Part 2 — CHAPTER IX GETTING THE AUTHOR’S MOOD

Hints to the Student

Before the pupil is ready for this second step, Sympathetic Reading, he must have mastered part one, Intelligible Reading. The first step was concerned primarily with the development of the intellect, but the second step appeals primarily to the emotions, one’s sympathetic response to mood.

The outlines for the study of a selection, given later, will be found very helpful as a basis and guide for study and analysis.

MEMORABILIA

By Robert Browning

THE JOY OF THE HUMAN VOICE

How much squandering there is of the voice! How little there is of the advantage that may come from conversational tones! How seldom does a man dare to acquit himself with pathos and fervor! And the men are themselves mechanical and methodical in the bad way who are most afraid of the artificial training that is given in the schools, and who so often show by the fruit of their labor that the want of oratory is the want of education.

How remarkable is the sweetness of voice in the mother, in the father, in the household! The music of no chorded instruments brought together is, for sweetness, like the music of familiar affection when spoken by brother and sister, or by father and mother.

—Henry Ward Beecher, from “Lectures on Oratory.”

The one great object in reading is to get at the mind of the author. What did he mean? What did he intend me to feel as I read? What is his real message? How can I best reach the mind and heart of the author, the poet, the dramatist, through his written words?

This is the real mission of literature, and he is a poor teacher who fails to impress the heart of his students with its importance. Too often teachers spend the valuable time of their students with matters of entirely subsidiary importance, such as the style of the author, questions as to when, where and how he wrote, his figures of speech, his methods of composition, and the like. All these are of importance to those who are learning to write, and are of interest to others, but the prime reason for all literature is that the author has something of greater or lesser importance to say, which he wishes to reach the mind and heart of his reader.

Take, for instance, Browning’s exquisite short poem above. What good does it do the student to engage his attention with Browning’s style, his verse forms, etc.? To him the matter of prime importance is that he shall know what Browning meant.

This is the vital question in all reading.

That literature which is a mere collection of fine words, beautifully arranged in perfect sentences, is “as sounding brass and a clanging cymbal.” To have any real significance it must be surcharged with high, lofty, pure, stirring human emotion; and to feel the same emotion that the writer felt as he penned poem, essay, novel, story or drama is the aim of every intelligent and thoughtful reader. One of the best possible ways of accomplishing this is by reading aloud—even when one is alone. One writer boldly affirms that we can never know the vital, spiritual message of a writer until we have put his words upon our tongue and sent them winging away in speech, freighted with the meaning that has reached our minds.

In reading carefully this poem of Browning, observe if the very nature of the theme does not demand the various modulations of the human voice to give it adequate interpretation. Repeat the first two lines, thinking of their purpose, and then see if you do not feel somewhat of an emotional thrill which must be akin to that which was felt by Browning when he thought of his great teacher, that marvelous poet, Shelley.

Is it possible really to get the heart throb of this poem unless we sing it out through the voice? The major portion of time spent in literary study should be through oral interpretation. Let a pupil read to you, and instantly you can detect whether or not he understands what he is reading. Corson said he believed the time is coming when examinations in literature will be wholly oral. He goes on to say:

Reading must supply all the deficiencies of written or printed language. It must give life to the letter. How comparatively little is addressed to the eye, in print or manuscript, of what has to be addressed to the ear by the reader! There are no indications of tone, quality of voice, inflection, pitch, time, or any other of the vocal functions demanded for a full intellectual and spiritual interpretation. A poem is not truly a poem until it is voiced by an accomplished reader, who has adequately assimilated it—in whom it has, to some extent, been born again, according to his individual spiritual constitution and experiences. The potentialities, so to speak, of the printed poem, must be vocally realized. What Shelley, in his lines “To a Lady, With a Guitar,” says of what the revealings of the instrument depend upon, may be said with equal truth of the revealings of every true poem; it

by those who endeavor to get at its secrets.

—Hiram Corson, “The Voice and Spiritual Education,” p. 29.

In this same connection let us add what Goethe has said:

Mood-Analysis

The following is an illustration of what might be called the “mood-analysis” of a selection. For the sake of convenience the sentences in the excerpt are numbered. The important thing for the student to bear in mind is to see that the author’s purpose is completely grasped, and then render it in the proper mood.

First: Read the selection paragraph by paragraph. Then arrange the several points in their respective order. Now give them orally as simply and progressively as possible.

Second: Read the selection again by paragraphs and this time determine what are the important and unimportant words. Then give these important words a greater force of utterance.

Third: Do not fear to make many groups. It is imperative to grasp the author’s ideas and pictures in separate detail. When each of these has been well thought over, we are then ready to put these separate parts into one complete and harmonious whole.

Fourth: Determine the mood which dominates each separate picture or detail, then see how these fit into each other, like the parts of a picture puzzle, perfecting the thought as a whole and making it a living, harmonious, mental or spiritual conception.

THE MAN WHO WEARS THE BUTTON

By John Mellen Thurston[6]

1. Sometimes in passing along the street I meet a man who, in the left lapel of his coat, wears a little, plain, modest, unassuming bronze button. 2. The coat is often old and rusty; the face above it seamed and furrowed by the toil and suffering of adverse years; perhaps beside it hangs an empty sleeve, and below it stumps a wooden peg. 3. But when I meet the man who wears that button I doff my hat and stand uncovered in his presence—yea! to me the very dust his weary foot has pressed is holy ground, for I know that man, in the dark hour of the nation’s peril, bared his breast to the hell of battle to keep the flag of our country in the Union sky.

4. Maybe at Donaldson he reached the inner trench; at Shiloh held the broken line; at Chattanooga climbed the flame-swept hill, or stormed the clouds on Lookout Heights. 5. He was not born or bred to soldier life. 6. His country’s summons called him from the plow, the forge, the bench, the loom, the mine, the store, the office, the college, the sanctuary. 7. He did not fight for greed of gold, to find adventure, or to win renown. 8. He loved the peace of quiet ways, and yet he broke the clasp of clinging arms, turned from the witching glance of tender eyes, left good-by kisses upon tiny lips to look death in the face on desperate fields.

9. And when the war was over he quietly took up the broken threads of love and life as best he could, a better citizen for having been so good a soldier.

10. What mighty men have worn this same bronze button! Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Logan, and an hundred more, whose names are written on the title-page of deathless fame. 11. Their glorious victories are known of men; the history of their country gives them voice; the white light of publicity illuminates them for every one. 12. But there are thousands who, in humbler way, no less deserve applause. 13. How many knightliest acts of chivalry were never seen beyond the line or heard of above the roar of battle.

14. God bless the men who wear the button! 15. They pinned the stars of Union in the azure of our flag with bayonets, and made atonement for a nation’s sin in blood. 16. They took the negro from the auction-block and at the altar of emancipation crowned him—citizen. 17. They supplemented “Yankee Doodle” with “Glory Hallelujah,” and Yorktown with Appomattox. 18. Their powder woke the morn of universal freedom and made the name “American” first in all the earth. 19. To us their memory is an inspiration, and to the future it is hope.—From an address at a banquet of the Michigan Club of Detroit, February 21, 1890.

(To find the designated mood of any sentence in the above selection refer to its corresponding number below.)

1. Pleasant meditation.

2. Pity and compassion.

3. Veneration and pride.

4. Heroism and triumph.

5 and 6. Loyal self-denial.

7 and 8. Heroic self-sacrifice.

9. Admiration and enterprise.

10. Compassion.

11. Praise and honor.

12 and 13. Contrast.

14. Supplication.

15. Heroic patriotism.

16. Justice.

17. Unity.

18. Sublimity.

19. Gratitude.

Now take Joaquin Miller’s magnificent and stirring poem “Columbus” and analyze it in the same fashion. Here is the analysis made of it by an intelligent reader on his own initiative, without any knowledge of the method we would have each student master and follow:

A Student’s Analysis of “Columbus”

First dwell upon the outlines of the history of Columbus, his early struggles and mastery of hardships. Recall that it was in his day that the new idea of the rotundity of the earth was being largely discussed. Watch the growth of this idea in his thought, until there springs up the confident assurance that if this idea be true it must be possible to reach India—or any other land—by sailing around the earth in either direction. Confident of his idea, his scientific mind demands knowledge, demonstration. He seeks help to find out. Is rebuffed on every hand. Called crazy, insane, a fool, a lunatic. The idea persists. It grows into an obsession. He knows, and now his soul demands that he compel other people to know. The more rebuffs the greater his determination. Get hold here of the great fundamental thought that moves the universe, that works all the marvels that man has accomplished, viz., that when you link up with Truth, you are linked up with God—the Supreme Power of the Universe—and there cannot be any failure to a man so connected. All Columbus had to do was to persist. He did so, and finally Isabella and Ferdinand were convinced, the money needed was raised, the ship provided, and the happy, joyous Columbus sets sail to demonstrate to the world that which his soul had already convinced him was true.

Now remember the ignorance of the world at large on the subject. Recall that his sailors were densely ignorant and fearfully superstitious, but Columbus had never given that a thought.

He sets sail, full of delight, happiness, confidence. Now refer to the poem. 1. He and his sailors alike knew that the islands of the Azores and the Gates of Hercules were behind them. 2. Here, however, is a difference in the knowledge of Columbus and his sailors. He, with the eye of scientific confidence, could see ahead, though there was nothing in sight but shoreless seas, not even the ghost of shores. The sailors saw nothing but the uncharted and unknown seas. Do you not feel their awe and superstitious fears? Can you not picture their fearful whisperings together as they sail further and further into the unknown? The mate is the means of communication between them and the admiral. 3. Observe the dread of sailors and mate. The stars with which they are familiar disappear and new and strange ones appear, adding new fuel to their superstitious fears. 4. The mate asks Columbus how he shall reply to these fears. His mood is one of fear and growing alarm excited into the action of questioning. 5. Now ask yourself: What would be Columbus’s natural reply? Remember he has given years of thought to this subject. He has no question as to the success of the voyage. Expecting to sail on uncharted seas, they have no fears for him. He knows what he will find when he has gone far enough around. The fears and questions of the mate are absurd, preposterous. There is but one answer: Calmly and confidently he gives it, “Why, say, Sail on! and on!” Matter of fact, almost indifferent, totally unconscious of the seething fears bubbling up every moment afresh in the hearts of his sailors. What kind of intonation in his voice would such a question call forth?

6. For the time being the questionings of the men are satisfied, and they sail and sail (don’t hurry in giving this repetition) as winds might blow. The fears and questionings now begin afresh. 7. The fear is indicated in the word blanched, and in the mate’s words. 8. Being away from familiar scenes, and all other men, his and his sailors’ small minds fear that even God has lost sight of them. The winds are lost, God is not here. 9. Hence there is increasing urgency in his second appeal to the admiral. But Columbus (10), seeing the vision that has been familiar to him for many years, and preoccupied by his dream, neither sees any reason for fears, nor does he yet become aware of the fear expressed in the mate’s voice. His reply, therefore, is the quiet, scarcely heard voice of the dreamer, given much lower and quieter than his ordinary talking voice, but with the deep intensity of a man who has but one purpose.

Pause now for a few moments to allow this quiet urge of the admiral to sink in. Don’t hurry. Then let the next stanza open with some degree of haste and excitement. 11. The mate’s tone now is one of definite, open remonstrance. It is all very well for his admiral to say “Sail on!” He—the mate—has to come in direct conflict with the men. They are growing mutinous. They are growing ghastly wan and weak. Even he, 12, had begun to think of home and, in spite of himself, tears, 13 (for is not this suggested in “a spray of salt wave”?) washed his swarthy cheek. Hence now, his question is more definite. He seeks to “pin” the admiral down to a fixed time, 14. He gives him until dawn to see land. But the admiral, feeling that each dawn sees him nearer to the goal of his heart’s desire, and impatient that the foolish fears and unreasoning terrors of his men should even threaten the possible thwarting of this desire, replies sternly, impatiently and somewhat fiercely, 15. He shall say at break of day, land or no land, fears or no fears, but one thing, and he puts such emphasis upon it that no one can misunderstand.

Here, again, pause. Let this firm determination “seep” into the minds of the hearers. A few moments is long enough, but to speed on immediately to the fourth stanza is to lose a striking effect. Then, in perfectly natural, quiet voice, continue the story: They sailed. 16. Observe the repetition of this statement. Why is it repeated? A thoughtful author doesn’t repeat for nothing. Here, by the repetition, 17, Joaquin Miller seeks powerfully to impress upon his reader that after they had sailed a long, long way further, they still sailed on. Hence, is it not apparent there must be quite a little pause between the first “they sailed” and the second? Try the effect of this and see the result.

Now, 18, the mate, forced by his own and his sailors’ fears, though assured of the displeasure of the admiral at his voicing of these fears, braves his anger by calling his attention to the coming storm on the sea, 19, and he becomes more agitated as he expresses his own fears, 20. Yet he knows the courage of the admiral, and consciously or unconsciously pays him the tribute of bravery. At the same time, as hope has almost fled from the bosoms of himself and his shipmates he asks the question, pleadingly, agonizingly: “What shall we, 22, do when hope is gone?” In the answer all of Columbus’s exasperation, despair, determination, are compressed. Has he studied, prayed, pleaded, striven for years, and come thus far to be balked by the fears of a few craven cowards? Is he now, just now, when success must be close within his reach, to fail? No! by the Eternal, he shall not fail! The childish cries of his men shall not avail. He will compel them to go on, and, as though he were maddened beyond control his words “leap like a leaping sword,” 23, and cleave the air with ringing sound that strikes down all opposition, Sail on! Sail on! sail on! AND ON!

Let the crescendo come with all the power, force, voice, of which you are capable. Prepare for it. Get the lungs full of air. Put all the intensity and passion of a lifetime’s hopes, desires, ambitions, into it, and feel as though you had these cowardly sailors by the throat and were determined upon pouring your will into their craven souls.

Again pause, before going to the last stanza. Elbert Hubbard and his wife, both of whom were public speakers and readers of high order, regarded this sixth stanza as an anticlimax. Personally, I do not. Properly given, it is a most powerful climax to a most powerful poem. Ask yourself: After the expression of an overwhelming emotion, what natural reaction is felt? One of weariness. Add this thought to the thoughts expressed in the words. Long and endless vigils, harassment from his men, doubts in his own soul, which, however, he dare not voice. 25. That night was so dark because, crushed by long-continued opposition, and his body weakened by constant watchfulness, and the urge of his passion, even he lost hope. But thanks be to God, there are men like Columbus, who, even when hope seems gone, when there is no light whatever in “that night of all dark nights” still persist. For, is it not darkest just before dawn? Suddenly our minds are transferred to the lookout man. He sees a speck. 26. Wonderingly he looks at it again and again, until he is assured it is a light, so he gives the warning cry: “A light!” 27. Now notice the repetition of the word light. Four times it appears. Why? Most critics account such repetitions as proofs of an author’s weakness, but they little know Joaquin Miller who so regard his repetitions. Let your brain work awhile. Remember, Columbus and his sailors have been weeks away from land, sailing on unknown, uncharted seas. They are becoming used to seeing no land, nothing but seas upon which even the winds have lost their way. Yet the lookout sees a light. He satisfies himself. He gives the signal call: “A light!” For dramatic purposes we can imagine that every one on the vessel hears it. Incredulously they call out a query: “A light?” It cannot be! But, sure of himself, and seeing it more clearly each moment, the lookout assertingly replies, “A light! I tell you!” Then, all doubt removed, filled with joy, their fears dispersed, their bodings and apprehensions removed, the sailors hysterically and joyously unite in the cry: “A light!” and the reason for the four “a lights!” is made clear.

Now, the poet, 28, changes the thought and rapidly introduces figures of speech. The light on the first land seen by Columbus ultimately grows to the “starlit flag of freedom” of the United States, the flag of the people, the flag of a true republic, the flag of genuine democracy. But it grew further, 29. That light, and that flag, grew to be “Time’s burst of dawn.” In other words, until all men, everywhere, in every way, are free, mankind is still in the night. The dawn comes only when men can be themselves, as God intended they should when he created them. Hence triumphant joy should be expressed in speaking of this flag, and what it means to the world.

Then, calmly, quietly, bring the mind back to the admiral. What did he gain? 30. “A world.” And he gave that world its grandest lesson, that of persistence in following the vision of the higher and larger things, On, Sail on!

COLUMBUS

A Suggestive Outline for the Study of a Selection

I. Mastery of Main Theme

The first step in the study of any selection is to gain an idea of it as a whole. This can best be done by reading the selection in its entirety. If there should be strange words, let them pass for the time being. Thus we grasp the predominant mood and significant setting or situation.

II. Progressive Analysis

Read the selection, silently, a second time. The aim now is to make a mental note of the several parts which make up the whole. This demands close concentration, in order that we may unify matters and prevent abrupt transitions. We are to break up the whole into parts, and each part represents a thought group.

1. Punctuation makes the meaning clear, and the clear meaning determines the various groups. Example: “It came, rushing in torrents like an avalanche of rock.” We do not pause after “came,” although it is so punctuated. Question: Do you find like instances in the selection under consideration? Where?

2. The length and frequency of the pause which sets off the groups is dependent upon the context and upon the listeners. If the context is serious, or if the listeners are uneducated, there will of necessity be many groups. And obversely, if the context is not serious or difficult, or if the audience is educated, there will be fewer and longer groups.

Question: What is the situation in the present selection?

3. In the study of the chief word in the group we must remember that its real meaning depends upon its relation to the other words in the same group. For instance, the word “fire” does not mean the same thing at all times. The meaning of this word depends upon its kinship with other members of the same group. When we say, “The house is on fire,” this word “fire” means an altogether different thing than when we say, “There is a fire in the stove this morning.” Let us take care that we do not isolate words, but that we get their associative meanings.

Questions: What are the important words in the various groups? What is the real meaning of each? Why? Give five synonyms of each.

III. Reference to Experience

We are now prepared to call upon our storehouse of past experiences in order that we may identify ourselves more closely with the author’s meaning. We are to react upon what we read. The more vividly we can bring what we read from the page into our own actual experience, the more deeply are we impressed with its meaning. We translate the unseen, the unfelt and unbelieved by likening it to what is already seen, felt or believed. If experience is lacking, we draw upon our imagination.

1. If we are reading a description, we will see this scene in terms of a past like experience.

2. If we are reading a narration, we will feel it in terms of a past like experience.

3. If we are reading something we have not believed, we will accept it in terms of what we have already believed.

Question: What experiences does this selection call upon from me? What purposes do they serve?

IV. Classification

There are three divisions into which all selections may be put. A selection may be written to make something Clear; it may be for the purpose of inspiring, or elevating one’s thoughts and feelings—to make Impressive; it may be for the purpose of enforcing some great truth—to make Belief. This classification is based upon the author’s purpose.

Questions: Where the author’s purpose is to make Clear some obscure point or idea.

1. What significant words are used?

2. Is there any obscurity? Why?

3. What illustrations or comparisons are made?

4. Think earnestly of an experience which will aid you to see clearly the author’s purpose.

Where the author’s purpose is Impressiveness

1. Is the emotion aroused pleasurable?

2. Have you had an experience which resembles what is referred to?

3. What mood is predominant? Is it:

Impassioned, grave, sad,

Triumphant, exalted, solemn,

Humorous, satirical, pathetic,

Inspiring, enheartening, discouraging?

4. What are the minor moods? Supply your own descriptive mood if none of the following are adequate:

Fanciful, enthusiastic, cheerful,

Dreamy, sentimental, witty,

Pensive, tender, serene, quiet,—or suggestive of

Awe, loneliness,

Admiration, suspense, joy, anger,

Fear, rage, sympathy, grief, sorrow, surprise, anxiety.

Where the author’s purpose is Belief. The author does more than make us see, or feel.

1. What actual experience have you had that resembles the thing the author would have you believe?

2. Do you accept as truth what you have read?

3. What particular thought carries the most conviction?

4. Do you think others should believe what the author says?

5. Is it clear and impressive, and do you believe it?

V. Setting

This has to do with time, place, objects, sounds, movement, or anything that gives local color to the selection.

Questions:

1. Is it modern or old?

2. Where is the scene laid?

3. Are descriptions given in detail or mere suggestion?

4. Is dialect used?

5. Will personation aid in rendering the selection?

6. Does the power and beauty of the selection lie in narration, description, or in character drawing?

7. Name some definite things, sounds or objects described, that give color or atmosphere.

8. Is the movement:

Slow, swift, light, heavy,

Tripping, graceful, spirited,

Powerful, easy, varied?

VI. Vocalization

Let our guide be as Shakespeare has so well put it:

Let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word; the word to the action; with this special observance—that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature.

1. Read the selection as ordinary conversation.

2. Now read again as enlarged conversation, or, as it were, for the ears of many.

3. Ask yourself the following questions:

(1) Do I make proper use of Pitch?

(2) Do I make proper use of Pause?

(3) Do I make proper use of Inflection?

(4) Do I make proper use of Tone Color?

(5) Do I make proper use of Stress?

(6) Do I make proper use of Movement?

4. At all times let us remember that our purpose is not to give a pleasing performance, but faithfully to interpret the author’s meaning.

A Condensed Outline for the Study of a Selection for Oral Presentation

I. Intelligent Impression

A. General Preparation

Read silently the entire selection. The purpose is to gain an impression of the selection as a whole.

1. What was the author’s purpose in writing this selection?

2. What specific intent did he have:

a. To make something clear?

b. To make something impressive?

c. To establish a truth?

d. To stimulate to righteous action?

3. Consult the dictionary for the meaning of strange words.

4. Look up the historical references.

B. Special Preparation

Read the selection silently a second time. The aim is to make a mental note of the respective importance of the several parts which make up the whole.

1. What is the definite idea, or definite picture, or definite feeling the author would have us get?

2. In what part of the selection is the author’s aim most forcibly presented?

3. What is the relative value of the thought-groups?

II. Intelligible Expression

A. General Preparation

Before rendering a selection orally it must be given a setting. This has to do with time, place, objects, sounds, movements, or anything that tends to give local color.

1. Is the selection colloquial or dramatic?

2. Is dialect used?

3. Will personation be necessary?

4. Give an original word-picture of the characters and situation.

5. To what reference to experience does it make?

6. What is the predominant mood?

B. Special Preparation

Read the selection aloud for the first time. In doing this, ask yourself:

1. Am I reading with correct thought-groups?

2. Do I make proper use of the pause? (Remember the length and frequency of the pause depends upon the nature of the subject and the audience.)

3. Am I enunciating clearly?

4. Is my voice melodious? That is, do I make proper use of pitch and inflection?

5. Am I conscious of the change and interchange of moods?

6. Do I make proper use of stress and movement?

7. Do my tones fit the color-words?

8. Am I faithfully and adequately interpreting the author’s meaning?

PROSE SELECTIONS

Humorous

Pathetic

Dramatic

Dialect

THE JOY OF READING

Who can estimate the joy, comfort and inspiration reading has afforded to the human race, how many weary hours it has solaced, how many distracted minds it has quieted, how many harassed souls it has soothed into forgetfulness? Who has not felt the thrill of discovery when he has found a new author, a new poet who peculiarly affected his mind, his soul, his risibilities, his ambitions, his life? I shall never forget when I found Charles Warren Stoddard’s “Apostrophe to a Skylark.” It was buried in one of his books and few seemed ever to have read it. There was joy incalculable in putting it side by side with Shelley’s classic “Ode” and comparing the two conceptions. Thousands of souls have been inspired by reading to higher, nobler, more worthy endeavor. So, like Sancho Panza, we bless God and thank Him for the man who invented reading.

—George Wharton James.

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS

NATHAN FOSTER

By Paul L. Dunbar

Nathan Foster and his lifelong friend and neighbor, Silas Bollender, sat together side by side upon the line-fence that separated their respective domains. They were both whittling away industriously, and there had been a long silence between them. Nathan broke it, saying:

“’Pears to me like I’ve had oncommon good luck this year.”

“Wall, you have had good luck, there ain’t no denyin’ that. It ’pears as though you’ve been ee-specially blest.”

“An’ I know I ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it.”

“No, o’ course not. Don’t take no credit to yourself, Nathan. We don’t none of us deserve our blessings, however we may feel about our crosses; we kin be purty shore o’ that.”

“Now, look, my pertater vines was like little trees, an’ nary a bug on ’em.”

“An’ you had as good a crop of corn as I’ve ever seen raised in this part of Montgomery county.”

“Yes, an’ I sold it, too, jest before that big drop in the price.”

“After givin’ away all yer turnips you could, you had to feed ’em to the hogs.”

“My fruit trees jest had to be propped up, an’ I’ve got enough perserves in my cellar to last two or three winters, even takin’ into consideration the drain o’ church socials an’ o’ charity.”

“Yore chickens are fat and sassy, not a sign o’ pip on ’em.”

“Look at them cows in the fur pastur. Did yer ever see anything to beat ’em fer sleekness?”

“Wall, look at the pasture itself; it’s most enough to make human beings envy the critters. You didn’t have a drop of rain on yer while you was gettin’ in yer hay, did yer?”

“Not a drop.”

“An’ I had a whole lot ruined jest as I was about to rick it.”

“Silas, sich luck as I’m a-havin’ is achilly skeery; it don’t seem right.”

“No, it don’t seem right for a religious man like you, Nathan. Ef you was a hard an’ graspin’ Sinner, it ’ud be jest makin’ you top-heavy so’s yore fall ’ud be the greater.”

“I don’t know but what that’s it, anyhow. Mebbe I’m a-gettin’ puffed up over my goods without exactly knowin’ it.”

“Mebbe so, mebbe so. Them kind o’ feelin’s is mighty sneakin’ comin’ on a body. O’ course I ain’t seen no signs of it in you; but it ’pears to me you’ll have to mortify yore flesh yit to keep from being purse-proud.”

“Mortify the flesh?”

“O’ course, you can’t put peas in yore shoes er get any of yer frien’s to lash you, so you’ll have to find some other way of mortifyin’ yer flesh. Wall, fer my part, I don’t need to look fur none, fur I never had too many blessin’s in my life, less’n you’d want to put the children under that head.”

Silas shut his jack-knife with a snap and, laughing, slid down on his side of the fence. In serious silence Nathan Foster watched him go stumping up the path toward the house.

“Silas seems to take everything so light in this world; I wonder how he can do it.”

With Nathan, now, it was just the other way. Throughout his eight and forty years he had taken every fact of life with ponderous seriousness. Entirely devoid of humor, he was a firm believer in signs, omens, tokens, and judgments. He was a religious man, and his wealth frightened and oppressed him. He gave to his church and gave freely.

As usual, he had taken his friend’s bantering words in hard earnest and was turning them over in his mind.

The next morning when Nathan and Silas met to compare notes, Nathan began:

“I have been thinking over what you said last night, Silas, about me mortifyin’ my flesh, and it seems to me like a good idee. I wrasselled in prayer last night, and it was shown to me that it wa’n’t no more’n right fur me to make some kind o’ sacrifice fur the mercies that’s been bestowed upon me.”

“Wall, I don’t know, Nathan; burnt-offerings are a little out now.”

“I don’t mean nothin’ like that; I mean some sacrifice of myself, some—”

His sentence was broken in upon by a shrill voice that called from Silas Bollender’s kitchen door:

“Si, you’d better be a-gittin’ about yore work instid o’ standin’ over there a-gassin’ all the mornin’. I’m shore I don’t have no time to stand around.”

“All right, Mollie; speakin’ of mortifyin’ the flesh an’ makin’ a sacrifice of yoreself, Nathan, why don’t you git married?”

Nathan started.

“Then you’d be shore to accomplish both. Fur pure mortification of the flesh, I don’t know of nothin’ more thoroughgoin’ er effectiver than a wife. Also she is a vexation to a man’s sperit. You raaly ought to git married, Nathan.”

“Do you think so?”

“It looks to me that that ’ud be about as good a sacrifice as you could make; an’ then it’s such a lastin’ one.”

“I don’t believe you realize what you air a-sayin’, Silas. It’s a mighty desprit step that you’re advisin’ me to take.”

Again Mrs. Bollender’s voice broke in:

“Si, air you goin’ to git anything done this mornin’, er air you goin’ to stand there an’ hold up that fence fur the rest of the day?”

“Nathan, kin you stand here an’ listen to a voice an’ a speech like that an’ then ask me if I realize the despritness of marriage?”

“It’s desprit, but who’d you advise me to marry,—Silas, that is, if I made up my mind to marry,—an’ I don’t jest see any other way.”

“Oh, I ain’t pickin’ out wives fur anybody, but it seems to me that you might be doin’ a good turn by marryin’ the Widder Young. The Lord ’ud have two special reasons fur blessin’ you then; fur you’d be mortifyin’ yore flesh an’ at the same time a-helpin’ the widder an’ her orphans.”

“That’s so.” He couldn’t admit to Silas that he had been thinking hard of the Widow Young even before he had of mortifying his flesh with a wife.

Once decided, it did not take him long to put his plans into execution. But he called Silas over to the fence that evening after he had dressed to pay a visit to the widow.

“Wall, Silas, I’ve determined to take the step you advised.”

“Humph, you made your mind up in a hurry, Nathan.”

“I don’t know as it’s any use a-waiting; ef a thing’s to be done, I think it ought to be done and got through with. What I want particular to know now is, whether it wouldn’t be best to tell Lizzie—I mean the widder—that I want her as a means of mortification.”

“Wall, no, Nathan, I don’t know as I would do that jest yit; I don’t believe it would be best.”

“But if she don’t know, wouldn’t it be obtainin’ her under false pretenses if she said yes?”

“Not exactaly the way I look at it, fur you’ve got more motives fur marryin’ than one.”

“What! Explain yoreself, Silas; explain yoreself.”

“I mean you want to do her good as well as subdue your own sperit.”

“Oh, yes, that’s so.”

“Now, no woman wants to know at first that she’s a vexation to a man’s sperit. It sounds scriptual, but it don’t sound nooptial. Now look at me an’ Mis’ Bollender. I never told her until we’d been married more’n six months; but she didn’t believe it then, an’ she won’t believe it till this day.”

“Wall, I’ll agree not to tell her right away, but if she consents, I must tell her a week or so after we are married. It’ll ease my conscience. Ef I could tell her now, it ’ud be a heap easier in gittin’ round the question. I don’t know jest how to do it without.”

“Oh, you won’t have no trouble in makin’ her understand. Matrimony’s a subject that women air mighty keen on. They can see if a man’s a-poppin’ the question ef he only half tries. You’ll git through all right.”

Somewhat strengthened, Nathan left his friend and sought the widow’s home. He found her stitching away merrily under the light of a coal-oil lamp with a red shade.

“La, Nathan, who’d a’ expected to see you up here? You’ve got to be such a home body that no one don’t look to see you out of yore own field and garden.”

“I jest thought I’d drop in.”

“Wall, it’s precious kind of you, I’m shore. I was a-feelin’ kind o’ lonesome. The children go to bed with the chickens.”

“I jest thought I’d drop in.”

“Wall, it does remind me of old times to see you jest droppin’ in, informal like, this way. My, how time does fly!”

“Widder, I’ve been thinkin’ a good deal lately; I’ve been greatly prospered in my day; in fact, my cup runneth over.”

“You have been prospered, Nathan.”

“Seems ’s ef—seems ’s ef I ought to sheer it with somebody, don’t it?”

“Wall, Nathan, I don’t know nobody that’s more generous in givin’ to the pore than you air.”

“I don’t mean in jest exactly that way. I mean, widder—you’re the morti—I mean the salvation of my soul. Could you—would you—er do you think you’d keer to sheer my blessin’s with me an’ add another one to ’em?”

The Widow Young looked at him in astonishment; then the tears filled her eyes as she asked, “Nathan, do you mean it?”

“I wouldn’t a-spent so much trouble on a joke, widder.”

“No, it don’t seem that you would, Nathan. Well, it’s mighty sudden, mighty sudden, but I can’t say no.”

“Fur these an’ many other blessin’s make us truly thankful, O Lord,” said Nathan devoutly. And he sat another hour with the widow making plans for the early marriage, on which he insisted.

The widow had been settled in Nathan’s home over a month before he had ever thought of telling her of the real motive of his marriage, and every day from the time it occurred to him it grew harder for him to do it.

One night when he had been particularly troubled he sought his friend and counselor with a clouded brow. They sat together in their accustomed place on the fence.

“I’m bothered, Silas.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Why, there’s several things. First off, I ain’t never told the widder that she was a mortification, an’ next she ain’t. I look around at that old house o’ mine that ain’t been a home since mother used to scour the hearth, an’ it makes me feel like singin’ fer joy. An’ I hear them children playin’ round me—they’re the beatenest children; that youngest one called me daddy yistiddy—well, I see ’em playin’ round and my eyes air opened, an’ I see that the widder’s jest another blessin’ added to the rest. It looks to me like I had tried to beat the Almighty.”

“Wall, now, Nathan, I don’t know that you’ve got any cause to feel bothered. You’ve done yore duty. If you’ve tried to mortify yore flesh an’ it refused to mortify, why, that’s all you could do, an’ I believe the Lord’ll take the will fer the deed an’ credit you accordin’ly.”

“Mebbe so, Silas, mebbe so.”

—Copyright by Dodd, Mead & Co., New York, and used by arrangement.

DOING A WOMAN’S WORK

By McKillip-Stanwood

“Breakfast ready yet?” asked Jack Telfer, as he set two pails of foaming milk on the bench and turned to wash his hands.

“Almost,” replied his wife. “But, say, Jack, won’t you fix the calf pen while you’re waiting? It won’t take but a minute. The calves got out twice yesterday and tramped all over the flower beds and garden. I had an awful time getting them in. I tried to fix it, but I don’t think I did a good job.”

“I can’t stop now. I guess it’s all right. If they get out, why chase them in; you have nothing else to do, and I’ll fix it up right when I get time. I want my breakfast now. I can’t fool around here till noon. I’ve got to cultivate the peaches to-day.”

“I’ve nothing else to do,” repeated his wife, as she dished up the tempting breakfast. “Well, I like that, Jack Telfer. I wish to goodness I hadn’t any more to do than you have.”

“Why, what under the sun have you to do? You have only Toodles and me to look after and this little house to keep. I could do all the work you do with one hand tied behind me and then find time to throw at the birds. You see, I know what I am talking about, for I can cook and do housework as well as any woman.”

“You’ve never displayed any talent in that direction since I’ve known you. It’s like pulling teeth to get you to do a chore around the house. Not that I want a man to do housework, for I don’t; that’s a woman’s business. But when she has every step to take and a dozen things to do at once, a little help occasionally comes mighty handy.”

“Well, the reason I don’t help around here is because there isn’t much to do. The work you have is a snap, my girl, and a mighty soft one, too. Why, my mother had nine children and did all her own work and cooked for harvest hands and threshers and used to help the neighbors out if they got in a pinch.”

“Well, my dear husband, I do not doubt but your mother was a very smart woman. She must have been to have raised so promising a son. But women are not all alike, my dear.”

“Now, your work is a sort of paper-flower work compared with what I have to do. It would be a picnic for me to stay in the house, wash dishes, play with the baby and do such things.”

“All right, suppose you have a picnic to-day. I can drive the cultivator just as well as you and you can cook and keep house a great deal better than I; at least you think you can. I’ll hitch up and cultivate the peaches and you can tie one hand behind you and do the work to-day and see how much time you have to throw at the birds. What do you say?”

“Say,” laughed Mr. Telfer as he pushed back from the table. “Why, I say I’m willing, but if you don’t get enough riding in the hot sun—”

“The hot sun,” interrupted his wife, “is no worse than the hot stove I cook over. Will you do it?”

“You bet I’ll do it, but you must tell me what’s to be done so you can’t throw it up to me for ever after that the reason I got through so soon was because I didn’t do half the work.”

“First,” said Mrs. Telfer, “there’s the milk to skim and the calves to feed and the churning to do. Skim the milk on the north shelf in the cellar; the dishes to wash, and don’t forget to scald the churn and the milk things. Then you can iron; the clothes are all dampened down in the basket. You need not iron any but the plain things, I’ll do the others. Pit the cherries I picked last night and make a pie for dinner. And, oh, yes, you will have to kill a chicken and dress it, for you know you said last night you wanted chicken and dumplings for dinner to-day, and now is your chance.

“Stew some prunes for supper to-night, make the bed, sweep and dust and get the vegetables ready for dinner. Oh, I guess you know about what there is to do. I must be off now, for it is nearly 6 o’clock.” And she was gone.

“Well, it’s early yet; guess I’ll smoke and read the Rural World awhile. There’s an article on hogs I wanted to read; it seems nice to have time to do what you please.”

After he had read a long time he at last knocked the ashes into his hand and stretched lazily.

He went down cellar and skimmed the milk, then he fed the calves, laughed at the way his wife had tried to fix the calf pen, went in and took off the table cloth and piled the dishes and empty milk things on the table.

“Guess I’ll wash up before I churn. No, I won’t, either. I’ll churn first; then I’ll clean up all at once. Oh, I’ve got a head on me. I ought to have been a woman.”

He brought from the cellar a large new pan of thick cream and set it on the table, then he went to scald the churn, but the fire was out and the dish water Mrs. Telfer had put on before breakfast was nearly cold.

“Blame it all, I’ve got to go to the barn for peach pits; not one in the basket. But I’ll kill the chicken while I’m out there and save an extra trip. If Jennie would only use some management about her work she’d have plenty of time.”

The large pit basket was soon filled, but the chicken was another proposition. Every time he selected one to catch it seemed to know it was a marked bird and would shy off to the edge of the flock. At last he had to run one down, and he wrung its neck with a great deal of satisfaction. As he entered the house the clock struck nine.

“Wheu! Where has the morning gone? I must get a move on me. Guess I’ll make the pie first so it can bake while the water is heating.”

He prepared the cherries. Then he made the pie; made it as well as a woman could. He had pushed the dishes back on the cluttered table to make room for his bread-board, and just as he had the crust nicely stamped down around the edge of his pie, with a fork, a tousled head of yellow curls appeared in the doorway, one chubby hand holding up a long, white nighty, the other rubbing a sleepy eye.

There was surprise on the baby face at the sight of his father. Papa meant fun for Toodles, and, running to him, he put up his little arms, saying, “Papa, high me; high Toodles, papa; high Toodles.” And his father, dusting the flour from his hands, tossed the baby to the ceiling again and again while the little fellow screamed with delight.

In the midst of this jolly frolic the clock announced that it was the tenth hour of the day.

“Hear that, young man?” said the father. “That means that we must cut out this racket and get down to business. Your paternal ancestor is chief cook and general manager to-day and has several little chores to do yet. We will get Toodles’ breakfast first, then wash and dress him afterwards so that he won’t get mussed up when he eats.

“Mamma don’t do that way, but we can give mamma a few pointers on keeping a baby clean, can’t we, Toodles?”

And, putting the child in his high-chair, Mr. Telfer pinned a tea towel around the little neck for a bib, took a bowl and went to the cellar for some new milk.

While Toodles was eating breakfast his father washed the prunes and put them on to stew, set the pie in the oven and started to build the fire, but he was interrupted by an emphatic voice saying, “Papa, down; papa, down.”

“All right, young man, I’ll attend to your case directly,” said Jack, touching a match to the kindling. “Guess I’ll wash and dress you and have you off my hands.”

And, taking a wash-pan of tepid water, with soap, comb, rag, towel and Toodles, he went into the sitting-room where it was cool and pleasant. The baby’s clean clothes were lying upon a chair, where his mamma had placed them the night before. Then what a time they had. Toodles would catch the wash rag in his teeth and papa would shake it and growl till the little mouth would have to let loose to scream with the agonizing fun.

Then came the tangled curls, and it took a wonderful story about a doggie that would say “Bow, wow,” and a little horsie that Toodles could ride and a chicky that went “Peep, peep, peep,” and several other mental concoctions to keep the baby quiet until the ringlets were in order.

When the clean coaties were on and two little arms hugged papa tight, Jack Telfer thought, “Jennie calls this work.”

The clock pounded out eleven strokes.

“Blast that clock; what’s got into it,” thought the man, putting the child down and hurrying to the kitchen. “I’ve been busy every minute this morning, and here it is 11 o’clock and not a thing done yet.”

He found the fire had burned out; he had forgotten to put the peach pits on the kindling when he had stopped to fuss with Toodles.

“Well, I guess I’ll make it all right by noon,” he soliloquized. “This is a hurry-up order, but I’ll be on time or eat my hat.”

He looked at his pie; it was nearly half baked. He built a roaring fire, packed the stove with peach pits, pulled the prunes to the front where they would cook quicker, and was debating in his mind which he should scald first, the churn or the chicken, when something rushed by the door.

“Drat those calves; they’re out again.”

Snatching his hat, he hurried after them. It was a merry chase for the calves if not for Mr. Telfer. They were willing to go in any direction but the right one, and by the time he got them corralled Jack was hot, tired and cross.

When Toodles was left alone he started out on a tour of inspection. The first objects of interest were the dead chicken and the peach-pit basket, but his attention was soon detracted from these by the bright pan that held the cream; it had been pushed to the edge of the table. As Toodles approached it he saw the reflection of a chubby baby face on the outside.

“Baby,” said Toodles. He smiled and the pan baby smiled, and he concluded that the pan must be full of pretty, smiling babies, and he wanted them to play with. He could just get his little fingers over the edge of the pan. He pulled and tugged with all his might to get the pan baby down.

He succeeded, for the pan toppled over and deluged the immaculate Toodles with thick, yellow cream. His pretty curls were filled with chunks of oily coagulation, and cream ran in rivulets down his little back and bosom.

He seated himself in the middle of it and paddled and spattered in great glee.

The calf pen took longer to fix than Jack had expected, and as he neared the house he heard the clock striking twelve, and, looking fieldward, he saw his wife coming to dinner.

“Jumping Jupiter! what will she say?” was his mental comment. “But she will soon fix things, I’ll bet.”

As he entered the kitchen what a sight met his gaze. The room was dark with smoke from burned prunes, the table piled full of unwashed pans and dishes. The cream. Heavens, the cream! The dead chicken lay in the middle of the floor and the pit-basket was upset, as Toodles had left it for the pan baby. The open-mouthed churn stared at him.

Mr. Telfer opened the oven door; his pie was a black mass.

“I can see now why women sit down and cry sometimes. I’m blessed if I don’t feel like it myself,” he said.

Toodles, drenched but happy, called from the middle of his cream puddle, “High me, papa; high me.”

Mrs. Telfer called out as she passed the house: “Hello! Dinner ready? I’m awful hungry.” But her husband was not visible.

She had enjoyed her morning’s work and was in excellent spirits. She watered and fed the team, then started for the house. The novelty of the situation amused her. She expected Jack would have some surprise ready, some extra dish for dinner, the table decorated with flowers or, perhaps, be tricked out in one of her white aprons with his hair curled and a pink ribbon around his neck to show how a wife should greet her husband.

He was such a wag it was impossible to tell what he might do. As she entered the house she stood dumb with amazement. Her eyes took in the situation. The breakfast dishes, the burned pie, the creamy Toodles, the dead chicken, the littered sitting-room with the remains of Toodles’ toilet and the distracted-looking man.

“How soon will dinner be ready?” she asked. But her husband did not answer; he was busy picking up peach pits. “I’ve got to get back to work as soon as I can,” she continued.

Crossing the room, she took up a paper and went outside and sat down in the shade to read.

Toodles, greasy and dripping, trotted after.

“Oh, baby, go to papa and get cleaned up. Go tell papa to clean baby up, darling,” said his mother. And the little fellow hurried into the house, saying: “Keen baby up, papa; keen baby up.”

Poor Jack, he had lost out. He was hopelessly balled up. He was mad. He had felt somehow that his troubles were over when he saw his wife coming, but when she took the paper and sat down to read, leaving him in that awful muss, the iron entered his soul.

Yet he knew that was exactly the way he did, and only yesterday when she asked him to get a pitcher of fresh water for dinner he had said:

“It’s a pity a man can’t get a moment to rest without having to chore around the house.”

“Keen baby up, papa; keen baby up!” reiterated Toodles. Jack looked down at the greasy, smeary child with its cream-matted curls and capitulated.

“Say, Jennie,” he called, “I’ll give up. I know when I’m worsted. It’s my treat. If you’ll come in here and help me out of this mix-up you can name your own price and I’ll pay it. I’ve worked all the morning and haven’t done a blamed thing but get all balled up. I never would have believed a woman had so much to do if I hadn’t tried it. I am dead sore at the whole deal.”

“Why, Jack,” laughed his wife, as she came to his assistance, “you don’t seem to like paper-flower work. I guess you forgot to tie one hand behind you and so used both to throw time at the birds.”

“Now see here, Jennie, don’t strike a man when he’s down. I’ll admit that I’m not nearly so smart as I thought I was this morning, but how things ever got in this shape I can’t tell,” said Jack with a grim smile.

Together they soon brought order out of chaos, and as they sat eating their picked-up dinner Jack said:

“If it is all the same to you, Jennie, I’ll finish the orchard this afternoon.”—The Los Angeles Times.

A BAD NIGHT

By J. Ross Browne

I gradually dropped off into a doze, a mere doze, for I scorn the charge of having slept a wink that night. The grating of the grindstones, the everlasting clatter of tongues, the dust, the chaff, smoke, and fleas, to say nothing of the roar of the water down below, were enough to banish all hope of sleep; I merely closed my eyes to try how ridiculous it would feel. How long they remained closed I scarcely know; it was not long, however, for I soon heard a heavy breathing close by my head, and felt the warm breath of some monster on my face. I knew it to be no Arab; it blew and snuffed altogether unlike anything of the human kind. Thinking it might be all fancy, I cautiously put out my hand in the dark and began to feel around me. For some moments I could discover nothing, but in waving my hand around I at length touched something—something that sent the blood flying back to my heart a good deal quicker than it ever flew before. To tell the honest truth, I never was so startled in all the previous adventures of my life. The substance that I put my hand on was bare and warm; it was wet also and slimy, and had large nostrils which seemed to be in the act of smelling me, previous to the act of mastication. With the quickness of lightning I jerked up my hand, and felt it glide along a skin covered with long rough hair; the next instant my ears were stunned by the most dreadful noises, which resembled, as I thought in the horror of the moment, the roaring of a full-grown lion. But it was not the roaring of a lion; it was only the braying of an ass.—From The Mill of Malaha.

AN UNTHANKFUL ORPHAN

By Kate Langley Bosher

My name is Mary Cary. I live in the Yorkburg Female Orphan Asylum. You may think nothing happens in an Orphan Asylum. It does. The orphans are sure enough children, and real, much like the kind that have Mothers and Fathers; but though they don’t give parties or wear truly Paris clothes, things happen.

To-day I was kept in. Yesterday, too. I don’t mind, for I would rather watch the lightning up here than be down in the basement with the others. There are days when I love thunder and lightning. I can’t flash and crash, being just Mary Cary; but I’d like to, and when it is done for me it is a relief to my feelings.

The reason I was kept in was this: Yesterday Mr. Gaffney, the one with a sunk eye and cold in his head perpetual, came to talk to us for the benefit of our characters. He thinks it’s his duty, and, just naturally loving to talk, he wears us out once a week anyhow. Yesterday, not agreeing with what he said, I wouldn’t pretend I did, and I was punished prompt, of course.

I don’t care for duty-doers, and I tried not to listen to him; but tiresome talk is hard not to hear—it makes you so mad. Hear him I did, and when, after he had ambled on until I thought he really was castor-oil and I had swallowed him, he blew his nose and said:

“You have much, my children, to be thankful for, and for everything you should be thankful. Are you? If so, stand up. Rise, and stand upon your feet.”

I didn’t rise. All the others did—stood on their feet, just like he asked. None tried their heads. I was the only one that sat, and when his good eye stared at me in such astonishment, I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it, I truly couldn’t.

I’m not thankful for everything, and that’s why I didn’t stand up. Can you be thankful for toothache, or stomachache, or any kind of ache? You cannot. And not meant to be, either.

The room got awful still, and then presently he said:

“Mary Cary”—his voice was worse than his eye—“Mary Cary, do you mean to say you have not a thankful heart?” And he pointed his finger at me like I was the Jezebel lady come to life.

I didn’t answer, thinking it safer, and he asked again:

“Do I understand, Mary Cary”—and by this time he was real red-in-the-face mad—“do I understand you are not thankful for all that comes to you? Do I understand aright?”

“Yes, sir, you understand right,” I said, getting up this time. “I am not thankful for everything in my life. I’d be much thankfuller to have a Mother and Father on earth than to have them in heaven. And there are a great many other things I would like different.” And down I sat, and was kept in for telling the truth.

Miss Bray says it was for impertinence (Miss Bray is the Head Chief of this Institution), but I didn’t mean to be impertinent. I truly didn’t. Speaking facts is apt to make trouble, though—also writing them. To-day Miss Bray kept me in for putting something on the blackboard I forgot to rub out. I wrote it just for my own relief, not thinking about anybody else seeing it. What I wrote was this:

That’s why I’m up in the punishment-room to-day, and it only proves that what I wrote is right. It’s crazy to let people know you know how queer they are. Miss Bray takes personal everything I do, and when she saw that blackboard, up-stairs she ordered me at once. She loves to punish me, and it’s a pleasure I give her often.

She thinks she could run this earth better than it’s being done, and she walks around like she is the Superintendent of most of it.

But she’s taught me a good deal about Human Nature, Miss Bray has. About the side I didn’t know. I think I will make a special study of Human Nature. I thought once I’d take up Botany in particular, as I love flowers; or Astronomy, so as to find out all about those million worlds in the sky, so superior to earth, and so much larger; but I think, now, I’ll settle on Human Nature. Nobody ever knows what it is going to do, which makes it full of surprises, but there’s a lot that’s real interesting about it. I like it. As for its Bray side, I’ll try not to think about it; but if there are puddles, I guess it’s well to know where, so as not to step in them. I wish we didn’t have to know about puddles and things! I’d so much rather know little and be happy than find out the miserable much some people do. God is going to have a hard time with Miss Bray. She’s right old to change, and she’s set in her ways—bad ways.

Did you know I wrote poetry? Umhm. I do. Last week I wrote one. This is it:

Miss Bray was to get married. When I grow up I am going to marry a million-dollar man, so I can travel around the world and have a house in Paris with twenty bathrooms in it. And I’m going to have horses and automobiles and a private car and balloons, if they are working all right by that time. I hope they will be, for I want something in which I can soar up and sit and look down on other people.

All my life people have looked down on me, passing me by like I was a Juny bug or a caterpillar, and I don’t wonder. I’m merely Mary Cary with fifty-eight more just like me. Blue calico, white dots for winter, white calico, blue dots for summer. Black sailor hats and white sailor hats with blue capes for cold weather, and no fire to dress by, and freezing fingers when it’s cold, and no ice-water when it’s hot.

Yes, I am going to marry a rich man. I will try to love him, but if I can’t I will be polite to him and travel alone as much as possible. But I am going to be rich some day, I am. And when I come back to Yorkburg eyes will bulge, for the clothes I am going to wear will make mouths water, they’re going to be so grand.

It seems like every time Miss Katherine goes away from the ’Sylum I’d be bad. Last time she hadn’t been gone two days till I’d invented more trouble. It was this way: In the summer we have much more time than in the winter, and the children kept coming to me asking me to make up something, and all of a sudden a play came in my mind. I just love acting. The play was to be the marriage of Dr. Rudd and Miss Bray.

You see, Miss Bray is dead in love with Dr. Rudd—really addled about him. And whenever he comes to see any of the children who are sick she is so solitious and sweet and smiley that we call her, to ourselves, Ipecac Mollie. Other days, plain Mollie Cottontail. It seemed to me if we could just think him into marrying her, it would be the best work we’d ever done, and I thought it was worth trying.

They say if you just think and think and think about a thing you can make somebody else think about it, too. And not liking Dr. Rudd, we didn’t mind thinking her on him, and so we began. Every day we’d meet for an hour and think together, and each one promised to think single, and in between times we got ready.

Becky Drake says love goes hard late in life, and sometimes touches the brain. Maybe that accounts for Miss Bray.

She is fifty-three years old, and all frazzled out and done up with adjuncts. But Dr. Rudd, being a man with not even usual sense, and awful conceited, don’t see what we see, and swallows easy. Men are funny—funny as some women.

I don’t think he’s ever thought of courting Miss Bray. But she’s thought of it, and for once we tried to help her, and the play was a corker; it certainly was. We chose Friday night because Miss Jones always takes tea with her aunt that night, and Miss Bray goes to choir practicing. I wish everybody could hear her sing! Gabriel ought to engage her to wake the dead—only they’d want to die again.

Dr. Rudd is in the choir, and she just lives on having Friday nights to look forward to.

The ceremony took place in the basement-room where we play in bad weather. It’s across from the dining-room, the kitchen being between, and it’s a right nice place to march in, being long and narrow.

I was the preacher, and Prudence Arch and Nita Polley, Emma Clark and Margaret Witherspoon were the bridesmaids.

Lizzie Wyatt was the bride, and Katie Freeman, who is the tallest girl in the house, though only fourteen, was the groom.

Katie is so thin she would do as well for one thing in this life as another, so we made her Dr. Rudd.

We didn’t have but two men. Miss Webb says they’re really not necessary at weddings, except the groom and minister. Nobody notices them, and, besides, we couldn’t get the pants.

I was an Episcopal minister, so I wouldn’t need any.

If anybody thinks that wedding was slumpy, they think wrong. It was thrilly. When the bride and groom and the bridesmaids came in, all the girls were standing in rows on either side of the walls, making an aisle in between, and they sang a wedding-song I had invented from my heart.

It was to the Lohengrin tune, which is a little wobbly for words, but they got them in all right, keeping time with their hands. These are the words:

And such singing! We’d been practicing in the back part of the yard, and humming in bed, so as to get the words into the tune; but we hadn’t let out until that night. That night we let go.

There’s nothing like singing from your heart, and, though I was the minister and stood on a box which was shaky, I sang too. I led.

The bride didn’t think it was modest to hold up her head, and she was the only silent one. But the bridegroom and bridesmaids sang, and it sounded like the revivals at the Methodist church. It was grand.

And that bride! She was Miss Bray. A graven image of her couldn’t have been more like her.

She was stuffed in the right places, and her hair was frizzled just like Miss Bray’s. Frizzled in front, and slick and tight in the back; and her face was a purple pink, and powdered all over, with a piece of dough just above her mouth on the left side to correspond with Miss Bray’s mole.

And she held herself so like her, shoulders back, and making that little nervous sniffle with her nose, like Miss Bray makes when she’s excited, that once I had to wink at her to stop.

The groom didn’t look like Dr. Rudd. But she wore men’s clothes, and that’s the only way you’d know some men were men, and almost anything will do for a groom. Nobody noticed him.

We were getting on just grand, and I was marrying away, telling them what they must do and what they mustn’t do. Particularly that they mustn’t get mad and leave each other, for Yorkburg was very old-fashioned and didn’t like changes, and would rather stick to its mistakes than go back on its word. And then I turned to the bride.

“Miss Bray,” I said, “have you told this man you are marrying that you are two-faced and underhand, and can’t be trusted to tell the truth? Have you told him that nobody loves you, and that for years you have tried to pass for a lamb, when you are an old sheep? And does he know that though you’re a good manager on little and are not lazy, that your temper’s been ruined by economizing, and that at times, if you were dead, there’d be no place for you? Peter wouldn’t pass you, and the devil wouldn’t stand you. And does he know he’s buying a pig in a bag, and that the best wedding present he could give you would be a set of new teeth? And will you promise to stop pink powder and clean your finger-nails every day? And—”

But I got no further, for something made me look up, and there, standing in the door, was the real Miss Bray.

All I said was—“Let us pray!”—Abridged from “Mary Cary,” copyrighted by The Century Company, New York, and used by the kind consent of author and publisher.

A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR A LADY

By Myra Kelly

It was the week before Christmas, and the First-Reader Class had, almost to a man, decided on the gifts to be lavished on “Teacher.” But Morris Mogilewsky, whose love for Teacher was far greater than the combined loves of all the other children, had as yet no present to bestow. The knowledge saddened all his hours and was the more maddening because it could in no wise be shared by Teacher, who noticed his altered bearing and tried with all sorts of artful beguilements to make him happy and at ease. But her efforts served only to increase his unhappiness and his love. And he loved her! Oh, how he loved her! Since first his dreading eyes had clung for a breath’s space to her “like man’s shoes” and had then crept timidly up to her “light face,” she had been mistress of his heart of hearts. That was more than three months ago. And well he remembered the day!

His mother had washed him horribly, and had taken him into the big, red schoolhouse, so familiar from the outside, but so full of unknown terrors within.

He was then dragged through long halls and up tall stairs by a large boy, who spoke to him disdainfully as “greenie,” so that his spirit was quite broken and his nerves were all unstrung when he was pushed into a room full of bright sunshine and of children who laughed at his frightened little face. The sunshine smote his timid eyes, the laughter smote his timid heart, and he turned to flee. But the door was shut, the large boy gone, and despair took him for its own.

Down upon the floor he dropped, and wailed, and wept, and kicked. It was then that he heard, for the first time, the voice which now he loved.

“Why, my dear little chap, you mustn’t cry like that. What’s the matter?”

The hand was gentle and the question kind, and these, combined with a faint perfume suggestive of drug-stores and barber-shops—but nicer than either—made him uncover his hot little face. Kneeling beside him was a lady, and he forced his eyes to that perilous ascent; from shoes to skirt, from skirt to jumper, from jumper to face, they trailed in dread uncertainty, but at the face they stopped. They had found—rest.

Morris allowed himself to be gathered into the lady’s arms, and held upon her knee, and when his sobs no longer rent the very foundations of his pink and wide-spread tie, he answered her question in a voice as soft as his eyes, and as gently sad.

“I ain’t so big, and I don’t know where is my mamma.”

Thereafter he had been the first to arrive every morning, and the last to leave every afternoon; and under the care of Teacher, his liege lady, he had grown in wisdom and love and happiness. But the greatest of these was love. And now, when the other boys and girls were planning surprises and gifts of price for Teacher, his hands were as empty as his heart was full. Appeal to his mother met with denial prompt and energetic.

“For what you go und make, over Christmas, presents?”

“All the other fellows buys her presents, und I’m loving mit her too; it’s polite I gives her presents the while I’m got such a kind feeling over her,” said Morris stoutly.

“Well, we ain’t got no money for buy nothings,” said Mrs. Mogilewsky sadly. “No money, und your papa, he has all times a scare he shouldn’t to get no more.”

So Morris was helpless, his mother poor, and Teacher all unknowing.

And now the great day, the Friday before Christmas, came, and the school was, for the first half-hour, quite mad. Room 18, generally so placid and so peaceful, was a howling wilderness full of brightly colored, quickly changing groups of children, all whispering, all gurgling, and all hiding queer bundles.

Isidore Belchatosky was the first to lay tribute before Teacher. He came forward with a sweet smile and a tall candlestick, and Teacher, for a moment, could not be made to understand that all that length of bluish-white china was really hers “for keeps.”

“It’s to-morrow holiday,” Isidore assured her; “and we gives you presents, the while we have a kind feeling. Candlesticks could to cost twenty-five cents.”

“It’s a lie! three for ten,” said a voice in the background; but Teacher hastened to respond to Isidore’s test of her credulity.

“Indeed, they could. This candlestick could have cost fifty cents, and it’s just what I want. It is very good of you to bring me a present.”

“You’re welcome,” said Isidore, retiring.

And then, the ice being broken, the First-Reader Class in a body rose to cast its gifts on Teacher’s desk, and its arms around Teacher’s neck.

Nathan Horowitz presented a small cup and saucer; Isidore Applebaum bestowed a large calendar for the year before last; Sadie Gonorowsky brought a basket containing a bottle of perfume, a thimble, and a bright silk handkerchief; Sarah Schrodsky offered a pen-wiper and a yellow celluloid collarbutton, and Eva Kidansky gave an elaborate nasal douche, under the pleasing delusion that it was an atomizer.

Jacob Spitsky pressed forward with a tortoise-shell comb of terrifying aspect and hungry teeth, and an air showing forth a determination to adjust it in its destined place. Teacher meekly bowed her head; Jacob forced his offering into her long-suffering hair, and then retired with the information “Costs fifteen cents, Teacher.”

Meanwhile the rush of presentation went steadily on. Cups and saucers came in wild profusion. The desk was covered with them. The soap, too, became urgently perceptible. It was of all sizes, shapes and colors, but of uniform and dreadful power of perfume. Teacher’s eyes filled with tears—of gratitude—as each new piece or box was pressed against her nose, and Teacher’s mind was full of wonder as to what she could ever do with it all. Bottles of perfume vied with one another and with the all-pervading soap, until the air was heavy and breathing grew laborious. But pride swelled the hearts of the assembled multitude. No other Teacher had so many helps to the toilet. None other was so beloved.

When the wastepaper basket had been twice filled with wrappings and twice emptied; when order was emerging out of chaos; when the Christmas-tree had been disclosed and its treasures distributed, a timid hand was laid on Teacher’s knee and a plaintive voice whispered, “Say, Teacher, I got something for you”; and Teacher turned quickly to see Morris, her dearest boy charge.

“Now, Morris dear,” said Teacher, “you shouldn’t have troubled to get me a present; you know you and I are such good friends that—”

“Teacher, yiss, ma’am,” Morris interrupted, in a bewitching and rising inflection of his soft and plaintive voice. “I know you got a kind feeling by me, and I couldn’t to tell even how I got a kind feeling by you. Only it’s about that kind feeling I should give you a present. I didn’t”—with a glance at the crowded desk—“I didn’t to have no soap nor no perfumery, and my mamma she couldn’t to buy none by the store; but, Teacher, I’m got something awful nice for you by present.”

“And what is it, deary?” asked the already rich and gifted young person. “What is my new present?”

“Teacher, it’s like this: I don’t know; I ain’t so big like I could to know”—and, truly, God pity him! he was passing small—“it ain’t for boys—it’s for ladies. Over yesterday on the night comes my papa to my house, und he gives my mamma the present. Sooner she looks on it, sooner she has a awful glad; in her eyes stands tears, und she says, like that—out of Jewish—‘Thanks,’ un’ she kisses my papa a kiss. Und my papa, how he is polite! He says—out of Jewish, too—‘you’re welcome, all right,’ un’ he kisses my mamma a kiss. So my mamma, she sets und looks on the present, und all the time she looks she has a glad over it. Und I didn’t to have no soap, so you could to have the present.”

“But did your mother say I might?”

“Teacher, no, ma’am; she didn’t say like that, und she didn’t to say not like that. She didn’t to know. But it’s for ladies, un’ I didn’t to have no soap. You could to look on it. It ain’t for boys.”

And here Morris opened a hot little hand and disclosed a tightly folded pinkish paper. As Teacher read it he watched her with eager, furtive eyes, dry and bright, until hers grew suddenly moist, when his promptly followed suit. As she looked down at him, he made his moan once more:

“It’s for ladies, and I didn’t to have no soap.”

“But, Morris dear,” cried Teacher, unsteadily, laughing a little, and yet not far from tears, “this is ever so much nicer than soap—a thousand times better than perfume; and you’re quite right, it is for ladies, and I never had one in all my life before. I am so very thankful.”

“You’re welcome, all right. That’s how my papa says; it’s polite. Und my mamma,” he said insinuatingly—“she kisses my papa a kiss.”

“Well?” said Teacher.

“Well,” said Morris, “you ain’t never kissed me a kiss, und I seen how you kissed Eva Gonorowsky. I’m loving mit you too. Why don’t you never kiss me a kiss?”

“Perhaps,” suggested Teacher mischievously, “perhaps it ain’t for boys.”

“Teacher, yiss, ma’am; it’s for boys,” he cried, as he felt her arms about him, and saw that in her eyes, too, “stands tears.”

Late that night Teacher sat in her pretty room and reviewed her treasures. She saw that they were very numerous, very touching, very whimsical, and very precious. But above all the rest she cherished a frayed and pinkish paper, rather crumpled and a little soiled. For it held the love of a man and a woman and a little child, and the magic of a home, for Morris Mogilewsky’s Christmas present for ladies was the receipt for a month’s rent for a room on the top floor of a Monroe Street tenement.—From “Little Citizens,” copyrighted by Doubleday, Page & Co., New York, and used by arrangement.

THE CAMP-MEETING AT BLUFF SPRINGS

By Justin Truitt Bishop

Bascom Barnard paused on the kitchen steps, and looked in at the door with suspicion and irritation in his eyes.

“Bakin’ chickens, air ye?” he asked. “Now I’d like to know what ye’re wastin’ chickens fur at this rate? An’ pies an’ lightbread an’ puddin’, well the land, Ma’ Jane, did ye think we was millionaires?”

“I didn’t know but ye’d change your mind about goin’ over to the camp-meetin’ an’ it would help along to have most of the cookin’ for Sunday done at home,” she said humbly.

“It does seem to me, Ma’ Jane, that it takes more talkin’ to convince you of anything, than any other seventeen women I ever have saw. I’ve tol’ you every day for the last week that we warn’t goin’ to that dratted camp-meetin’—that we couldn’t both leave, and I was bound to go over to the corners and see Bink Denny about that land—that a woman’s business was at home, stid of gallivantin’ ’round the country ’tendin’ camp-meetin’s; cain’t you ever learn anything, Ma’ Jane?”

Ma’ Jane shut the oven door and stood up; she wiped the perspiration from her face with a checked apron.

“I’ve been hopin’ for years that they’d have a camp-meetin’ near enough for me to go. I’ve not ’tended since I was a girl. Mother always had a tent an’ you was glad enough to come to camp-meetin’ then, Bascom, an’ this one’s not more’n six miles away—an’ I want to go.”

“Well, you know good an’ well you cain’t. Somebody’s got to stay on this place to take keer o’ things—an’ since it cain’t be me, it’s got to be you.”

“Mary Hopkins tol’ me she’d save one end of her tent for me; it’s built o’ boards—two rooms and a hall between—an’ there’s a big shed at the back for a dining-room, an’ I wanted to go worse’n I ever wanted to go anywheres, I guess.”

“Fur’s that’s concerned, I reckon I wanted to go, but you don’t see me throwin’ our livin’ away so’s I could gallop off to every camp-meetin’ that comes along, do ye?

“I won’t be back for three days,” he stated, as he went away. In deep silence Ma’ Jane sat down and looked at the kitchen table. It was heaped with the good things she had prepared for the great Sunday dinner at the camp-ground, where it was the joy of every tenter to keep open house and entertain all who would come.

True, Bascom had said all along that they could not go, yet she had gone on cooking and planning. She had even packed most of the things which she would need for housekeeping in the other end of Mary Hopkins’s tent.

Ma’ Jane went out to the barn and looked at the cows, which were ready to eat again, having been fed fully an hour before.

“Drat ye,” said she vindictively. Coming from Ma’ Jane, this might have been considered mild profanity.

Her heart stood still for a moment, then she wept remorsefully on the outstretched nose of the nearest cow. “It’s about time I was goin’ to camp-meetin’,” she said. “If I ain’t gettin’ to be a heathen, I dunno who is.”

As she slowly walked out of the barn, the two cows followed her, and it was at the barn-door that an inspiration came to Ma’ Jane Barnard.

Her face paled a moment, and then flushed crimson. She put her hand to her throat—“them cows lead like dogs,” she whispered.

Bascom Barnard’s work at the corners was over in less time than he had contemplated. In fact, he met Bink Denny coming out of the “First and Last Chance” in such a state of intoxication that Bascom was glad to tear himself away and set forth on the homeward road.

He went slowly and sorrowfully, because if he went home, Ma’ Jane would insist on going to camp-meeting and he would be left alone over Sunday. The few times when he had been left to look after the house had been brief but memorable. Of course, it was no trouble for Ma’ Jane to run the place. She was already reconciled to the staying at home now, anyway, and did not expect to go to the camp-meeting.

Bascom was silent on his way home—only two or three miles off the road—and he really felt that it would do him good to see what a camp-meeting was like once more. He felt that he might finish up the day there at any rate, and then go home and give Ma’ Jane a chance; or he might stay over Sunday at the camp-grounds, and then go back to the corners, find Bink Denny sober, and transact his business according to the first arrangement.

Bascom Barnard turned into the road that led to Bluff Springs. The sound of hammering and sawing, and the merry clatter of tongues proclaimed the camp-ground before he was in sight of it. He rode into the busy little city where board and canvas tents were going up like magic. Brother Wilkins, the minister, called cheerfully:

“Hello, Brother Barnard, where’s Sister Barnard, ain’t she coming?”

“She kinder thot she wouldn’t come. Ma’ Jane sets a lot o’ store by the cows and things, ye see—so she reckoned she’d stay.”

He rode hurriedly down the line of tents, where a fire of questions met him at every turn.

“I jes couldn’t get Ma’ Jane to come,” he explained to Miss Mirandy Barr. “It don’t suit her to come away and leave things at six’s and seven’s, as she says, so she jes stays by the stuff, Ma’ Jane does.”

Bascom Barnard began helping people to get their tents in order.

Before noon, he told his friends that Ma’ Jane didn’t know what she was missing, and immediately after dinner—chicken-pie and fixin’s—if they thought it would do any good, he would go after Ma’ Jane yet and make her come, whether or no.

Just before the afternoon service, he said it was an awful mistake to have a body’s mind on worldly things.

In the still hours of the night Bascom reasoned it out. He had not treated himself to a holiday this many a year, and now he felt he was entitled to one. Ma’ Jane could take hers some other time; besides, a woman’s work was never wearin’ like a man’s—keepin’ house was like play compared with what he had been called upon to do. He turned over on the fragrant hay mattress, with which Sister Clark had provided him, and went comfortably to sleep.

The clear notes of a horn roused everybody for the sunrise prayer-meeting, and Bascom hurried arbor-wards with the others.

“Will Brother Barnard please lead us in prayer?” said the minister, when the first hymn had been sung. Brother Barnard found himself on his knees stumbling over a few familiar phrases; as he went on he gained confidence and his voice became assured. He remarked upon the fact that our days are few and evil.

After a few similar remarks, he got in full swing—time was no object—scraps of forgotten phrases from prayers heard in his youth tumbled forth in picturesque confusion. The hour for prayer-meeting to close had come when he began to pray for the heathen, and this took time of itself. When he had worked around to the sinful and depraved of our own land, everybody would have been impatient, but for the fact that something had happened—something that Bascom could not see, as his eyes were shut. There were some who kept their eyes open when they prayed; these nudged each other excitedly.

“An’ now, Lord,” pleaded Brother Bascom Barnard, pounding the bench in front of him with a clenched fist, “be with all that’s near and dear to them that’s gathered here to worship Thee. Be with them that’s stayed by the stuff—an’ if they’ve stayed away from this blessed place because they’re cold or hard-hearted—as we fear some of ’em has—O Lord, melt their hearts of stone an’ make ’em see that they’re hangin’ over eternal punishment prepared for the devil and his angels.”