a deep breath, Timothy made the leap. The water was deep and it seemed a long time before he came to the surface, but in a moment he struck out for the canoe. The whole party of Indians by this time had come up, and commenced a brisk fire upon the fugitives. Tim stood erect in the canoe, shouting in the voice of a stentor, “Ye’d better take care, ye’ll spile the skiff. Old Plumper’s safe, and you’ll feel him yet, I tell ye!”

Peabody and the rescued prisoners were quickly lost in darkness, and, taking a small circuit, effected a landing in safety. Many a man’s life verified his last threat, and Peabody lived to a good old age, having often related to his friends and neighbors the adventure which gave to this place the name of “Peabody’s Leap.”

DONA MARIA’S DEFIANCE

[Philip the Second, king of Spain, murdered his own brother, Don John of Austria. Dona Maria Dolores de Mendoza, betrothed to the slain man, discovers that her innocent father has taken the blame upon himself for this atrocious crime in order that his king might not be branded before the eyes of the world. Thus the beautiful woman comes before her king with a great purpose: First, to have her father released from prison; and second, to express her personal hatred for the murderer of her lover. The king is alone when she enters.]

Philip. Be seated, Dona Dolores. I am glad that you have come, for I have much to say to you and some questions to ask of you. In my life I have suffered more than most men in being bereaved of the persons to whom I have been most sincerely attached. One after another those that I have loved have been taken from me, until I am almost alone in the world that is so largely mine. My sorrows have reached their crown and culmination to-day in the death of my dear brother. I know why you have come to me; you wish to intercede for your father. It is right that you come to me yourself.

Dona Dolores. I ask justice, not mercy, sire.

Philip. Your father shall have both, for they are compatible.

Dona Dolores. He needs no mercy, for he has done no wrong. Your majesty knows that as well as I.

Philip. I cannot guess what you know or do not know.

Dona Dolores. I know the truth.

Philip. I wish I did. Tell me; you may be able to help me sift it. What do you know?

Dona Dolores. I was close behind the door. I heard every word. I heard your sword drawn and I heard Don John fall, and then it was some time before I heard my father’s voice taking the blame upon himself lest it should be said that a king had murdered his own brother in his room unarmed. Is that the truth, or not? I came in and found him dead. He was unarmed, murdered without a chance for his life, and my father took the blame to save you from the monstrous accusation. Confess that what I say is true. I am a Spanish woman and would not see my country branded before the world with the shame of your royal murders; and if you will confess and save my father I will keep your secret for my country’s sake. If you will not, by the God that made you I will tell all Spain what you are, and the men who loved Don John of Austria will rise and take your blood for his blood, though it be blood royal, and you shall die as you killed, like the coward you are. You will not? Then—

Philip. No, No! Stay here; you must not go. What do you want me to say?

Dona Dolores. Say, “You have spoken the truth.”

Philip. Stay—yes—it is true—I did it—for Spain—For God’s mercy do not betray me.

Dona Dolores. That is not all. That was for me, that I might hear the words from your own lips.

Philip. What more do you want of me?

Dona Dolores. My father’s freedom and safety. I must have an order for his instant release. Send for him. Let him come here at once as a free man.

Philip. That is impossible. He has confessed the deed before the whole court. He must at least have a trial. You forget to whom you are speaking.

Dona Dolores. I am not asking anything of your majesty. I am dictating terms to my lover’s murderer.

Philip. You shall not impose your insolence on me any further. I shall call help—

Dona Dolores. Call whom you will, you cannot save yourself. In ten minutes there will be a revolution in the palace, and to-morrow all Spain will be on fire to avenge your brother. Spain has not forgotten Don Carlos yet. You tortured him to death. There are those alive who saw you give Queen Isabel the draught that killed her—with your own hand. Are you mad enough to think that no one knows these things; that your spies who spy on others do not spy on you; that you alone of all mankind can commit every crime with impunity?

Philip. Take care, girl! Take care!

Dona Dolores. Beware, Don Philip of Austria, King of Spain and half the world, lest a girl’s voice be heard above yours, and a girl’s hand loosen the foundations of your throne. Outside this door are men who guess the truth already; who hate you as they hate Satan; and who loved your brother as every living being loved him, except you. One moment more. Order my father to be set free, or I will open and speak. One moment! You will not? It is too late—you are lost.... If you ring that bell, I will open the door. Bring the order here where I am safe. I must read it myself before I am satisfied. [Philip writes order.] I humbly thank your majesty and take my leave.—This scene is arranged from the novel “In the Palace of the King,” by Marion Crawford.

THE KING AND THE POET

[François Villon, the poet, fought and severely wounded the traitorous Grand Constable of France, Thibaut d’Aussigny. King Louis XI, in a whimsical mood, had the poet elevated to his opponent’s station instead of having him cast into prison and sentenced to death. Lady Katherine, hearing that François had fought with Thibaut d’Aussigny, whom she hates for his many protestations of love, and knowing that the penalty was death, pleads for the poet’s life at the feet of him whom she supposes to be the new Grand Constable, but who after all is none other than her own true lover.]

(The morning after his visit to the Fircone Tavern, Louis sat in his rose-garden, pondering upon his strange adventure of the night before. A favorite astrologer had interpreted his dream to mean that one in the depths, if exalted, would be of great service to him. He knew how precarious his position was, how unpopular he was with the people, how strong were the forces of the Duke of Burgundy, how little he could depend upon the allegiance of the people of Paris if once the enemy set foot within the capital city. His encounter with Villon coming upon the heels of his strange dream, and followed by the vague prophecies of the star-gazer, made him believe that the fantastic rhymester was sent to him in a time of peril to be of support to his throne.

A heavy tread behind him stirred him from his meditations. Turning, he beheld the companion of his adventure the previous evening.)

King. Well, Tristan?

Tristan. The bird has flown, sire. Thibaut’s wound was much slighter than we thought last night. After we carried him to his house, he made his escape thence in disguise, and has, as I believe, fled from Paris to join the Duke of Burgundy.

King. I wish the Duke joy of him. He is more dangerous to my enemy when he is on my enemy’s side. And my rival for loyalty?

Tristan. Barber Oliver has charge of him. I would have hanged the rogue out of hand.

King. The stars warn me that I need this rhyming ragamuffin.

Tristan. Are you going to let him think he is king, sire?

King. Not quite. When he wakes, he is to be assured that he is the Count of Montcorbier and Grand Constable of France. His antics may amuse me, his lucky star may serve me, and his winning tongue may help to avenge me on a certain forward maid, who disdained me. Send me here Oliver. [Exit Tristan.]

[Katherine comes slowly down one of the rose-ways.]

King. Where are you going, girl?

Katherine. To her majesty, sire, who bade me gather roses.

King. You are a pretty child. You might have had a king’s love. Well, well, you were a fool. Does not Thibaut woo you?

Katherine. He professes to love me, sire, and I profess to hate him.

King. He was sorely wounded last night in a tavern scuffle.

Katherine. Only wounded, sire?

King. Your solicitude is adorable. Be of cheer. He may recover. And we have clapped hands on the assassin. He shall pay the penalty.

Katherine. This man should not die, sire. Thibaut d’Aussigny was a traitor, a villain—

King. If this knave’s life interests you, plead for it to my lord the Grand Constable.

Katherine. Thibaut is pitiless.

King. Thibaut is no longer in office. Try your luck with his successor.

Katherine. His name, sire?

King. He is the Count of Montcorbier. He is a stranger in our court, but he has found a lodging in my heart. He came under safe conduct from the south last night. I believe he will serve me well, and I am sure he will always be lenient to loveliness. Now go, girl, or my wife and your queen will be wanting her roses. [Exit Katherine.]

[Glancing up the terrace, he perceives the figure of Oliver. Behind Oliver comes a little cluster of pages, and behind them again the king can see a shining figure in cloth of gold.]

King. Here comes my mountebank as pompous as if he were born to the purple. It would be rare sport if Mistress Katherine disdained Louis to decline upon this beggar. He shall hang for mocking me. But he carries himself like a king for all his tatters and patches, and he shall taste of splendor.

[As the little procession descends the steps into the rose-garden the king moves swiftly to the door of the tower and enters. There is a little grating in the door, and through this grating the king now peers with infinite entertainment of the comedy himself had planned.]

[Master Villon is greatly changed. The barber’s own handiwork has cleansed and shaved his countenance. He is as sumptuously attired as if he were a prince of the blood royal. It is plain that the tricked out poet is in a desperate dilemma. He manages to bear himself with dignity that consorts with his pomp.]

Oliver. Will your dignity deign to linger awhile in this rose-arbor?

François. My dignity will deign to do anything you suggest.

Oliver. May we take our leave, monseigneur?

François. You may, you may—stay one moment. You know this plaguy memory of mine—what a forgetful fellow I am. Would you mind telling me again who I happen to be?

Oliver. You are the Count of Montcorbier, monseigneur. You have just arrived in Paris from the court of Provence, where you stood in high favor with the king of that country, but your favor is, I believe, greater with the king of France, for he has been pleased to make you Grand Constable of France. It is his majesty’s wish that you contrive to remember this.

François. Of course, it was most foolish of me to forget. Now, I suppose, good master long-toes, that a person in my exalted rank has a good deal of power, influence, authority, and what not?

Oliver. With the king’s favor, you are the first man in the realm.

François. Quite so! Good sir, will you straightway dispatch some one you can trust with a handful of these broad pieces to the mother of Villon, a poor old woman sorely plagued with a scapegrace son? Let him seek her out and give her these coins that she may buy herself food, clothes and fire.

Oliver. It shall be done. [Exit all but François.]

[As soon as Villon finds himself alone he looks cautiously around him and tries to recall the events of the evening before, which for some fantastic reason seems to lie centuries behind him.]

François. Last night I was a red-handed outlaw, sleeping on the straw of a dungeon. To-day I wake in a royal bed and my varlets call me Monseigneur. Either I am mad or I am dreaming. I do not think I am mad, for I know in my heart that I am poor François Villon, penniless Master of Arts, and no will-o’-the-wisp Grand Constable. Then I am dreaming, and everything has been and is a dream. Then the king—popping up at the last moment, like a Jack-in-the-box—a dream. These clothes, these servants, this garden—dreams, dreams, dreams. I shall wake presently and be devilish cold, hungry and shabby.

[He goes to the golden flagon on the table, pours out a full cup of Burgundy, and watches it glow in the sunlight.]

François. To the loveliest lady this side of heaven! By heaven, my eyes dazzle, for I believe I see her!

[On the terrace the fair girl leans and looks over at the garden and its golden occupant.]

Oliver. My lord, there is a lady there who desires to speak with you.

François. I desire to speak with her.

[Oliver enters the palace, and Katherine approaches Villon.]

Katherine. My lord, will you listen to a distressed lady?

François. She does not know me.

Katherine. There is a man in prison at this hour for whom I would implore your clemency. His name is François Villon. Last night he wounded Thibaut d’Aussigny. The penalty is death. But Thibaut was a traitor, sold to Burgundy.

François. Did this Villon fight him for his treason?

Katherine. No! He fought for the sake of a woman.

François. How do you know all this?

Katherine. Because I was the woman. This man had seen me, thought he loved me, sent me verses—.

François. How insolent!

Katherine. It was insolence—and yet they were beautiful verses. I was in mortal fear of Thibaut. I went to this Villon and begged him to kill my enemy. He backed his love-tale with his sword—and he lies in the shadow of death. It is not just that he should suffer for my sin.

François. Do you by any chance love this Villon?

Katherine. Great ladies do not love tavern bravos. But I pity him and I do not want him to die.

François. If I had stood in this rascal’s shoes, I would have done as he did for your sake.

Katherine. If you think this, you should grant the poor knave his freedom.

François. That brother of ballads shall go free. We will do no more than banish him from Paris. Forget that such a slave ever came near you.

Katherine. I shall remember your clemency.

François. By Saint Venus, I envy this fellow that he should have won your thoughts. I, too, would die to serve you!

Katherine. My lord, you do not know me.

François. Did he know you? Yet when he saw you he loved you and made bold to tell you so.

Katherine. His words were of no more account than the wind in the leaves. But you and I are peers and the words we change have meanings.

François. Would you pity me if I told you I love you?

Katherine. Heaven’s mercy, how fast your fancy gallops. I care little to be flattered and less to be wooed, and I swear that I should be very hard to win.

François. I have more to try than your tap-room bandit. I see what he saw; I love what he loved.

Katherine. You are very inflammable.

François. My fire burns to ashes. You can no more stay me from loving you than you can stay the flowers from loving the soft air, or true men from loving honor, or heroes from loving glory. I would rake the moon from heaven for you.

Katherine. That promise has grown rusty since Adam first made it to Eve. There is a rhyme in my mind about moons and lovers:

François. What doggerel!

Katherine. It is divinity.

François. Tell me what I may do to win your favor?

Katherine. A trifle. Save France! Oh, that a man would come to court! For the man who shall trail the banners of Burgundy in the dust for the king of France to walk on I may perhaps have favors.

François. You are hard to please.

Katherine. My hero must have every virtue for his wreath, every courage for his coronet. Farewell. [Exit Lady Katherine.]

[Enter King Louis.]

King. Good afternoon, Lord Constable. Does power taste well?

François. Nobly, sire! On my knees let me thank your majesty.

King. Nonsense, man; I’m pleasing myself. You sang yourself into splendor. “If François were the king of France,” eh?

François. Sire, I will serve you as never king was served.

King. I will make you Grand Constable for a week.

François. A week, sire? A week—

King. Even so. One wonderful week, seven delirious days. The world was made in seven days. Seven days of power, seven days of splendor, seven days of love.

François. And then go back to the garret and the kennel, the tavern and the brothel!

King. No, no, not exactly! You don’t taste the full force of the joke yet. Your last task as Grand Constable will be to hang François Villon.

François. Sire, sire, have pity!

King. You may have your week of wonder if you wish, but if you do, by my word as king, you shall swing for it.

François. Sire, what have I done that you should torture me thus?

King. You have mocked a king and maimed a minister. You can’t get off scot free.

François. Heaven help me! Life, squalid, sordid, but still life, with its tavern corners and its brute pleasures of food and drink and warm sleep, living hands to hold, and living laughter to gladden me—or a week of cloth of gold, of glory, of love—and then a shameful death!

King. One further chance, fellow. If the Count Montcorbier win the heart of Lady Katherine within the week, he shall escape the gallows and carry his lady love where he please.

François. On your word of honor, sire?

King. My word is my honor, Master François. Well?

François. Give me my week of wonders though I die a dog’s death at the end of it. I will show France and her what lay in the heart of a poor rhymester.

King. Spoken like a man! But remember, a bargain’s a bargain. If you fail to win the lady you must keep yourself for the gallows. I give you the moon, but I want my price for it.

[Enter Oliver.]

Oliver. Sire, the Burgundian herald attends under a flag of truce with a message for your majesty.

King. We will receive him here, Oliver. We need air when we hold speech with Burgundy. [Exit Oliver.]

King. Listen well to this man’s words, my Lord Constable.

[Enter Messenger.]

King. Your message, sir?

Herald. In the name of the Duke of Burgundy and of his allies and brothers-in-arms assembled outside the walls of Paris, I hereby summon you, Louis of France, to surrender this city unconditionally and to yield yourself in confidence to my master’s mercy.

King. And if we refuse, Sir Herald?

Herald. The worst disasters of war, fire and sword and famine, and no hope for yourself.

King. Great words. The Count of Montcorbier, Constable of France, is my counselor. His voice delivers my mind. Speak, friend, and give this messenger his answer.

François. As I will, sire?

King. Yes, go on, go on. “If Villon were the king of France.”

François. Herald of Burgundy, in God’s name and the king’s, I bid you go back to your master and say this: “Kings are great in the eyes of their people, but the people are great in the eyes of God. The people of Paris are not so poor of spirit that they fear the croak of the Burgundian ravens. When we who eat are hungry, when we who drink are dry, when we who glow are frozen, when there is neither bite on the board nor sup in the pitcher nor spark upon the hearth, our answer to rebellious Burgundy will be the same. You are knocking at our doors, beware lest we open them. We give you back defiance for defiance, menace for menace, blow for blow. This is our answer—this and the drawn sword.”

[Enter Katherine while he is speaking.]

Katherine. My Lord, with my lips the women of France thank you for your words of flame.

King. Mistress, what does this mean?

Katherine. It means, sire, that a man has come to court.—This scene is arranged from Justin Huntly McCarthy’s novel, “If I Were King.”

THE BISHOP AND THE CONVICT

By Victor Hugo

That evening, after his walk in the town, the Bishop of D— remained quite late in his room. At eight o’clock he was still at work, writing with some inconvenience on little slips of paper, with a large book open on his knees, when Mme. Magloire, as usual, came in to take the silver from the panel by the bed. A moment after, the bishop, knowing that the table was laid, and that his sister was perhaps waiting, closed his book and went into the dining-room.

Just as the bishop entered Mme. Magloire was speaking with some warmth. It was a discussion on the means of fastening the front door.

It seems that while Mme. Magloire was out making provisions for supper she had heard the news in sundry places. There was talk that an ill-favored runaway, a suspicious vagabond, had arrived and was lurking somewhere near the town, and that it was the part of wise people to secure their doors thoroughly.

“Brother, do you hear what Mme. Magloire says?”

“I heard something of it indistinctly,” said the bishop. Then, turning his chair half round, putting his hands on his knees, and raising toward the old servant his cordial and good-humored face, which the firelight shone upon, he said: “Well, well, what is the matter! Are we in any great danger?”

Then Mme. Magloire began her story again, unconsciously exaggerating it a little. It appeared that a barefooted gypsy man, a sort of dangerous beggar, was in the town. A man with a knapsack and a rope and a terrible-looking face.

“Indeed!” said the bishop.

“We say that this house is not safe at all; and, if monseigneur will permit me, I will go out and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come and put the old bolts in the door again; they are there, and it will take but a minute. I say we must have bolts, were it only for to-night; for I say that a door that opens with a latch on the outside to the first comer, nothing could be more horrible; and then monseigneur has the habit of always saying: ‘Come in’ even at midnight. But, my goodness, there is no need to even ask leave—”

The door opened.

It opened quickly, quite wide, as if pushed by some one boldly and with energy.

A man entered.

He came in, took one step, and paused, leaving the door open behind him. He had his knapsack on his back, his stick in his hand, and a rough, hard, tired, and fierce look in his eyes, as seen by the firelight. He was hideous. It was an apparition of ill omen.

Mme. Magloire had not even the strength to scream. She stood, trembling, with her mouth open.

Mdlle. Baptistine turned, saw the man enter, and started out half alarmed; then, slowly turning back again toward the fire, she looked at her brother, and her face resumed its usual calmness and serenity.

“See here! My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict; I have been nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was set free, and started for Pontarlier, which is my destination; during these four days I have walked from Toulon. To-day I have walked twelve leagues. When I reached this place this evening I went to an inn, and they sent me away on account of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the mayor’s office, as was necessary. I went to another inn; they said: ‘Get out!’ It was the same with one as with another; no one would have me. I went to the prison and the turnkey would not let me in. I crept into a dog-kennel, the dog bit me, and drove me away as if he had been a man; you would have said that he knew who I was. I went into the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no stars. I thought it would rain, and there was no good God to stop the drops, so I came back to the town to get the shelter of some doorway. There in the square I lay down upon a stone; a good woman showed me your house, and said: ‘Knock there!’ I have knocked. What is this place? Are you an inn? I have money; my savings, one hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous, which I have earned in the galleys by my work for nineteen years. I will pay. What do I care? I have money. I am very tired—twelve leagues on foot—and I am so hungry. Can I stay?”