The Project Gutenberg EBook of Modern Prose And Poetry; For Secondary
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Title: Modern Prose And Poetry; For Secondary Schools
       Edited With Notes, Study Helps, And Reading Lists

Author: Various

Editor: Margaret Ashmun

Release Date: November 26, 2005 [EBook #17160]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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MODERN PROSE AND POETRY FOR SECONDARY SCHOOLS

EDITED

WITH NOTES, STUDY HELPS, AND READING LISTS

BY

MARGARET ASHMUN, M.A.

_Formerly Instructor in English in the University of Wisconsin_
_Editor of Prose Literature for Secondary Schools_


BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge


COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


_All selections in this book are used by special permission of, and
arrangement with, the owners of the copyrights._

The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
U.S.A

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcribers Note: There are several areas where a pronunciation guide
is given with diacritical marks that cannot be reproduced in a text
file. The following symbols are used:

Symbols for Diacritical Marks:

DIACRITICAL MARK              SAMPLE      ABOVE         BELOW
macron (straight line)           -        [=x]           [x=]
2 dots (diaresis, umlaut)        "        [:x]           [x:]
1 dot                            {~BULLET~}        [.x]           [x.]
grave accent                     `        [`x] or [\x]   [x`] or [x\]
acute accent (aigu)              '        ['x] or [/x]   [x'] or [x/]
circumflex                       ^        [^x]           [x^]
caron (v-shaped symbol)                   [vx]           [xv]
breve (u-shaped symbol)                   [)x]           [x)]
tilde                            ~        [~x]           [x~]
cedilla                          ¸        [,x]           [x,]

Also words italicized will have undescores _ before and after them and
bold words will have = before and after them.

Footnotes have been moved to the end of the text. Minor typos have
been corrected.

       *       *       *       *       *




PREFACE


It is pleasant to note, among teachers of literature in the high school,
a growing (or perhaps one should say an established) conviction that the
pupil's enjoyment of what he reads ought to be the chief consideration
in the work. From such enjoyment, it is conceded, come the knowledge and
the power that are the end of study. All profitable literature work in
the secondary grades must be based upon the unforced attention and
activity of the student.

An inevitable phase of this liberal attitude is a readiness to promote
the study of modern authors. It is now the generally accepted view that
many pieces of recent literature are more suitable for young people's
reading than the old and conventionally approved classics. This is not
to say that the really readable classics should be discarded, since they
have their own place and their own value. Yet it is everywhere admitted
that modern literature should be given its opportunity to appeal to high
school students, and that at some stage in their course it should
receive its due share of recognition. The mere fact that modern writers
are, in point of material and style, less remote than the classic
authors from the immediate interests of the students is sufficient to
recommend them. Then, too, since young people are, in the nature of
things, constantly brought into contact with some form of modern
literature, they need to be provided with a standard of criticism and
choice.

The present volume is an attempt to assemble, in a convenient manner, a
number of selections from recent literature, such as high school
students of average taste and ability may understand and enjoy. These
selections are not all equally difficult. Some need to be read rapidly
for their intrinsic interest; others deserve more analysis of form and
content; still others demand careful intensive study. This diversity of
method is almost a necessity in a full year's course in reading, in
which rigidity and monotony ought above all things to be avoided.

Although convinced that the larger part of the reading work in the high
school years should be devoted to the study of prose, the editor has
here included what she believes to be a just proportion of poetry. The
poems have been chosen with a view to the fact that they are varied in
form and sentiment; and that they exhibit in no small degree the
tendencies of modern poetic thought, with its love of nature and its
humanitarian impulses.

An attempt has been made to present examples of the most usual and
readable forms of prose composition--narration, the account of travel,
the personal essay, and serious exposition. The authors of these
selections possess without exception that distinction of style which
entitles them to a high rank in literature and makes them inspiring
models for the unskilled writer.

A word may be said as to the intention of the study helps and lists of
readings. The object of this equipment is to conserve the energies of
the teacher and direct the activities of the student. It is by no means
expected that any one class will be able to make use of all the material
provided; yet it is hoped that a considerable amount may prove
available to every group that has access to the text.

The study questions serve to concentrate the reading of the students, in
order to prevent that aimless wandering of eye and mind, which with many
pupils passes for study. Doubtless something would in most instances be
gained if these questions were supplemented by specific directions from
the teacher.

Lists of theme subjects accompany the selections, so that the work in
composition may be to a large extent correlated with that in
literature.[1] The plan of utilizing the newly stimulated interests of
the pupils for training in composition is not a new one; its value has
been proved. _Modern Prose and Poetry_ aims to make the most of such
correlation, at the same time drawing upon the personal experience of
the students, to the elimination of all that is perfunctory and formal.
Typical outlines (suggestions for theme writing) are provided; these,
however, cannot serve in all cases, and the teacher must help the pupils
in planning their themes, or give them such training as will enable them
to make outlines for themselves.

It will be noted that some suggestions are presented for the
dramatization of simple passages of narration, and for original
composition of dramatic fragments. In an age when the trend of popular
interest is unquestionably toward the drama, such suggestions need no
defense. The study of dramatic composition may be granted as much or as
little attention as the teacher thinks wise. In any event, it will
afford an opportunity for a discussion of the drama and will serve, in
an elementary way, to train the pupil's judgment as to the difference
between good and bad plays. Especially can this end be accomplished if
some of the plays mentioned in the lists be read by the class or by
individual students.

A few simple exercises in the writing of poetry have been inserted, in
order to give the pupils encouragement and assistance in trying their
skill in verse. It is not intended that this work shall be done for the
excellence of its results, but rather for the development of the pupil's
ingenuity and the increasing of his respect for the poet and the poetic
art.

The collateral readings are appended for the use of those teachers who
wish to carry on a course of outside reading in connection with the
regular work of the class. These lists have been made somewhat extensive
and varied, in order that they may fit the tastes and opportunities of
many teachers and pupils. In some cases, the collateral work may be
presented by the teacher, to elaborate a subject in which the class has
become interested; or individual pupils may prepare themselves and speak
to the class about what they have read; or all the pupils may read for
pleasure alone, merely reporting the extent of their reading, for the
teacher's approval. The outside reading should, it is needless to say,
be treated as a privilege and not as a mechanical task. The
possibilities of this work will be increased if the teacher familiarizes
herself with the material in the collateral lists, so that she can adapt
the home readings to the tastes of the class and of specific pupils. The
miscellaneous lists given at the close of the book are intended to
supplement the lists accompanying the selections, and to offer some
assistance in the choice of books for a high school library.

M.A.

NEW YORK, February, 1914.




CONTENTS


A DAY AT LAGUERRE'S      _F. Hopkinson Smith_

QUITE SO      _Thomas Bailey Aldrich_
  (In _Marjorie Daw, and Other Stories_)

PAN IN WALL STREET      _Edmund Clarence Stedman_

THE HAND OF LINCOLN       _Edmund Clarence Stedman_

JEAN VALJEAN       _Augusta Stevenson_
  (In _A Dramatic Reader_, Book Five)

A COMBAT ON THE SANDS    _Mary Johnston_
  (From _To Have and to Hold_, Chapters XXI and XXII)

THE GRASSHOPPER    _Edith M. Thomas_

MOLY    _Edith M. Thomas_

THE PROMISED LAND    _Mary Antin_
  (From Chapter IX of _The Promised Land_)

WARBLE FOR LILAC-TIME    _Walt Whitman_

WHEN I HEARD THE LEARN'D ASTRONOMER    _Walt Whitman_

VIGIL STRANGE I KEPT ON THE FIELD ONE NIGHT    _Walt Whitman_

ODYSSEUS IN PHAEACIA _Translated by George Herbert Palmer_

ODYSSEUS    _George Cabot Lodge_

A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE      _William Dean Howells_
  (In _Suburban Sketches_)

THE WILD RIDE      _Louise Imogen Guiney_

CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS      _Dallas Lore Sharp_
  (In _The Lay of the Land_)

GLOUCESTER MOORS      _William Vaughn Moody_

ROAD-HYMN FOR THE START      _William Vaughn Moody_

ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILLIPINES      _William Vaughn Moody_

THE COON DOG      _Sarah Orne Jewett_
  (In _The Queen's Twin, and Other Stories_)

ON THE LIFE-MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN _Richard Watson Gilder_

A FIRE AMONG THE GIANTS      _John Muir_
  (From _Our National Parks_)

WAITING      _John Burroughs_

THE PONT DU GARD      _Henry James_
  (Chapter XXVI of _A Little Tour in France_)

THE YOUNGEST SON OF HIS FATHER'S HOUSE _Anna Hempstead Branch_

TENNESSEE'S PARTNER      _Bret Harte_

THE COURSE OF AMERICAN HISTORY      _Woodrow Wilson_
  (In _Mere Literature_)

WHAT I KNOW ABOUT GARDENING      _Charles Dudley Warner_
  (From _My Summer in a Garden_)

THE SINGING MAN      _Josephine Preston Peabody_

THE DANCE OF THE BON-ODORI      _Lafcadio Hearn_
  (From _Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan_, Volume I, Chapter VI)


LETTERS:

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH TO WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
  (From _The Life of Thomas Bailey Aldrich_ by Ferris Greenslet)

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH TO E.S. MORSE
  (By permission of Professor Morse)

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY TO JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
  (From _Some Letters of William Vaughn Moody_)

BRET HARTE TO HIS WIFE
  (From _The Life of Bret Harte_ by Henry C. Merwin)

LAFCADIO HEARN TO BASIL HALL CHAMBERLAIN
  (From _Japanese Letters of Lafcadio Hearn_)

CHARLES ELIOT NORTON TO WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
  (From _Letters of Charles Eliot Norton_)

EXERCISES IN DRAMATIC COMPOSITION

MODERN BOOKS FOR HOME READING




MODERN PROSE AND POETRY FOR SECONDARY SCHOOLS




A DAY AT LAGUERRE'S

F. HOPKINSON SMITH


It is the most delightful of French inns, in the quaintest of French
settlements. As you rush by in one of the innumerable trains that pass
it daily, you may catch glimpses of tall trees trailing their branches
in the still stream,--hardly a dozen yards wide,--of flocks of white
ducks paddling together, and of queer punts drawn up on the shelving
shore or tied to soggy, patched-up landing-stairs.

If the sun shines, you can see, now and then, between the trees, a
figure kneeling at the water's edge, bending over a pile of clothes,
washing,--her head bound with a red handkerchief.

If you are quick, the miniature river will open just before you round
the curve, disclosing in the distance groups of willows, and a rickety
foot-bridge perched up on poles to keep it dry. All this you see in a
flash.

But you must stop at the old-fashioned station, within ten minutes of
the Harlem River, cross the road, skirt an old garden bound with a fence
and bursting with flowers, and so pass on through a bare field to the
water's edge, before you catch sight of the cosy little houses lining
the banks, with garden fences cutting into the water, the arbors
covered with tangled vines, and the boats crossing back and forth.

I have a love for the out-of-the-way places of the earth when they
bristle all over with the quaint and the old and the odd, and are mouldy
with the picturesque. But here is an in-the-way place, all sunshine and
shimmer, with never a fringe of mould upon it, and yet you lose your
heart at a glance. It is as charming in its boat life as an old Holland
canal; it is as delightful in its shore life as the Seine; and it is as
picturesque and entrancing in its sylvan beauty as the most exquisite of
English streams.

The thousands of workaday souls who pass this spot daily in their whirl
out and in the great city may catch all these glimpses of shade and
sunlight over the edges of their journals, and any one of them living
near the city's centre, with a stout pair of legs in his knickerbockers
and the breath of the morning in his heart, can reach it afoot any day
before breakfast; and yet not one in a hundred knows that this ideal
nook exists.

Even this small percentage would be apt to tell of the delights of
Devonshire and of the charm of the upper Thames, with its tall rushes
and low-thatched houses and quaint bridges, as if the picturesque ended
there; forgetting that right here at home there wanders many a stream
with its breast all silver that the trees courtesy to as it sings
through meadows waist-high in lush grass,--as exquisite a picture as can
be found this beautiful land over.

So, this being an old tramping-ground of mine, I have left the station
with its noise and dust behind me this lovely morning in June, have
stopped long enough to twist a bunch of sweet peas through the garden
fence, and am standing on the bank waiting for some sign of life at
Madame Laguerre's. I discover that there is no boat on my side of the
stream. But that is of no moment. On the other side, within a biscuit's
toss, so narrow is it, there are two boats; and on the landing-wharf,
which is only a few planks wide, supporting a tumble-down flight of
steps leading to a vine-covered terrace above, rest the oars.

I lay my traps down on the bank and begin at the top of my voice:--

"Madame Laguerre! Madame Laguerre! Send Lucette with the boat."

For a long time there is no response. A young girl drawing water a short
distance below, hearing my cries, says she will come; and some children
above, who know me, begin paddling over. I decline them all. Experience
tells me it is better to wait for madame.

In a few minutes she pushes aside the leaves, peers through, and calls
out:--

"Ah! it is that horrible painter. Go away! I have nothing for you. You
are hungry again that you come?"

"Very, madame. Where is Lucette?"

"Lucette! Lucette! It is always Lucette. Lu-c-e-t-t-e!" This in a shrill
key. "It is the painter. Come quick."

I have known Lucette for years, even when she was a barefooted little
tangle-hair, peeping at me with her great brown eyes from beneath her
ragged straw hat. She wears high-heeled slippers now, and sometimes on
Sundays dainty silk stockings, and her hair is braided down her back,
little French Marguerite that she is, and her hat is never ragged any
more, nor her hair tangled. Her eyes, though, are still the same
velvety, half-drooping eyes, always opening and shutting and never
still.

As she springs into the boat and pulls towards me I note how round and
trim she is, and before we have landed at Madame Laguerre's feet I have
counted up Lucette's birthdays,--those that I know myself,--and find to
my surprise that she must be eighteen. We have always been the best of
friends, Lucette and I, ever since she looked over my shoulder years ago
and watched me dot in the outlines of her boat, with her dog Mustif
sitting demurely in the bow.

Madame, her mother, begins again:--

"Do you know that it is Saturday that you come again to bother? Now it
will be a _filet_, of course, with mushrooms and tomato salad; and there
are no mushrooms, and no tomatoes, and nothing. You are horrible. Then,
when I get it ready, you say you will come at three. 'Yes, madame; at
three,'--mimicking me,--'sure, very sure.' But it is four, five,
o'clock--and then everything is burned up waiting. Ah! I know you."

This goes on always, and has for years. Presently she softens, for she
is the most tender-hearted of women, and would do anything in the world
to please me.

"But, then, you will be tired, and of course you must have something. I
remember now there is a chicken. How will the chicken do? Oh, the
chicken it is lovely, _charmant_. And some pease--fresh. Monsieur picked
them himself this morning. And some Roquefort, with an olive. Ah! You
leave it to me; but at three--no later--not one minute. _Sacre! Vous
etes le diable!_"

As we walk under the arbor and by the great trees, towards the cottage,
Lucette following with the oars, I inquire after monsieur, and find that
he is in the city, and very well and very busy, and will return at
sundown. He has a shop of his own in the upper part where he makes
_passe-partouts_. Here, at his home, madame maintains a simple
restaurant for tramps like me.

These delightful people are old friends of mine, Francois Laguerre and
his wife and their only child Lucette. They have lived here for nearly a
quarter of a century. He is a straight, silver-haired old Frenchman of
sixty, who left Paris, between two suns, nearly forty years ago, with a
gendarme close at his heels, a red cockade under his coat, and an
intense hatred in his heart for that "little nobody," Napoleon III.

If you met him on the boulevard you would look for the decoration on his
lapel, remarking to yourself, "Some retired officer on half pay." If you
met him at the railway station opposite, you would say, "A French
professor returning to his school." Both of these surmises are partly
wrong, and both partly right. Monsieur Laguerre has had a history. One
can see by the deep lines in his forehead and by the firm set of his
eyes and mouth that it has been an eventful one.

His wife is a few years his junior, short and stout, and thoroughly
French down to the very toes of her felt slippers. She is devoted to
Francois and Lucette, the best of cooks, and, in spite of her scoldings,
good-nature itself. As soon as she hears me calling, there arise before
her the visions of many delightful dinners prepared for me by her own
hand and ready to the minute--all spoiled by my belated sketches. So
she begins to scold before I am out of the boat or in it, for that
matter.

Across the fence next to Laguerre's lives a _confrere_, a brother exile,
Monsieur Marmosette, who also has a shop in the city, where he carves
fine ivories. Monsieur Marmosette has only one son. He too is named
Francois, after his father's old friend. Farther down on both sides of
the narrow stream front the cottages of other friends, all Frenchmen;
and near the propped-up bridge an Italian who knew Garibaldi burrows in
a low, slanting cabin, which is covered with vines. I remember a dish of
_spaghetti_ under those vines, and a flask of Chianti from its cellar,
all cobwebs and plaited straw, that left a taste of Venice in my mouth
for days.

As there is only the great bridge above, which helps the country road
across the little stream, and the little foot-bridge below, and as there
is no path or road,--all the houses fronting the water,--the Bronx here
is really the only highway, and so everybody must needs keep a boat.
This is why the stream is crowded in the warm afternoons with all sorts
of water craft loaded with whole families, even to the babies, taking
the air, or crossing from bank to bank in their daily pursuits.

There is a quality which one never sees in Nature until she has been
rough-handled by man and has outlived the usage. It is the picturesque.
In the deep recesses of the primeval forest, along the mountain-slope,
and away up the tumbling brook, Nature may be majestic, beautiful, and
even sublime; but she is never picturesque. This quality comes only
after the axe and the saw have let the sunlight into the dense tangle
and have scattered the falling timber, or the round of the water-wheel
has divided the rush of the brook. It is so here. Some hundred years
ago, along this quiet, silvery stream were encamped the troops of the
struggling colonies, and, later, the great estates of the survivors
stretched on each side for miles. The willows that now fringe these
banks were saplings then; and they and the great butternuts were only
spared because their arching limbs shaded the cattle knee-deep along the
shelving banks.

Then came the long interval that succeeds that deadly conversion of the
once sweet farming lands, redolent with clover, into that barren
waste--suburban property. The conflict that had lasted since the days
when the pioneer's axe first rang through the stillness of the forest
was nearly over; Nature saw her chance, took courage, and began that
regeneration which is exclusively her own. The weeds ran riot; tall
grasses shot up into the sunlight, concealing the once well-trimmed
banks; and great tangles of underbrush and alders made lusty efforts to
hide the traces of man's unceasing cruelty. Lastly came this little
group of poor people from the Seine and the Marne and lent a helping
hand, bringing with them something of their old life at home,--their
boats, rude landings, patched-up water-stairs, fences, arbors, and
vine-covered cottages,--unconsciously completing the picture and adding
the one thing needful--a human touch. So Nature, having outlived the
wrongs of a hundred years, has here with busy fingers so woven a web of
weed, moss, trailing vine, and low-branching tree that there is seen a
newer and more entrancing quality in her beauty, which, for want of a
better term, we call the picturesque.

But madame is calling that the big boat must be bailed out; that if I
am ever coming back to dinner it is absolutely necessary that I should
go away. This boat is not of extraordinary size. It is called the big
boat from the fact that it has one more seat than the one in which
Lucette rowed me over; and not being much in use except on Sunday, is
generally half full of water. Lucette insists on doing the bailing. She
has very often performed this service, and I have always considered it
as included in the curious scrawl of a bill which madame gravely
presents at the end of each of my days here, beginning in small printed
type with "Francois Laguerre, Restaurant Francais," and ending with
"Coffee 10 cents."

But this time I resist, remarking that she will hurt her hands and soil
her shoes, and that it is all right as it is.

To this Francois the younger, who is leaning over the fence, agrees,
telling Lucette to wait until he gets a pail.

Lucette catches his eye, colors a little, and says she will fetch it.

There is a break in the palings through which they both disappear, but I
am half-way out on the stream, with my traps and umbrella on the seat in
front and my coat and waistcoat tucked under the bow, before they
return.

For half a mile down-stream there is barely a current. Then comes a
break of a dozen yards just below the perched-up bridge, and the stream
divides, one part rushing like a mill-race, and the other spreading
itself softly around the roots of leaning willows, oozing through beds
of water-plants, and creeping under masses of wild grapes and
underbrush. Below this is a broad pasture fringed with another and
larger growth of willows. Here the weeds are breast-high, and in early
autumn they burst into purple asters, and white immortelles, and
goldenrod, and flaming sumac.

If a painter had a lifetime to spare, and loved this sort of
material,--the willows, hillsides, and winding stream,--he would grow
old and weary before he could paint it all; and yet no two of his
compositions need be alike. I have tied my boat under these same willows
for ten years back, and I have not yet exhausted one corner of this
neglected pasture.

There may be those who go a-fishing and enjoy it. The arranging and
selecting of flies, the joining of rods, the prospective comfort in high
water-boots, the creel with the leather strap,--every crease in it a
reminder of some day without care or fret,--all this may bring the flush
to the cheek and the eager kindling of the eye, and a certain sort of
rest and happiness may come with it; but--they have never gone
a-sketching! Hauled up on the wet bank in the long grass is your boat,
with the frayed end of the painter tied around some willow that offers a
helping root. Within a stone's throw, under a great branching of gnarled
trees, is a nook where the curious sun, peeping at you through the
interlaced leaves, will stencil Japanese shadows on your white umbrella.
Then the trap is unstrapped, the stool opened, the easel put up, and you
set your palette. The critical eye with which you look over your
brush-case and the care with which you try each feather point upon your
thumb-nail are but an index of your enjoyment.

Now you are ready. You loosen your cravat, hang your coat to some rustic
peg in the creviced bark of the tree behind you, seize a bit of charcoal
from your bag, sweep your eye around, and dash in a few guiding
strokes. Above is a turquoise sky filled with soft white clouds; behind
you the great trunks of the many-branched willows; and away off, under
the hot sun, the yellow-green of the wasted pasture, dotted with patches
of rock and weeds, and hemmed in by the low hills that slope to the
curving stream.

It is high noon. There is a stillness in the air that impresses you,
broken only by the low murmur of the brook behind and the ceaseless song
of the grasshopper among the weeds in front. A tired bumblebee hums
past, rolls lazily over a clover blossom at your feet, and has his
midday luncheon. Under the maples near the river's bend stands a group
of horses, their heads touching. In the brook below are the patient
cattle, with patches of sunlight gilding and bronzing their backs and
sides. Every now and then a breath of cool air starts out from some
shaded retreat, plays around your forehead, and passes on. All nature
rests. It is her noontime.

But you work on: an enthusiasm has taken possession of you; the paints
mix too slowly; you use your thumb, smearing and blending with a bit of
rag--anything for the effect. One moment you are glued to your seat,
your eye riveted on your canvas, the next, you are up and backing away,
taking it in as a whole, then pouncing down upon it quickly, belaboring
it with your brush. Soon the trees take shape; the sky forms become
definite; the meadow lies flat and loses itself in the fringe of
willows.

When all of this begins to grow upon your once blank canvas, and some
lucky pat matches the exact tone of blue-gray haze or shimmer of leaf,
or some accidental blending of color delights you with its truth, a
tingling goes down your backbone, and a rush surges through your veins
that stirs you as nothing else in your whole life will ever do. The
reaction comes the next day when, in the cold light of your studio, you
see how far short you have come and how crude and false is your best
touch compared with the glory of the landscape in your mind and heart.
But the thrill that it gave you will linger forever.

But I hear a voice behind me calling out:--

"Monsieur, mamma says that dinner will be ready in half an hour. Please
do not be late."

It is Lucette. She and Francois have come down in the other boat--the
one with the little seat. They have moved so noiselessly that I have not
even heard them. The sketch is nearly finished; and so, remembering the
good madame, and the Roquefort, and the olives, and the many times I
have kept her waiting, I wash my brushes at once, throw my traps into
the boat, and pull back through the winding turn, Francois taking the
mill-race, and in the swiftest part springing to the bank and towing
Lucette, who sits in the stern, her white skirts tucked around her
dainty feet.

"_Sacre!_ He is here. _C'est merveilleux!_ Why did you come?"

"Because you sent for me, madame, and I am hungry."

"_Mon Dieu!_ He is hungry, and no chicken!"

It is true. The chicken was served that morning to another tramp for
breakfast, and madame had forgotten all about it, and had ransacked the
settlement for its mate. She was too honest a cook to chase another into
the frying-pan.

But there was a _filet_ with mushrooms, and a most surprising salad of
chicory fresh from the garden, and the pease were certain, and the
Roquefort and the olives beyond question. All this she tells me as I
walk past the table covered with a snow-white cloth and spread under the
grape-vines overlooking the stream, with the trees standing against the
sky, their long shadows wrinkling down into the water.

I enter the summer kitchen built out into the garden, which also covers
the old well, let down the bucket, and then, taking the clean crash
towel from its hook, place the basin on the bench in the sunlight, and
plunge my head into the cool water. Madame regards me curiously, her
arms akimbo, re-hangs the towel, and asks:--

"Well, what about the wine? The same?"

"Yes; but I will get it myself."

The cellar is underneath the larger house. Outside is an old-fashioned,
sloping double door. These doors are always open, and a cool smell of
damp straw flavored with vinegar greets you from a leaky keg as you
descend into its recesses. On the hard earthen floor rest eight or ten
great casks. The walls are lined with bottles large and small, loaded on
shelves to which little white cards are tacked giving the vintage and
brand. In one corner, under the small window, you will find dozens of
boxes of French delicacies--truffles, pease, mushrooms, pate de foie
gras, mustard, and the like, and behind them rows of olive oil and
olives. I carefully draw out a bottle from the row on the last shelf
nearest the corner, mount the steps, and place it on the table. Madame
examines the cork, and puts down the bottle, remarking sententiously:--

"Chateau Lamonte, '62! Monsieur has told you."

There may be ways of dining more delicious than out in the open air
under the vines in the cool of the afternoon, with Lucette, in her
whitest of aprons, flitting about, and madame garnishing the dishes each
in turn, and there may be better bottles of honest red wine to be found
up and down this world of care than "Chateau Lamonte, '62," but I have
not yet discovered them.

Lucette serves the coffee in a little cup, and leaves the Roquefort and
the cigarettes on the table just as the sun is sinking behind the hill
skirting the railroad. While I am blowing rings through the grape leaves
over my head a quick noise is heard across the stream. Lucette runs past
me through the garden, picking up her oars as she goes.

"_Oui, mon pere._ I am coming."

It is monsieur from his day's work in the city.

"Who is here?" I hear him say as he mounts the terrace steps. "Oh, the
painter--good!"

"Ah, _mon ami_. So you must see the willows once more. Have you not
tired of them yet?" Then, seating himself, "I hope madame has taken good
care of you. What, the '62? Ah, I remember I told you."

When it is quite dark he joins me under the leaves, bringing a second
bottle a little better corked he thinks, and the talk drifts into his
early life.

"What year was that, monsieur?" I asked.

"In 1849. I was a young fellow just grown. I had learned my trade in
Rheims, and I had come down to Paris to make my bread. Two years later
came the little affair of December 2. That 'nobody,' Louis, had
dissolved the National Assembly and the Council of State, and had issued
his address to the army. Paris was in a ferment. By the help of his
soldiers and police he had silenced every voice in Paris except his own.
He had suppressed all the journals, and locked up everybody who had
opposed him. Victor Hugo was in exile, Louis Blanc in London,
Changarnier and Cavaignac in prison. At the moment I was working in a
little shop near the Porte St. Martin decorating lacquerwork. We workmen
all belonged to a secret society which met nightly in a back room over a
wine-shop near the Rue Royale. We had but one thought--how to upset the
little devil at the Elysee. Among my comrades was a big fellow from my
own city, one Cambier. He was the leader. On the ground floor of the
shop was built a huge oven where the lacquer was baked. At night this
was made hot with charcoal and allowed to cool off in the morning ready
for the finished work of the previous day. It was Cambier's duty to
attend to this oven.

"One night just after all but he and two others had left the shop a
strange man was discovered in a closet where the men kept their working
clothes. He was seized, brought to the light, and instantly recognized
as a member of the secret police.

"At daylight the next morning I was aroused from my bed, and, looking
up, saw Chapot, an inspector of police, standing over me. He had known
me from a boy, and was a friend of my father's.

"'Francois, there is trouble at the shop. A police agent has been
murdered. His body was found in the oven. Cambier is under arrest. I
know what you have been doing, but I also know that in this you have had
no hand. Here are one hundred francs. Leave Paris in an hour.'

"I put the money in my pocket, tied my clothes in a bundle, and that
night was on my way to Havre, and the next week set sail for here."

"And what became of Cambier?" I asked.

"I have never heard from that day to this, so I think they must have
snuffed him out."

Then he drifted into his early life here--the weary tramping of the
streets day after day, the half-starving result, the language and people
unknown. Suddenly, somewhere in the lower part of the city, he espied a
card tacked outside of a window bearing this inscription, "Decorator
wanted." A man inside was painting one of the old-fashioned iron
tea-trays common in those days. Monsieur took off his hat, pointed to
the card, then to himself, seized the brush, and before the man could
protest had covered the bottom with morning-glories so pink and fresh
that his troubles ended on the spot. The first week he earned six
dollars; but then this was to be paid at the end of it. For these six
days he subsisted on one meal a day. This he ate at a restaurant where
at night he washed dishes and blacked the head waiter's boots. When
Saturday came, and the money was counted out in his hand, he thrust it
into his pocket, left the shop, and sat down on a doorstep outside to
think.

"And, _mon ami_, what did I do first?"

"Got something to eat?"

"Never. I paid for a bath, had my hair cut and my face shaved, bought a
shirt and collar, and then went back to the restaurant where I had
washed dishes the night before, and the head waiter _served me_. After
that it was easy; the next week it was ten dollars; then in a few years
I had a place of my own; then came madame and Lucette--and here we are."

The twilight had faded into a velvet blue, sprinkled with stars. The
lantern which madame had hung against the arbor shed a yellow light,
throwing into clear relief the sharply cut features of monsieur. Up and
down the silent stream drifted here and there a phantom boat, the gleam
of its light following like a firefly. From some came no sound but the
muffled plash of the oars. From others floated stray bits of song and
laughter. Far up the stream I heard the distant whistle of the down
train.

"It is mine, monsieur. Will you cross with me, and bring back the boat?"

Monsieur unhooked the lantern, and I followed through the garden and
down the terrace steps.

At the water's edge was a bench holding two figures.

Monsieur turned his lantern, and the light fell upon the face of young
Francois.

When the bow grated on the opposite bank I shook his hand, and said, in
parting, pointing to the lovers,--

"The same old story, Monsieur?"

"Yes; and always new. You must come to the church."


NOTES

=Harlem River=:--Note that this river is in New York City, not in France
as one might suppose from the name of the selection.

=Devonshire=:--A very attractive county of southwestern England.

=filet=:--A thick slice of meat or fish.

=charmant=:--The French word for _charming_.

=Roquefort=:--A kind of cheese.

=Sacre! Vous etes le diable=:--Curses! You are the very deuce.

=passe-partouts=:--Engraved ornamental borders for pictures.

=gendarme=:--A policeman of France.

=Napoleon III=:--Emperor of the French, 1852-1870. He was elected
president of the Republic in 1848; he seized full power in 1851; in
1852, he was proclaimed emperor. He was a nephew of the great Napoleon.

=confrere=:--A close associate.

=Garibaldi=:--Giuseppe Garibaldi, an Italian patriot (1807-1882).

=Chianti=:--A kind of Italian wine.

=Bronx=:--A small river in the northern part of New York City.

=Restaurant Francais=:--French restaurant.

=the painter=:--A rope at the bow of a boat.

=C'est merveilleux=:--It's wonderful.

=Mon Dieu=:--Good heavens!

=pate de fois gras=:--A delicacy made of fat goose livers.

=Chateau Lamonte, '62=:--A kind of wine; the date refers to the year in
which it was bottled.

=Oui, mon pere=:--Yes, father.

=mon ami=:--My friend.

=the little affair of December 2=:--On December 2, 1851, Louis Napoleon
overawed the French legislature and assumed absolute power. Just a year
later he had himself proclaimed Emperor.

=Louis=:--Napoleon III.

=Victor Hugo=:--French poet and novelist (1802-1885).

=Louis Blanc=:--French author and politician (1812-1882).

=Changarnier=:--Pronounced _shan gaer ny[=a]'_; Nicholas Changarnier, a
French general (1793-1877).

=Cavaignac=:--Pronounced _ka vay nyak'_; Louis Eugene Cavaignac, a
French general (1803-1857). He ran for the Presidency against Louis
Napoleon.

=Porte St. Martin=:--The beginning of the Boulevard St. Martin, in
Paris.

=Rue Royale=:--_Rue_ is the French word for _street_.

=Elysee=:--A palace in Paris used as a residence by Napoleon III.

=one hundred francs=:--About twenty dollars.


SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

What does the title suggest to you? At what point do you change your
idea as to the location of Laguerre's? Do you know of any picturesque
places that are somewhat like the one described here? Could you
describe one of them for the class? Why do people usually not appreciate
the scenery near at hand? What do you think of the plan of "seeing
America first"? What is meant here by "my traps"? Why is it better to
wait for Madame? Why does Madame talk so crossly? What sort of person is
she? See if you can tell accurately, from what follows in later pages,
why Monsieur left Paris so hastily. How does the author give you an idea
of Francois Laguerre's appearance? Why does the author stop to give us
the two paragraphs beginning, "There is a quality," and "Then came a
long interval"? How does he get back to his subject? Why does he not let
Lucette bail the boat? Who does bail it at last? Why? Do you think that
every artist enjoys his work as the writer seems to enjoy his? How does
he make you feel the pleasure of it? Why is there more enjoyment in
eating out of doors than in eating in the house? Why does the author
sprinkle little French phrases through the piece? Is it a good plan to
use foreign phrases in this way? What kind of man is Monsieur Laguerre?
Review his story carefully. Why was the police agent murdered? Who
killed him? Why has Monsieur Laguerre never found out what became of
Cambier?

This selection deals with a number of different subjects: Why does it
not seem "choppy"? How does the author manage to link the different
parts together? How would you describe this piece to some one who had
not read it? Mr. Smith is an artist who paints in water-colors: do you
see how his painting influences his writing?


THEME SUBJECTS

Madame Laguerre
Old-fashioned Garden
The Ferry
Sketching
An Old Pasture
The Stream
Good Places to Sketch
Learning to Paint
An Old Man with a History
An Incident in French History
Getting Dinner under Difficulties
A Scene in the Kitchen
Washing at the Pump
The Flight of the Suspect
Crossing the Ocean
penniless
The Foreigner
Looking for Work
A Dinner out of Doors
The French Family at Home
The Cellar
Some Pictures that I Like
A Restaurant
A Country Inn
What my Foreign Neighbors Eat
Landscapes
The Artist


SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING

=The Stream=:--Plan a description of some stream that you know well.
Imagine yourself taking a trip up the stream in a boat. Tell something
of the weather and the time of day. Speak briefly of the boat and its
occupants. Describe the first picturesque spot: the trees and flowers;
the buildings, if there are any; the reflections in the water; the
people that you see. Go on from point to point, describing the
particularly interesting places. Do not try to do too much. Vary your
account by telling of the boats you meet. Perhaps there will be some
brief dialogues that you can report, or some little adventures that you
can relate. Close your theme by telling of your arrival at your
destination, or of your turning about to go back down the stream.

=An Old Man with a History=:--Perhaps you can take this from real life;
or perhaps you know some interesting old man whose early adventures you
can imagine. Tell briefly how you happened to know the old man. Describe
him. Speak of his manners, his way of speaking; his character as it
appeared when you knew him. How did you learn his story? Imagine him
relating it. Where was he when he told it? How did he act? Was he
willing to tell the story, or did he have to be persuaded? Tell the
story simply and directly, in his words, breaking it now and then by a
comment or a question from the listener (or listeners). It might be well
to explain occasionally how the old man seemed to feel, what expressions
his face assumed, and what gestures he made. Go on thus to the end of
the story. Is it necessary for you to make any remarks at the last,
after the man has finished?

=A Country Inn=:--See the outline for a similar subject on page 229.


COLLATERAL READINGS

A Day at Laguerre's and Other Days               F. Hopkinson Smith
Gondola Days                                     "      "      "
The Under Dog                                    "      "      "
Caleb West, Master Diver                         "      "      "
Tom Grogan                                       "      "      "
The Other Fellow                                 "      "      "
Colonel Carter of Cartersville                   "      "      "
Colonel Carter's Christmas                       "      "      "
The Fortunes of Oliver Horn                      "      "      "
Forty Minutes Late                               "      "      "
At Close Range                                   "      "      "
A White Umbrella in Mexico                       "      "      "
A Gentleman Vagabond                             "      "      "
  (Note especially in this, _Along the Bronx_.)
Fisherman's Luck                                 Henry van Dyke
A Lazy Idle Brook (in _Fisherman's Luck_)         "        "
Little Rivers                                     "        "
The Friendly Road                                David Grayson
Adventures in Contentment                         "        "

For information concerning Mr. Smith, consult:--

A History of Southern Literature, p. 375., Carl Holliday
American Authors and their Homes, pp. 187-194 F.W. Halsey

Bookman, 17:16 (Portrait); 24:9, September, 1906 (Portrait); 28:9,
September, 1908 (Portrait). Arena, 38:678, December, 1907. Outlook,
93:689, November 27, 1909. Bookbuyer, 25:17-20, August, 1902.




QUITE SO

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

(In _Marjorie Daw, and Other Stories_)


I

Of course that was not his name. Even in the State of Maine, where it is
still a custom to maim a child for life by christening him Arioch or
Shadrach or Ephraim, nobody would dream of calling a boy "Quite So." It
was merely a nickname which we gave him in camp; but it stuck to him
with such bur-like tenacity, and is so inseparable from my memory of
him, that I do not think I could write definitely of John Bladburn if I
were to call him anything but "Quite So."

It was one night shortly after the first battle of Bull Run. The Army of
the Potomac, shattered, stunned, and forlorn, was back in its old
quarters behind the earth-works. The melancholy line of ambulances
bearing our wounded to Washington was not done creeping over Long
Bridge; the blue smocks and the gray still lay in windrows on the field
of Manassas; and the gloom that weighed down our hearts was like the fog
that stretched along the bosom of the Potomac, and infolded the valley
of the Shenandoah. A drizzling rain had set in at twilight, and, growing
bolder with the darkness, was beating a dismal tattoo on the tent,--the
tent of Mess 6, Company A, --th Regiment, N.Y. Volunteers. Our mess,
consisting originally of eight men, was reduced to four. Little Billy,
as one of the boys grimly remarked, had concluded to remain at
Manassas; Corporal Steele we had to leave at Fairfax Court-House, shot
through the hip; Hunter and Suydam we had said good-by to that
afternoon. "Tell Johnny Reb," says Hunter, lifting up the leather
sidepiece of the ambulance, "that I'll be back again as soon as I get a
new leg." But Suydam said nothing; he only unclosed his eyes languidly
and smiled farewell to us.

The four of us who were left alive and unhurt that shameful July day sat
gloomily smoking our brier-wood pipes, thinking our thoughts, and
listening to the rain pattering against the canvas. That, and the
occasional whine of a hungry cur, foraging on the outskirts of the camp
for a stray bone, alone broke the silence, save when a vicious drop of
rain detached itself meditatively from the ridge-pole of the tent, and
fell upon the wick of our tallow candle, making it "cuss," as Ned Strong
described it. The candle was in the midst of one of its most profane
fits when Blakely, knocking the ashes from his pipe and addressing no
one in particular, but giving breath, unconsciously as it were, to the
result of his cogitations, observed that "it was considerable of a
fizzle."

"The 'on to Richmond' business?"

"Yes."

"I wonder what they'll do about it over yonder," said Curtis, pointing
over his right shoulder. By "over yonder" he meant the North in general
and Massachusetts especially. Curtis was a Boston boy, and his sense of
locality was so strong that, during all his wanderings in Virginia, I do
not believe there was a moment, day or night, when he could not have
made a bee-line for Faneuil Hall.

"Do about it?" cried Strong. "They'll make about two hundred thousand
blue flannel trousers and send them along, each pair with a man in
it,--all the short men in the long trousers, and all the tall men in the
short ones," he added, ruefully contemplating his own leg-gear, which
scarcely reached to his ankles.

"That's so," said Blakely. "Just now, when I was tackling the commissary
for an extra candle, I saw a crowd of new fellows drawing blankets."

"I say there, drop that!" cried Strong. "All right, sir, didn't know it
was you," he added hastily, seeing it was Lieutenant Haines who had
thrown back the flap of the tent, and let in a gust of wind and rain
that threatened the most serious bronchial consequences to our
discontented tallow dip.

"You're to bunk in here," said the lieutenant, speaking to some one
outside. The some one stepped in, and Haines vanished in the darkness.

When Strong had succeeded in restoring the candle to consciousness, the
light fell upon a tall, shy-looking man of about thirty-five, with long,
hay-colored beard and mustache, upon which the rain-drops stood in
clusters, like the night-dew on patches of cobweb in a meadow. It was an
honest face, with unworldly sort of blue eyes, that looked out from
under the broad visor of the infantry cap. With a deferential glance
towards us, the new-comer unstrapped his knapsack, spread his blanket
over it, and sat down unobtrusively.

"Rather damp night out," remarked Blakely, whose strong hand was
supposed to be conversation.

"Quite so," replied the stranger, not curtly, but pleasantly, and with
an air as if he had said all there was to be said about it.

"Come from the North recently?" inquired Blakely, after a pause.

"Yes."

"From any place in particular?"

"Maine."

"People considerably stirred up down there?" continued Blakely,
determined not to give up.

"Quite so."

Blakely threw a puzzled look over the tent, and seeing Ned Strong on the
broad grin, frowned severely. Strong instantly assumed an abstracted
air, and began humming softly,

    "I wish I was in Dixie."

"The State of Maine," observed Blakely, with a certain defiance of
manner not at all necessary in discussing a geographical question, "is a
pleasant State."

"In summer," suggested the stranger.

"In summer, I mean," returned Blakely with animation, thinking he had
broken the ice. "Cold as blazes in winter, though,--isn't it?"

The new recruit merely nodded.

Blakely eyed the man homicidally for a moment, and then, smiling one of
those smiles of simulated gayety which the novelists inform us are more
tragic than tears, turned upon him with withering irony.

"Trust you left the old folks pretty comfortable?"

"Dead."

"The old folks dead!"

"Quite so."

Blakely made a sudden dive for his blanket, tucked it around him with
painful precision, and was heard no more.

Just then the bugle sounded "lights out,"--bugle answering bugle in
far-off camps. When our not elaborate night-toilets were complete,
Strong threw somebody else's old boot at the candle with infallible aim,
and darkness took possession of the tent. Ned, who lay on my left,
presently reached over to me, and whispered, "I say, our friend 'quite
so' is a garrulous old boy! He'll talk himself to death some of these
odd times, if he isn't careful. How he _did_ run on!"

The next morning, when I opened my eyes, the new member of Mess 6 was
sitting on his knapsack, combing his blond beard with a horn comb. He
nodded pleasantly to me, and to each of the boys as they woke up, one by
one. Blakely did not appear disposed to renew the animated conversation
of the previous night; but while he was gone to make a requisition for
what was in pure sarcasm called coffee, Curtis ventured to ask the man
his name.

"Bladburn, John," was the reply.

"That's rather an unwieldy name for everyday use," put in Strong. "If it
wouldn't hurt your feelings, I'd like to call you Quite So,--for short.
Don't say no, if you don't like it. Is it agreeable?"

Bladburn gave a little laugh, all to himself, seemingly, and was about
to say, "Quite so," when he caught at the words, blushed like a girl,
and nodded a sunny assent to Strong. From that day until the end, the
sobriquet clung to him.

The disaster at Bull Run was followed, as the reader knows, by a long
period of masterly inactivity, so far as the Army of the Potomac was
concerned. McDowell, a good soldier but unlucky, retired to Arlington
Heights, and McClellan, who had distinguished himself in Western
Virginia, took command of the forces in front of Washington, and bent
his energies to reorganizing the demoralized troops. It was a dreary
time to the people of the North, who looked fatuously from week to week
for "the fall of Richmond"; and it was a dreary time to the denizens of
that vast city of tents and forts which stretched in a semicircle before
the beleaguered Capitol,--so tedious and soul-wearing a time that the
hardships of forced marches and the horrors of battle became desirable
things to them.

Roll-call morning and evening, guard-duty, dress-parades, an occasional
reconnaissance, dominoes, wrestling-matches, and such rude games as
could be carried on in camp made up the sum of our lives. The arrival of
the mail with letters and papers from home was the event of the day. We
noticed that Bladburn neither wrote nor received any letters. When the
rest of the boys were scribbling away for dear life, with drumheads and
knapsacks and cracker-boxes for writing-desks, he would sit serenely
smoking his pipe, but looking out on us through rings of smoke with a
face expressive of the tenderest interest.

"Look here, Quite So," Strong would say, "the mail-bag closes in half an
hour. Ain't you going to write?"

"I believe not to-day," Bladburn would reply, as if he had written
yesterday, or would write to-morrow: but he never wrote.

He had become a great favorite with us, and with all the officers of the
regiment. He talked less than any man I ever knew, but there was nothing
sinister or sullen in his reticence. It was sunshine,--warmth and
brightness, but no voice. Unassuming and modest to the verge of
shyness, he impressed every one as a man of singular pluck and nerve.

"Do you know," said Curtis to me one day, "that that fellow Quite So is
clear grit, and when we come to close quarters with our Palmetto
brethren over yonder, he'll do something devilish?"

"What makes you think so?"

"Well, nothing quite explainable; the exasperating coolness of the man,
as much as anything. This morning the boys were teasing Muffin Fan" [a
small mulatto girl who used to bring muffins into camp three times a
week,--at the peril of her life!] "and Jemmy Blunt of Company K--you
know him--was rather rough on the girl, when Quite So, who had been
reading under a tree, shut one finger in his book, walked over to where
the boys were skylarking, and with the smile of a juvenile angel on his
face lifted Jemmy out of that and set him down gently in front of his
own tent. There Blunt sat speechless, staring at Quite So, who was back
again under the tree, pegging away at his little Latin grammar."

That Latin grammar! He always had it about him, reading it or turning
over its dog's-eared pages at odd intervals and in out-of-the-way
places. Half a dozen times a day he would draw it out from the bosom of
his blouse, which had taken the shape of the book just over the left
breast, look at it as if to assure himself it was all right, and then
put the thing back. At night the volume lay beneath his pillow. The
first thing in the morning, before he was well awake, his hand would go
groping instinctively under his knapsack in search of it.

A devastating curiosity seized upon us boys concerning that Latin
grammar, for we had discovered the nature of the book. Strong wanted to
steal it one night, but concluded not to. "In the first place,"
reflected Strong, "I haven't the heart to do it, and in the next place I
haven't the moral courage. Quite So would placidly break every bone in
my body." And I believe Strong was not far out of the way.

Sometimes I was vexed with myself for allowing this tall, simple-hearted
country fellow to puzzle me so much. And yet, was he a simple-hearted
country fellow? City bred he certainly was not; but his manner, in spite
of his awkwardness, had an indescribable air of refinement. Now and
then, too, he dropped a word or a phrase that showed his familiarity
with unexpected lines of reading. "The other day," said Curtis, with the
slightest elevation of eyebrow, "he had the cheek to correct my Latin
for me." In short, Quite So was a daily problem to the members of Mess
6. Whenever he was absent, and Blakely and Curtis and Strong and I got
together in the tent, we discussed him, evolving various theories to
explain why he never wrote to anybody and why nobody ever wrote to him.
Had the man committed some terrible crime, and fled to the army to hide
his guilt? Blakely suggested that he must have murdered "the old folks."
What did he mean by eternally conning that tattered Latin grammar? And
was his name Bladburn, anyhow? Even his imperturbable amiability became
suspicious. And then his frightful reticence! If he was the victim of
any deep grief or crushing calamity, why didn't he seem unhappy? What
business had he to be cheerful?

"It's my opinion," said Strong, "that he's a rival Wandering Jew; the
original Jacobs, you know, was a dark fellow."

Blakely inferred from something Bladburn had said, or something he had
not said,--which was more likely,--that he had been a schoolmaster at
some period of his life.

"Schoolmaster be hanged!" was Strong's comment. "Can you fancy a
schoolmaster going about conjugating baby verbs out of a dratted little
spelling-book? No, Quite So has evidently been a--a--Blest if I can
imagine _what_ he's been!"

Whatever John Bladburn had been, he was a lonely man. Whenever I want a
type of perfect human isolation, I shall think of him, as he was in
those days, moving remote, self-contained, and alone in the midst of two
hundred thousand men.


II

The Indian summer, with its infinite beauty and tenderness, came like a
reproach that year to Virginia. The foliage, touched here and there with
prismatic tints, drooped motionless in the golden haze. The delicate
Virginia creeper was almost minded to put forth its scarlet buds again.
No wonder the lovely phantom--this dusky Southern sister of the pale
Northern June--lingered not long with us, but, filling the once peaceful
glens and valleys with her pathos, stole away rebukefully before the
savage enginery of man.

The preparations that had been going on for months in arsenals and
foundries at the North were nearly completed. For weeks past the air had
been filled with rumors of an advance; but the rumor of to-day refuted
the rumor of yesterday, and the Grand Army did not move. Heintzelman's
corps was constantly folding its tents, like the Arabs, and as silently
stealing away; but somehow it was always in the same place the next
morning. One day, at length, orders came down for our brigade to move.

"We're going to Richmond, boys!" shouted Strong, thrusting his head in
at the tent; and we all cheered and waved our caps like mad. You see,
Big Bethel and Bull Run and Ball's Bluff (the Bloody B's, as we used to
call them,) hadn't taught us any better sense.

Rising abruptly from the plateau, to the left of our encampment, was a
tall hill covered with a stunted growth of red-oak, persimmon, and
chestnut. The night before we struck tents I climbed up to the crest to
take a parting look at a spectacle which custom had not been able to rob
of its enchantment. There, at my feet, and extending miles and miles
away, lay the camps of the Grand Army, with its camp-fires reflected
luridly against the sky. Thousands of lights were twinkling in every
direction, some nestling in the valley, some like fire-flies beating
their wings and palpitating among the trees, and others stretching in
parallel lines and curves, like the street-lamps of a city. Somewhere,
far off, a band was playing, at intervals it seemed; and now and then,
nearer to, a silvery strain from a bugle shot sharply up through the
night, and seemed to lose itself like a rocket among the stars,--the
patient, untroubled stars. Suddenly a hand was laid upon my arm.

"I'd like to say a word to you," said Bladburn.

With a little start of surprise, I made room for him on the fallen tree
where I was seated.

"I mayn't get another chance," he said. "You and the boys have been very
kind to me, kinder than I deserve; but sometimes I've fancied that my
not saying anything about myself had given you the idea that all was
not right in my past. I want to say that I came down to Virginia with a
clean record."

"We never really doubted it, Bladburn."

"If I didn't write home," he continued, "it was because I hadn't any
home, neither kith nor kin. When I said the old folks were dead, I said
it. Am I boring you? If I thought I was--"

"No, Bladburn. I have often wanted you to talk to me about yourself, not
from idle curiosity, I trust, but because I liked you that rainy night
when you came to camp, and have gone on liking you ever since. This
isn't too much to say, when Heaven only knows how soon I may be past
saying it or you listening to it."

"That's it," said Bladburn, hurriedly, "that's why I want to talk with
you. I've a fancy that I shan't come out of our first battle."

The words gave me a queer start, for I had been trying several days to
throw off a similar presentiment concerning him,--a foolish presentiment
that grew out of a dream.

"In case anything of that kind turns up," he continued, "I'd like you to
have my Latin grammar here,--you've seen me reading it. You might stick
it away in a bookcase, for the sake of old times. It goes against me to
think of it falling into rough hands or being kicked about camp and
trampled under foot."

He was drumming softly with his fingers on the volume in the bosom of
his blouse.

"I didn't intend to speak of this to a living soul," he went on,
motioning me not to answer him; "but something took hold of me to-night
and made me follow you up here. Perhaps, if I told you all, you would be
the more willing to look after the little book in case it goes ill with
me. When the war broke out I was teaching school down in Maine, in the
same village where my father was schoolmaster before me. The old man
when he died left me quite alone. I lived pretty much by myself, having
no interests outside of the district school, which seemed in a manner my
personal property. Eight years ago last spring a new pupil was brought
to the school, a slight slip of a girl, with a sad kind of face and
quiet ways. Perhaps it was because she wasn't very strong, and perhaps
because she wasn't used over well by those who had charge of her, or
perhaps it was because my life was lonely, that my heart warmed to the
child. It all seems like a dream now, since that April morning when
little Mary stood in front of my desk with her pretty eyes looking down
bashfully and her soft hair falling over her face. One day I look up,
and six years have gone by,--as they go by in dreams,--and among the
scholars is a tall girl of sixteen, with serious, womanly eyes which I
cannot trust myself to look upon. The old life has come to an end. The
child has become a woman and can teach the master now. So help me
Heaven, I didn't know that I loved her until that day!

"Long after the children had gone home I sat in the schoolroom with my
face resting on my hands. There was her desk, the afternoon shadows
falling across it. It never looked empty and cheerless before. I went
and stood by the low chair, as I had stood hundreds of times. On the
desk was a pile of books, ready to be taken away, and among the rest a
small Latin grammar which we had studied together. What little despairs
and triumphs and happy hours were associated with it! I took it up
curiously, as if it were some gentle dead thing, and turned over the
pages, and could hardly see them. Turning the pages, idly so, I came to
a leaf on which something was written with ink, in the familiar girlish
hand. It was only the words 'Dear John,' through which she had drawn two
hasty pencil lines--I wish she hadn't drawn those lines!" added
Bladburn, under his breath.

He was silent for a minute or two, looking off towards the camps, where
the lights were fading out one by one.

"I had no right to go and love Mary. I was twice her age, an awkward,
unsocial man, that would have blighted her youth. I was as wrong as
wrong can be. But I never meant to tell her. I locked the grammar in my
desk and the secret in my heart for a year. I couldn't bear to meet her
in the village, and kept away from every place where she was likely to
be. Then she came to me, and sat down at my feet penitently, just as she
used to do when she was a child, and asked what she had done to anger
me; and then, Heaven forgive me! I told her all, and asked her if she
could say with her lips the words she had written, and she nestled in my
arms all a-trembling like a bird, and said them over and over again.

"When Mary's family heard of our engagement, there was trouble. They
looked higher for Mary than a middle-aged schoolmaster. No blame to
them. They forbade me the house, her uncles; but we met in the village
and at the neighbors' houses, and I was happy, knowing she loved me.
Matters were in this state when the war came on. I had a strong call to
look after the old flag, and I hung my head that day when the company
raised in our village marched by the schoolhouse to the railroad
station; but I couldn't tear myself away. About this time the minister's
son, who had been away to college, came to the village. He met Mary here
and there, and they became great friends. He was a likely fellow, near
her own age, and it was natural they should like one another. Sometimes
I winced at seeing him made free of the home from which I was shut out;
then I would open the grammar at the leaf where 'Dear John' was written
up in the corner, and my trouble was gone. Mary was sorrowful and pale
these days, and I think her people were worrying her.

"It was one evening two or three days before we got the news of Bull
Run. I had gone down to the burying-ground to trim the spruce hedge set
round the old man's lot, and was just stepping into the enclosure, when
I heard voices from the opposite side. One was Mary's, and the other I
knew to be young Marston's, the minister's son. I didn't mean to listen,
but what Mary was saying struck me dumb. _We must never meet again_, she
was saying in a wild way. _We must say good-by here, forever,--good-by,
good-by!_ And I could hear her sobbing. Then, presently, she said,
hurriedly, _No, no; my hand, not my lips_! Then it seemed he kissed her
hands, and the two parted, one going towards the parsonage, and the
other out by the gate near where I stood.

"I don't know how long I stood there, but the night-dews had wet me to
the bone when I stole out of the graveyard and across the road to the
schoolhouse. I unlocked the door, and took the Latin grammar from the
desk and hid it in my bosom. There was not a sound or a light anywhere
as I walked out of the village. And now," said Bladburn, rising suddenly
from the tree-trunk, "if the little book ever falls in your way, won't
you see that it comes to no harm, for my sake, and for the sake of the
little woman who was true to me and didn't love me? Wherever she is
to-night, God bless her!"

       *       *       *       *       *

As we descended to camp with our arms resting on each other's shoulder,
the watch-fires were burning low in the valleys and along the hillsides,
and as far as the eye could reach, the silent tents lay bleaching in the
moonlight.


III

We imagined that the throwing forward of our brigade was the initial
movement of a general advance of the army: but that, as the reader will
remember, did not take place until the following March. The Confederates
had fallen back to Centreville without firing a shot, and the National
troops were in possession of Lewinsville, Vienna, and Fairfax
Court-House. Our new position was nearly identical with that which we
had occupied on the night previous to the battle of Bull Run,--on the
old turnpike road to Manassas, where the enemy was supposed to be in
great force. With a field-glass we could see the Rebel pickets moving in
a belt of woodland on our right, and morning and evening we heard the
spiteful roll of their snare-drums.

Those pickets soon became a nuisance to us. Hardly a night passed but
they fired upon our outposts, so far with no harmful result; but after a
while it grew to be a serious matter. The Rebels would crawl out on
all-fours from the wood into a field covered with underbrush, and lie
there in the dark for hours, waiting for a shot. Then our men took to
the rifle-pits,--pits ten or twelve feet long by four or five feet deep,
with the loose earth banked up a few inches high on the exposed sides.
All the pits bore names, more or less felicitous, by which they were
known to their transient tenants. One was called "The Pepper-Box,"
another "Uncle Sam's Well," another "The Reb-Trap," and another, I am
constrained to say, was named after a not to be mentioned tropical
locality. Though this rude sort of nomenclature predominated, there was
no lack of softer titles, such as "Fortress Matilda" and "Castle Mary,"
and one had, though unintentionally, a literary flavor to it, "Blair's
Grave," which was not popularly considered as reflecting unpleasantly on
Nat Blair, who had assisted in making the excavation.

Some of the regiment had discovered a field of late corn in the
neighborhood, and used to boil a few ears every day, while it lasted,
for the boys detailed on the night-picket. The corn-cobs were always
scrupulously preserved and mounted on the parapets of the pits. Whenever
a Rebel shot carried away one of these _barbette_ guns, there was
swearing in that particular trench. Strong, who was very sensitive to
this kind of disaster, was complaining bitterly one morning, because he
had lost three "pieces" the night before.

"There's Quite So, now," said Strong, "when a Minie-ball comes _ping_!
and knocks one of his guns to flinders, he merely smiles, and doesn't at
all see the degradation of the thing."

Poor Bladburn! As I watched him day by day going about his duties, in
his shy, cheery way, with a smile for every one and not an extra word
for anybody, it was hard to believe he was the same man who, that night
before we broke camp by the Potomac, had poured out to me the story of
his love and sorrow in words that burned in my memory.

While Strong was speaking, Blakely lifted aside the flap of the tent and
looked in on us.

"Boys, Quite So was hurt last night," he said, with a white tremor to
his lip.

"What!"

"Shot on picket."

"Why, he was in the pit next to mine," cried Strong.

"Badly hurt?"

"Badly hurt."

I knew he was; I need not have asked the question. He never meant to go
back to New England!

       *       *       *       *       *

Bladburn was lying on the stretcher in the hospital-tent. The surgeon
had knelt down by him, and was carefully cutting away the bosom of his
blouse. The Latin grammar, stained and torn, slipped, and fell to the
floor. Bladburn gave me a quick glance. I picked up the book, and as I
placed it in his hand, the icy fingers closed softly over mine. He was
sinking fast. In a few minutes the surgeon finished his examination.
When he rose to his feet there were tears on the weather-beaten cheeks.
He was a rough outside, but a tender heart.

"My poor lad," he blurted out, "it's no use. If you've anything to say,
say it now, for you've nearly done with this world."

Then Bladburn lifted his eyes slowly to the surgeon, and the old smile
flitted over his face as he murmured,--

"Quite so."


NOTES

=the first battle of Bull Run=:--Fought July 21, 1861; known in the
South as Manassas.

=Long Bridge=:--A bridge over which the Union soldiers crossed in
fleeing to Washington after the battle of Bull Run.

=Shenandoah=:--A river and a valley in Virginia--the scene of many
events in the Civil War.

=Fairfax Court House=:--Near Manassas Junction.

=On to Richmond=:--In 1861 the newspapers of the North were violently
demanding an attack on Richmond.

=Faneuil Hall=:--An historic hall in Boston, in which important meetings
were held before the Revolution.

=McDowell=:--Irving McDowell, who commanded the Union troops at Bull
Run.

=McClellan=:--George B. McClellan, commander of the Army of the Potomac.

=Wandering Jew=:--A legendary person said to have been condemned to
wander over the earth, undying, till the Day of Judgment. The legend is
probably founded on a passage in the Bible--John 21:20-23.

=folding its tents=:--A quotation from _The Day is Done_, by Longfellow.
The lines are:--

    And the night shall be filled with music,
      And the cares, that infest the day,
    Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
      And as silently steal away.

=Big Bethel=:--The Union troops were defeated here on June 10, 1861.

=Ball's Bluff=:--A place on the Potomac where the Union soldiers were
beaten, October 21, 1861.

=Centreville=:--A small town, the Union base in the first Battle of Bull
Run.

=Lewinsville=:--A small town, north of Centreville.

=Vienna=:--A village in the Bull Run district.

=Blair's Grave=:--Robert Blair, a Scotch writer, published (1743) a poem
in blank verse called "The Grave."

=barbette guns=:--Guns elevated to fire over the top of a turret or
parapet.

=minie-ball=:--A conical ball plugged with iron, named after its
inventor, Captain Minie, of France.


QUESTIONS FOR STUDY

Read the piece through without stopping, so that you can get the story.
Then go back to the beginning and study with the help of the following
questions:--

Compare the first sentence with the first sentence of _Tennessee's
Partner_. What do you think of the method? What is the use of the first
paragraph in _Quite So_? Why the long paragraph giving the setting? Is
this a good method in writing a story? What had become of "Little
Billy"? Who was "Johnny Reb"? What do you think of bringing in humorous
touches when one is dealing with things so serious as war and battles?
What does "Drop that!" refer to? Why does Strong change his tone? Note
what details the author has selected in order to give a clear picture of
"Quite So" in a few words. How does the conversation reveal the
stranger's character? What is shown by the fact that "Quite So" does not
write any letters? What is the purpose of the episode of "Muffin Fan"?
What devices does the author use, in order to bring out the mystery and
the loneliness of "Quite So"? Note how the author emphasizes the passage
of time. Why does Bladburn finally tell his story? How does it reveal
his character? Was Mary right in what she did? Why are some sentences in
the text printed in italics? Was Bladburn right in leaving his home
village without explanation? Why did he do so? What do you get from the
sentence, "He never meant to go back to New England"? What is the
impression made by the last sentence? Do you like the story?


THEME SUBJECTS

A Mysterious Person
The New Girl at School
The Schoolmaster's Romance
A Sudden Departure
A Camp Scene
The G.A.R. on Memorial Day
The Militia in our Town
An Old Soldier
A Story of the Civil War
Some Relics of the Civil War
Watching the Cadets Drill
My Uncle's Experiences in the War
A Sham Battle
A Visit to an Old Battlefield
On Picket Duty
A Daughter of the Confederacy
"Stonewall" Jackson
Modern Ways of Preventing War
The Soldiers' Home
An Escape from a Military Prison
The Women's Relief Corps
Women in the Civil War


SUGGESTIONS FOR WRITING

=An Old Soldier=:--Tell how you happen to know this old soldier. Where
does he live? Do you see him often? What is he doing when you see him?
Describe him as vividly as you can:--his general appearance; his
clothes; his way of walking. Speak particularly of his face and its
expression. If possible, let us hear him talk. Perhaps you can tell some
of his war stories--in his own words.

=A Mysterious Person=:--Imagine a mysterious person appearing in a
little town where everybody knows everybody else. Tell how he (or she)
arrives. How does he look? What does he do? Explain clearly why he is
particularly hard to account for. What do people say about him? Try to
make each person's remarks fit his individual character. How do people
try to find out about the stranger? Does he notice their curiosity? Do
they ask him questions? If so, give some bits of their conversations
with him. You might go on and make a story of some length out of this.
Show whether the stranger really has any reason for concealing his
identity. Does he get into any trouble? Does an accident reveal who he
is and why he is in the town? Does some one find out by spying upon him?
Or does he tell all about himself, when the right time comes?

Perhaps you can put the story into the form of a series of brief
conversations about the stranger or with him.

=An Incident of the Civil War=:--Select some historical incident, or one
that you have heard from an old soldier, and tell it simply and vividly
in your own words.


COLLATERAL READINGS

The Story of a Bad Boy                   Thomas Bailey Aldrich
Marjorie Daw and Other People              "      "      "
The Stillwater Tragedy                     "      "      "
Prudence Palfrey                           "      "      "
From Ponkapog to Pesth                     "      "      "
The Queen of Sheba                         "      "      "
A Sea Turn and Other Matters               "      "      "
For Bravery on the Field of Battle
  (in _Two Bites at a Cherry_)             "      "      "
The Return of a Private
  (in _Main-Travelled Roads_)            Hamlin Garland
On the Eve of the Fourth                 Harold Frederic
Marse Chan                               Thomas Nelson Page
Meh Lady                                   "     "      "
The Burial of the Guns                     "     "      "
Red Rock                                   "     "      "
The Long Roll                            Mary Johnston
Cease Firing                               "      "
The Crisis                               Winston Churchill
Where the Battle was Fought              Mary N. Murfree
The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come      John Fox, Jr.
Hospital Sketches                        Louisa M. Alcott
A Blockaded Family                       P.A. Hague
He Knew Lincoln[2]                       Ida Tarbell
The Perfect Tribute[3]                   M.R.S. Andrews
The Toy Shop[4]                          M.S. Gerry
Thomas Bailey Aldrich                    Ferris Greenslet
Park Street Papers, pp. 143-70           Bliss Perry
American Writers of To-day, pp. 104-23   H.C. Vedder
American Authors and their Homes,
  pp. 89-98                              F.W. Halsey
American Authors at Home, pp. 3-16       J.L. and J.B. Gilder
Literary Pilgrimages in New England,
  pp. 89-97                              E.M. Bacon
Thomas Bailey Aldrich (poem)             Henry van Dyke

For biographies and criticisms of Thomas B. Aldrich, see also: Outlook,
86:922, August 24, 1907; 84:735, November 24, 1906; 85:737, March 30,
1907. Bookman, 24:317, December, 1906 (Portrait); also 25:218
(Portrait). Current Literature, 42:49, January, 1907 (Portrait).
Chautauquan, 65:168, January, 1912.




PAN IN WALL STREET

A.D. 1867

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN


    Just where the Treasury's marble front
      Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations;
    Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont
      To throng for trade and last quotations;
    Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
      Outrival, in the ears of people,
    The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled
      From Trinity's undaunted steeple,--

    Even there I heard a strange, wild strain
      Sound high above the modern clamor,
    Above the cries of greed and gain,
      The curbstone war, the auction's hammer;
    And swift, on Music's misty ways,
      It led, from all this strife for millions.
    To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days
      Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

    And as it stilled the multitude,
      And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,
    I saw the minstrel where he stood
      At ease against a Doric pillar:
    One hand a droning organ played,
      The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned
    Like those of old) to lips that made
      The reeds give out that strain impassioned.

    'Twas Pan himself had wandered here
      A-strolling through this sordid city,
    And piping to the civic ear
      The prelude of some pastoral ditty!
    The demigod had crossed the seas,--
      From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr,
    And Syracusan times,--to these
      Far shores and twenty centuries later.

    A ragged cap was on his head;
      But--hidden thus--there was no doubting
    That, all with crispy locks o'erspread,
      His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting;
    His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,
      Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them,
    And trousers, patched of divers hues,
      Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.

    He filled the quivering reeds with sound,
      And o'er his mouth their changes shifted,
    And with his goat's-eyes looked around
      Where'er the passing current drifted;
    And soon, as on Trinacrian hills
      The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him,
    Even now the tradesmen from their tills,
      With clerks and porters, crowded near him.

    The bulls and bears together drew
      From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley,
    As erst, if pastorals be true,
      Came beasts from every wooded valley;
    And random passers stayed to list,--
      A boxer AEgon, rough and merry,
    A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst
      With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.

    A one-eyed Cyclops halted long
      In tattered cloak of army pattern,
    And Galatea joined the throng,--
      A blowsy apple-vending slattern;
    While old Silenus staggered out
      From some new-fangled lunch-house handy,
    And bade the piper, with a shout,
      To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!

    A newsboy and a peanut-girl
      Like little Fauns began to caper;
    His hair was all in tangled curl,
      Her tawny legs were bare and taper;
    And still the gathering larger grew,
      And gave its pence and crowded nigher,
    While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew
      His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

    O heart of Nature, beating still
      With throbs her vernal passion taught her,--
    Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,
      Or by the Arethusan water!
    New forms may fold the speech, new lands
      Arise within these ocean-portals,
    But Music waves eternal wands,--
      Enchantress of the souls of mortals!

    So thought I,--but among us trod
      A man in blue, with legal baton,
    And scoffed the vagrant demigod,
      And pushed him from the step I sat on.
    Doubting I mused upon the cry,
      "Great Pan is dead!"--and all the people
    Went on their ways:--and clear and high
      The quarter sounded from the steeple.


NOTES

=Wall Street=:--An old street in New York faced by the Stock Exchange
and the offices of the wealthiest bankers and brokers.

=the Treasury=:--The Sub-Treasury Building.

=last quotations=:--The latest information on stock values given out
before the Stock Exchange closes.

=Trinity=:--The famous old church that stands at the head of Wall
Street.

=curbstone war=:--The clamorous quoting, auctioning, and bidding of
stock out on the street curb, where the "curb brokers"--brokers who do
not have seats on the Stock Exchange--do business.

=sweet-do-nothing=:--A translation of an Italian expression, _dolce far
niente_.

=Sicilians=:--Theocritus (3rd century before Christ), the Greek pastoral
poet, wrote of the happy life of the shepherds and shepherdesses in
Sicily.

=Doric pillar=:--A heavy marble pillar, such as was used in the
architecture of the Dorians in Greece.

=Pan's pipe=:--Pan was the Greek god of shepherds, and patron of fishing
and hunting. He is represented as having the head and body of a man,
with the legs, horns, and tail of a goat. It was said that he invented
the shepherd's pipe or flute, which he made from reeds plucked on the
bank of a stream.

=pastoral ditty=:--A poem about shepherds and the happy outdoor life.
The word pastoral comes from the Latin _pastor_, shepherd.

=Syracusan times=:--Syracuse was an important city in Sicily. See the
note on Sicilians, above.

=Trinacrian hills=:--Trinacria is an old name for Sicily.

=bulls and bears=:--A bull, on the Stock Exchange, is one who operates
in expectation of a rise in stocks; a bear is a person who sells stocks
in expectation of a fall in the market.

=Jauncey Court=:--The Jauncey family were prominent in the early New
York days. This court was probably named after them.

=AEgon=:--Usually spelled AEgaeon; another name for Briareus, a monster
with a hundred arms.

=Daphnis=:--In Greek myth, a shepherd who loved music.

=Nais=:--In Greek myth, a happy young girl, a nymph.

=Cyclops=:--One of a race of giants having but one eye--in the middle of
the forehead. These giants helped Vulcan at his forge under Aetna.

=Galatea=:--A sea-nymph beloved by the Cyclops Polyphemus.

=Silenus=:--The foster-father and companion of Bacchus, god of wine. In
pictures and sculpture Silenus is usually represented as intoxicated.

=Fauns=:--Fabled beings, half goat and half man.

=Arethusan water=:--Arethusa, in Greek myth, was a wood-nymph, who was
pursued by the river Alpheus. She was changed into a fountain, and ran
under the sea to Sicily, where she rose near the city of Syracuse.
Shelley has a poem on Arethusa.

=baton=:--A rod or wand; here, of course, a policeman's club.


SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

The author sees an organ-grinder playing his gay tunes in Wall Street,
New York, among the buildings where enormous financial transactions are
carried on. He (the author) imagines this wandering minstrel to be Pan
himself, assuming a modern form. Read the notes carefully for what is
said about Pan. Notice, in the poem, how skillfully the author brings
out the contrast between the easy-going days of ancient Greece and the
busy, rushing times of modern America. Of what value is the word
_serenely_ in the first stanza? What is the "curbstone war"? Do you
think the old-fashioned Pan's pipe is common now? Could a man play an
organ and a pipe at the same time? Why is the city spoken of as
"sordid"? What is the "civic ear"? In the description of the player, how
is the idea of his being Pan emphasized? How was it that the bulls and
bears drew together? In plain words who were the people whom the author
describes under Greek names? Show how aptly the mythological characters
are fitted to modern persons. Read carefully what is said about the
power of music, in the stanza beginning "O heart of Nature." Who was the
man in blue? Why did he interfere? Why is the organ-grinder called a
"vagrant demigod"? What was it that the author doubted? What is meant
here by "Great Pan is dead"? Does the author mean more than the mere
words seem to express? Do you think that people are any happier in these
commercial times than they were in ancient Greece? After you have
studied the poem and mastered all the references, read the poem through,
thinking of its meaning and its lively measure.

Read Mrs. Browning's poem, _A Musical Instrument_, which is about Pan
and his pipe of reeds.


COLLATERAL READINGS

Nooks and Corners of Old New York      Charles Hemstreet
In Old New York                        Thomas A. Janvier
The Greatest Street in the World:
  Broadway                             Stephen Jenkins
The God of Music (poem)                Edith M. Thomas
A Musical Instrument                   Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Classic Myths (See Index)              C.M. Gayley
The Age of Fable                       Thomas Bulfinch
A Butterfly in Wall Street
  (in _Madrigals and Catches_)         Frank D. Sherman
Come Pan, and Pipe
  (in _Madrigals and Catches_)           "   "     "
Pan Learns Music (poem)                Henry van Dyke
Peeps at Great Cities: New York        Hildegarde Hawthorne
Vignettes of Manhattan                 Brander Matthews
New York Society                       Ralph Pulitzer
In the Cities (poem)                   R.W. Gilder
Up at a Villa--Down in the City        Robert Browning
The Faun in Wall Street[5] (poem)      John Myers O'Hara




THE HAND OF LINCOLN

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN


    Look on this cast, and know the hand
      That bore a nation in its hold;
    From this mute witness understand
      What Lincoln was,--how large of mould

    The man who sped the woodman's team,
      And deepest sunk the ploughman's share,
    And pushed the laden raft astream,
      Of fate before him unaware.

    This was the hand that knew to swing
      The axe--since thus would Freedom train
    Her son--and made the forest ring,
      And drove the wedge, and toiled amain.

    Firm hand, that loftier office took,
      A conscious leader's will obeyed,
    And, when men sought his word and look,
      With steadfast might the gathering swayed.

    No courtier's, toying with a sword,
      Nor minstrel's, laid across a lute;
    A chief's, uplifted to the Lord
      When all the kings of earth were mute!

    The hand of Anak, sinewed strong,
      The fingers that on greatness clutch;
    Yet, lo! the marks their lines along
      Of one who strove and suffered much.

    For here in knotted cord and vein
      I trace the varying chart of years;
    I know the troubled heart, the strain,
      The weight of Atlas--and the tears.

    Again I see the patient brow
      That palm erewhile was wont to press;
    And now 'tis furrowed deep, and now
      Made smooth with hope and tenderness.

    For something of a formless grace
      This moulded outline plays about;
    A pitying flame, beyond our trace,
      Breathes like a spirit, in and out,--

    The love that cast an aureole
      Round one who, longer to endure,
    Called mirth to ease his ceaseless dole,
      Yet kept his nobler purpose sure.

    Lo, as I gaze, the statured man,
      Built up from yon large hand, appears;
    A type that Nature wills to plan
      But once in all a people's years.

    What better than this voiceless cast
      To tell of such a one as he,
    Since through its living semblance passed
      The thought that bade a race be free!


NOTES

=this cast=:--A cast of Lincoln's hand was made by Leonard W. Volk, in
1860, on the Sunday following the nomination of Lincoln for the
Presidency. The original, in bronze, can be seen at the National Museum
in Washington. Various copies have been made in plaster. An anecdote
concerning one of these is told on page 107 of William Dean Howells's
_Literary Friends and Acquaintances_; facing page 106 of the same book
there is an interesting picture. In the _Critic_, volume 44, page 510,
there is an article by Isabel Moore, entitled _Hands that have Done
Things_; a picture of Lincoln's hand, in plaster, is given in the course
of this article.

=Anak=:--The sons of Anak are spoken of in the Bible as a race of
giants. See Numbers, 13:33; Deuteronomy, 9:2.

=Atlas=:--In Greek story, the giant who held the world on his shoulders.

=the thought=:--The Emancipation Proclamation.


SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

Read the poem through from beginning to end. Then go back to the first
and study it more carefully. Notice that there is no pause at the end of
the first stanza. In the ninth line, mentally put in _how_ after _know_.
Explain what is said about Freedom's training her son. _Loftier office_:
Loftier than what? Note that _might_ is a noun. Mentally insert _hand_
after _courtier's_. Can you tell from the hand of a person whether he
has suffered or not? What does the author mean here by "the weight of
Atlas"? What is a "formless grace"? Is the expression appropriate here?
What characteristic of Lincoln is referred to in the line beginning
"Called mirth"? Are great men so rare as the author seems to think? Why
is the cast a good means of telling of "such a one as he"? Look
carefully at one of Lincoln's portraits, and then read this poem aloud
to yourself.

Compare this poem with the sonnet _On the Life-Mask of Abraham Lincoln_,
page 210.


COLLATERAL READINGS

Abraham Lincoln: A Short Life                    John G. Nicolay
The Boys' Life of Lincoln                        Helen Nicolay
Personal Traits of Abraham Lincoln                  "     "
Lincoln the Lawyer                               F.T. Hill
Passages from the Speeches and Letters
  of Abraham Lincoln                             R.W. Gilder (Ed.)
Lincoln's Own Stories                            Anthony Gross
Lincoln                                          Norman Hapgood
Abraham Lincoln, the Boy and the Man             James Morgan
Father Abraham                                   Ida Tarbell
He Knew Lincoln[6]                                "    "
Life of Abraham Lincoln                           "    "
Abraham Lincoln                                  Robert G. Ingersoll
Abraham Lincoln                                  Noah Brooks
Abraham Lincoln for Boys and Girls               C.W. Moores
The Graysons                                     Edward Eggleston
The Perfect Tribute[6]                           M.R.S. Andrews
The Toy Shop[6]                                  M.S. Gerry
We Talked of Lincoln (poem)[7]                   E.W. Thomson
Lincoln and the Sleeping Sentinel                L.E. Chittenden
O Captain, my Captain!                           Walt Whitman
When Lilacs last in the Dooryard Bloomed          "      "
Poems                                            E.C. Stedman
An American Anthology                            " "     "
American Authors and their Homes, pp. 157-172    F.W. Halsey
American Authors at Home, pp. 273-291            J.L. and J.B. Gilder

For portraits of E.C. Stedman, see Bookman, 34:592; Current Literature,
42:49.




JEAN VALJEAN

AUGUSTA STEVENSON

(Dramatized from Victor Hugo's _Les Miserables_)


SCENE II

TIME: _Evening._

PLACE: _Village of D----; dining room of the Bishop's house._

       *       *       *       *       *

[_The room is poorly furnished, but orderly. A door at the back opens on
the street. At one side, a window overlooks the garden; at the other,
curtains hang before an alcove._ MADEMOISELLE, _the Bishop's_ SISTER, _a
sweet-faced lady, sits by the fire, knitting._ MADAME, _his_
HOUSEKEEPER, _is laying the table for supper._]

MLLE. Has the Bishop returned from the service?

MADAME. Yes, Mademoiselle. He is in his room, reading. Shall I
call him?

MLLE. No, do not disturb him--he will come in good time--when
supper is ready.

MADAME. Dear me--I forgot to get bread when I went out to-day.

MLLE. Go to the baker's, then; we will wait.

[_Exit Madame. Pause._]

[_Enter the_ BISHOP. _He is an old man, gentle and kindly._]

BISHOP. I hope I have not kept you waiting, sister.

MLLE. No, brother, Madame has just gone out for bread. She
forgot it this morning.

BISHOP (_having seated himself by the fire_). The wind blows
cold from the mountains to-night.

MLLE. (_nodding_). All day it has been growing colder.

BISHOP. 'Twill bring great suffering to the poor.

MLLE. Who suffer too much already.

BISHOP. I would I could help them more than I do!

MLLE. You give all you have, my brother. You keep nothing for
yourself--you have only bare necessities.

BISHOP. Well, I have sent in a bill for carriage hire in making
pastoral visits.

MLLE. Carriage hire! I did not know you ever rode. Now I am
glad to hear that. A bishop should go in state sometimes. I venture to
say your bill is small.

BISHOP. Three thousand francs.

MLLE. Three thousand francs! Why, I cannot believe it!

BISHOP. Here is the bill.

MLLE. (_reading bill_). What is this!

EXPENSES OF CARRIAGE

For furnishing soup to hospital     1500 francs
For charitable society of D----      500   "
For foundlings                       500   "
For orphans                          500   "
                                    ----
Total                               3000 francs

So! that is your carriage hire! Ha, ha! I might have known it!

[_They laugh together._]

[_Enter_ MADAME, _excited, with bread._]

MADAME. Such news as I have heard! The whole town is talking
about it! We should have locks put on our doors at once!

MLLE. What is it, Madame? What have you heard?

MADAME. They say there is a suspicious vagabond in the town.
The inn-keeper refused to take him in. They say he is a released convict
who once committed an awful crime.

[_The Bishop is looking into the fire, paying no attention to Madame._]

MLLE. Do you hear what Madame is saying, brother?

BISHOP. Only a little. Are we in danger, Madame?

MADAME. There is a convict in town, your Reverence!

BISHOP. Do you fear we shall be robbed?

MADAME. I do, indeed!

BISHOP. Of what?

MADAME. There are the six silver plates and the silver
soup-ladle and the two silver candlesticks.

BISHOP. All of which we could do without.

MADAME. Do without!

MLLE. 'Twould be a great loss, brother. We could not treat a
guest as is our wont.

BISHOP. Ah, there you have me, sister. I love to see the silver
laid out for every guest who comes here. And I like the candles lighted,
too; it makes a brighter welcome.

MLLE. A bishop's house should show some state.

BISHOP. Aye--to every stranger! Henceforth, I should like every
one of our six plates on the table whenever we have a guest here.

MLLE. All of them?

MADAME. For one guest?

BISHOP. Yes--we have no right to hide treasures. Each guest
shall enjoy all that we have.

MADAME. Then 'tis time we should look to the locks on the
doors, if we would keep our silver. I'll go for the locksmith now--

BISHOP. Stay! This house shall not be locked against any man!
Would you have me lock out my brothers?

[_A loud knock is heard at street door._]

Come in!

[_Enter_ JEAN VALJEAN, _with his knapsack and cudgel. The women
are frightened._]

JEAN (_roughly_). See here! My name is Jean Valjean. I am a
convict from the galleys. I was set free four days ago, and I am looking
for work. I hoped to find a lodging here, but no one will have me. It
was the same way yesterday and the day before. To-night a good woman
told me to knock at your door. I have knocked. Is this an inn?

BISHOP. Madame, put on another plate.

JEAN. Stop! You do not understand, I think. Here is my
passport--see what it says: "Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been
nineteen years in the galleys; five years for theft; fourteen years for
having attempted to escape. He is a very dangerous man." There! you know
it all. I ask only for straw in your stable.

BISHOP. Madame, you will put white sheets on the bed in the
alcove.

[_Exit Madame. The Bishop turns to Jean._]

We shall dine presently. Sit here by the fire, sir.

JEAN. What! You will keep me? You call me "sir"! Oh! I am going
to dine! I am to have a bed with sheets like the rest of the world--a
bed! It is nineteen years since I have slept in a bed! I will pay
anything you ask. You are a fine man. You are an innkeeper, are you not?

BISHOP. I am a priest who lives here.

JEAN. A priest! Ah, yes--I ask your pardon--I didn't notice
your cap and gown.

BISHOP. Be seated near the fire, sir.

[_Jean deposits his knapsack, repeating to himself with delight._]

JEAN. He calls me _sir_--_sir_. (_Aloud._) You will require me
to pay, will you not?

BISHOP. No, keep your money. How much have you?

JEAN. One hundred and nine francs.

BISHOP. How long did it take you to earn it?

JEAN. Nineteen years.

BISHOP (_sadly_). Nineteen years--the best part of your life!

JEAN. Aye, the best part--I am now forty-six. A beast of burden
would have earned more.

BISHOP. This lamp gives a very bad light, sister.

[_Mlle. gets the two silver candlesticks from the mantel, lights them,
and places them on the table._]

JEAN. Ah, but you are good! You don't despise me. You light
your candles for me,--you treat me as a guest,--and I've told you where
I come from, who I am!

BISHOP. This house does not demand of him who enters whether he
has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer--you are hungry--you
are welcome.

JEAN. I cannot understand it--

BISHOP. This house is home to the man who needs a refuge. So,
sir, this is your house now more than it is mine. Whatever is here is
yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me,
I knew it.

JEAN. What! You knew my name!

BISHOP. Yes, your name is--Brother.

JEAN. Stop! I cannot bear it--you are so good--

[_He buries his face in his hands._]

[_Enter_ MADAME _with dishes for the table; she continues
passing in and out, preparing supper._]

BISHOP. You have suffered much, sir--

JEAN (_nodding_). The red shirt, the ball on the ankle, a plank
to sleep on, heat, cold, toil, the whip, the double chain for nothing,
the cell for one word--even when sick in bed, still the chain! Dogs,
dogs are happier! Nineteen years! and now the yellow passport!

BISHOP. Yes, you have suffered.

JEAN (_with violence_). I hate this world of laws and courts! I
hate the men who rule it! For nineteen years my soul has had only
thoughts of hate. For nineteen years I've planned revenge. Do you hear?
Revenge--revenge!

BISHOP. It is not strange that you should feel so. And if you
continue to harbor those thoughts, you are only deserving of pity. But
listen, my brother; if, in spite of all you have passed through, your
thoughts could be of peace and love, you would be better than any one of
us.

[_Pause. Jean reflects._]

JEAN (_speaking violently_). No, no! I do not belong to your
world of men. I am apart--a different creature from you all. The galleys
made me different. I'll have nothing to do with any of you!

MADAME. The supper, your Reverence.

[_The Bishop glances at the table_.]

BISHOP. It strikes me there is something missing from this
table.

[_Madame hesitates._]

MLLE. Madame, do you not understand?

[_Madame steps to a cupboard, gets the remaining silver plates, and
places them on the table._]

BISHOP (_gayly, turning to Jean_). To table then, my friend! To
table!

[_Jean remains for a moment, standing doggedly apart; then he steps over
to the chair awaiting him, jerks it back, and sinks into it, without
looking up._]


SCENE III

TIME: _Daybreak the next morning._

PLACE: _The Bishop's dining room._

       *       *       *       *       *

[_The room is dark, except for a faint light that comes in through
window curtains._ JEAN VALJEAN _creeps in from the alcove. He
carries his knapsack and cudgel in one hand; in the other, his shoes. He
opens the window overlooking the garden; the room becomes lighter. Jean
steps to the mantel and lifts a silver candlestick._]

JEAN (_whispering_). Two hundred francs--double what I have
earned in nineteen years!

[_He puts it in his knapsack; takes up the other candlestick; shudders,
and sets it down again._]

No, no, he is good--he called me "sir"--

[_He stands still, staring before him, his hand still gripping the
candlestick. Suddenly he straightens up; speaks bitterly._]

Why not? 'Tis easy to give a bed and food! Why doesn't he keep men from
the galleys? Nineteen years for a loaf of bread!

[_Pauses a moment, then resolutely puts both candlesticks into his bag;
steps to the cupboard and takes out the silver plates and the ladle, and
slips them into the bag._]

All solid--I should gain at least one thousand francs. 'Tis due me--due
me for all these years!

[_Closes the bag. Pause._]

No, not the candles--I owe him that much--

[_He puts the candlesticks on mantel; takes up cudgel, knapsack, and
shoes; jumps out window and disappears. Pause._]

[_Enter_ MADAME. _She shivers; discovers the open window._]

MADAME. Why is that window open? I closed it last night myself.
Oh! Could it be possible?

[_Crosses and looks at open cupboard._]

It is gone!

[_Enter the_ BISHOP _from his room._]

BISHOP. Good morning, Madame!

MADAME. Your Reverence! The silver is gone! Where is that man?

BISHOP. In the alcove sleeping, I suppose.

[_Madame runs to curtains of alcove and looks in. Enter_
MADEMOISELLE. _Madame turns._]

He is gone!

MLLE. Gone?

MADAME. Aye, gone--gone! He has stolen our silver, the
beautiful plates and the ladle! I'll inform the police at once!

[_Starts off. The Bishop stops her._]

BISHOP. Wait!--Let me ask you this--was that silver ours?

MADAME. Why--why not?

BISHOP. Because it has always belonged to the poor. I have
withheld it wrongfully.

MLLE. Its loss makes no difference to Madame or me.

MADAME. Oh, no! But what is your Reverence to eat from now?

BISHOP. Are there no pewter plates?

MADAME. Pewter has an odor.

BISHOP. Iron ones, then.

MADAME. Iron has a taste.

BISHOP. Well, then, wooden plates.

[_A knock is heard at street door._]

Come in.

[_Enter an_ OFFICER _and two_ SOLDIERS, _dragging in_
JEAN VALJEAN.]

OFFICER. Your Reverence, we found your silver on this man.

BISHOP. Why not? I gave it to him. I am glad to see you again,
Jean. Why did you not take the candlesticks, too?

JEAN (_trembling_). Your Reverence--

BISHOP. I told you everything in this house was yours, my
brother.

OFFICER. Ah, then what he said was true. But, of course, we did
not believe him. We saw him creeping from your garden--

BISHOP. It is all right, I assure you. This man is a friend of
mine.

OFFICER. Then we can let him go?

BISHOP. Certainly.

[_Soldiers step back._]

JEAN (_trembling_). I am free?

OFFICER. Yes! You can go. Do you not understand?

[_Steps back._]

BISHOP (_to Jean_). My friend, before you go away--here are
your candlesticks (_going to the mantel and bringing the candlesticks_);
take them.

[_Jean takes the candlesticks, seeming not to know what he is doing._]

By the way, my friend, when you come again you need not come through the
garden. The front door is closed only with a latch, day or night. (_To
the Officer and Soldiers._) Gentlemen, you may withdraw.

[_Exit Officer and Soldiers._]

JEAN (_recoiling and holding out the candlesticks_).
No--no--I--I--

BISHOP. Say no more; I understand. You felt that they were all
owing to you from a world that had used you ill. Keep them, my friend,
keep them. I would I had more to give you. It is small recompense for
nineteen years.

[_Jean stands bewildered, looking down at the candlesticks in his
hands._]

They will add something to your hundred francs. But do not forget, never
forget, that you have promised to use the money in becoming an honest
man.

JEAN. I--promised--?

BISHOP (_not heeding_). Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer
belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you: I
withdraw it from thoughts of hatred and revenge--I give it to peace and
hope and God.

[_Jean stands as if stunned, staring at the Bishop, then turns and walks
unsteadily from the room._]


SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY

Jean Valjean, as a young man, was sent to the galleys for stealing a
loaf of bread to feed his sister's hungry children. From time to time,
when he tried to escape, his sentence was increased, so that he spent
nineteen years as a convict. Scene I of Miss Stevenson's dramatization
shows Jean Valjean being turned away from the inn because he has been in
prison.

What does the stage setting tell of the Bishop and his sister? Notice,
as you read, why each of the items in the stage setting is mentioned.
Why is Madame made to leave the room--how does her absence help the
action of the play? What is the purpose of the conversation about the
weather? About the carriage hire? Why is the Bishop not more excited at
Madame's news? What is gained by the talk about the silver? Notice the
dramatic value of the Bishop's speech beginning "Stay!" Why does Jean
Valjean speak so roughly when he enters? Why does he not try to conceal
the fact that he is a convict? Why does not the Bishop reply directly to
Jean Valjean's question? What would be the action of Mademoiselle and
Madame while Jean is speaking? What is Madame's action as she goes out?
What is gained by the conversation between Jean and the Bishop? Why does
the Bishop not reproach Jean for saying he will have revenge? Why is the
silver mentioned so many times?

While you are reading the first part of Scene III, think how it should
be played. Note how much the stage directions add to the clearness of
the scene. How long should the pause be, before Madame enters? What is
gained by the calmness of the Bishop? How can he say that the silver was
not his? What does the Bishop mean when he says, "I gave it to him"?
What are Mademoiselle and Madame doing while the conversation with the
officers and Jean Valjean is going on? Is it a good plan to let them
drop so completely out of the conversation? Why does the Bishop say that
Jean has promised? Why does the scene close without Jean's replying to
the Bishop? How do you think the Bishop's kindness has affected Jean
Valjean's attitude toward life?

Note how the action and the conversation increase in intensity as the
play proceeds: Is this a good method? Notice the use of contrast in
speech and action. Note how the chief characters are emphasized. Can you
discover the quality called "restraint," in this fragment of a play? How
is it gained, and what is its value?


EXERCISES[8]

Select a short passage from some book that you like, and try to put it
into dramatic form, using this selection as a kind of model. Do not
attempt too much at once, but think out carefully the setting, the stage
directions, and the dialogue for a brief fragment of a play.

Make a series of dramatic scenes from the same book, so that a connected
story is worked out.

Read a part of some modern drama, such as _The Piper_, or _The Blue
Bird_, or one of Mr. Howells's little farces, and notice how it makes
use of setting and stage directions; how the conversation is broken up;
how the situation is brought out in the dialogue; how each person is
made to speak in his own character.

After you have done the reading suggested above, make another attempt at
dramatizing a scene from a book, and see what improvement you can make
upon the sort of thing you did at first.

It might be interesting for two or three persons to work on a bit of
dramatization together, and then give the fragment of a play in simple
fashion before the class. Or the whole class may work on the play, and
then select some of their number to perform it.


COLLATERAL READINGS

A Dramatic Reader: Book Five                Augusta Stevenson
Plays for the Home                             "       "
Jean Valjean (translated and abridged from
  Victor Hugo's _Les Miserables_)           S.E. Wiltse (Ed.)
The Little Men Play (adapted from Louisa
  Alcott's _Little Men_)                    E.L. Gould
The Little Women Play                       " "    "
The St. Nicholas Book of Plays              Century Company
The Silver Thread and Other Folk Plays      Constance Mackay
Patriotic Plays and Pageants                    "       "
Fairy Tale Plays and How to Act Them        Mrs. Hugh Bell
Festival Plays                              Marguerite Merington
Short Plays from Dickens                    H.B. Browne
The Piper                                   Josephine Preston Peabody
The Blue Bird                               Maurice Maeterlinck
Riders to the Sea                           J.M. Synge
She Stoops to Conquer                       Oliver Goldsmith
The Rivals                                  Richard Brinsley Sheridan
Prince Otto                                 R.L. Stevenson
The Canterbury Pilgrims                     Percy Mackaye
The Elevator                                William Dean Howells
The Mouse Trap                                 "      "     "
The Sleeping Car                            William Dean Howells
The Register                                   "     "     "
The Story of Waterloo                       Henry Irving
The Children's Theatre                      A. Minnie Herts
The Art of Play-writing                     Alfred Hennequin




A COMBAT ON THE SANDS

MARY JOHNSTON

(From _To Have and to Hold_, Chapters XXI and XXII)


A few minutes later saw me almost upon the party gathered about the
grave. The grave had received that which it was to hold until the crack
of doom, and was now being rapidly filled with sand. The crew of
deep-dyed villains worked or stood or sat in silence, but all looked at
the grave, and saw me not. As the last handful of sand made it level
with the beach, I walked into their midst, and found myself face to face
with the three candidates for the now vacant captaincy.

"Give you good-day, gentlemen," I cried. "Is it your captain that you
bury or one of your crew, or is it only pezos and pieces of eight?

"The sun shining on so much bare steel hurts my eyes," I said. "Put up,
gentlemen, put up! Cannot one rover attend the funeral of another
without all this crowding and display of cutlery? If you will take the
trouble to look around you, you will see that I have brought to the
obsequies only myself."

One by one cutlass and sword were lowered, and those who had drawn them,
falling somewhat back, spat and swore and laughed. The man in black and
silver only smiled gently and sadly. "Did you drop from the blue?" he
asked. "Or did you come up from the sea?"

"I came out of it," I said. "My ship went down in the storm yesterday.
Your little cockboat yonder was more fortunate." I waved my hand toward
that ship of three hundred tons, then twirled my mustaches and stood at
gaze.

"Was your ship so large, then?" demanded Paradise, while a murmur of
admiration, larded with oaths, ran around the circle.

"She was a very great galleon," I replied, with a sigh for the good ship
that was gone.

A moment's silence, during which they all looked at me. "A galleon,"
then said Paradise softly.

"They that sailed her yesterday are to-day at the bottom of the sea," I
continued. "Alackaday! so are one hundred thousand pezos of gold, three
thousand bars of silver, ten frails of pearls, jewels uncounted, cloth
of gold and cloth of silver. She was a very rich prize."

The circle sucked in their breath. "All at the bottom of the sea?"
queried Red Gil, with gloating eyes fixed upon the smiling water. "Not
one pezo left, not one little, little pearl?"

I shook my head and heaved a prodigious sigh. "The treasure is gone," I
said, "and the men with whom I took it are gone. I am a captain with
neither ship nor crew. I take you, my friends, for a ship and crew
without a captain. The inference is obvious."

The ring gaped with wonder, then strange oaths arose. Red Gil broke into
a bellow of angry laughter, while the Spaniard glared like a catamount
about to spring. "So you would be our captain?" said Paradise, picking
up another shell, and poising it upon a hand as fine and small as a
woman's.

"Faith, you might go farther and fare worse," I answered, and began to
hum a tune. When I had finished it, "I am Kirby," I said, and waited to
see if that shot should go wide or through the hull.

For two minutes the dash of the surf and the cries of the wheeling sea
fowl made the only sound in that part of the world; then from those
half-clad rapscallions arose a shout of "Kirby!"--a shout in which the
three leaders did not join. That one who looked a gentleman rose from
the sand and made me a low bow. "Well met, noble captain," he cried in
those his honey tones. "You will doubtless remember me who was with you
that time at Maracaibo when you sunk the galleasses. Five years have
passed since then, and yet I see you ten years younger and three inches
taller."

"I touched once at the Lucayas, and found the spring de Leon sought," I
said. "Sure the waters have a marvelous effect, and if they give not
eternal youth at least renew that which we have lost."

"Truly a potent aqua vitae," he remarked, still with thoughtful
melancholy. "I see that it hath changed your eyes from black to gray."

"It hath that peculiar virtue," I said, "that it can make black seem
white."

The man with the woman's mantle drawn about him now thrust himself from
the rear to the front rank. "That's not Kirby!" he bawled. "He's no more
Kirby than I am Kirby! Didn't I sail with Kirby from the Summer Isles to
Cartagena and back again? He's a cheat, and I am a-going to cut his
heart out!" He was making at me with a long knife, when I whipped out my
rapier.

"Am I not Kirby, you dog?" I cried, and ran him through the shoulder.

He dropped, and his fellows surged forward with a yell. "Yet a little
patience, my masters!" said Paradise in a raised voice and with genuine
amusement in his eyes. "It is true that that Kirby with whom I and our
friend there on the ground sailed was somewhat short and as swart as a
raven, besides having a cut across his face that had taken away part of
his lip and the top of his ear, and that this gentleman who announces
himself as Kirby hath none of Kirby's marks. But we are fair and
generous and open to conviction"--

"He'll have to convince my cutlass!" roared Red Gil.

I turned upon him. "If I do convince it, what then?" I demanded. "If I
convince your sword, you of Spain, and yours, Sir Black and Silver?"

The Spaniard stared. "I was the best sword in Lima," he said stiffly. "I
and my Toledo will not change our minds."

"Let him try to convince Paradise; he's got no reputation as a
swordsman!" cried out the grave-digger with the broken head.

A roar of laughter followed this suggestion, and I gathered from it and
from the oaths and allusions to this or that time and place that
Paradise was not without reputation.

I turned to him. "If I fight you three, one by one, and win, am I
Kirby?"

He regarded the shell with which he was toying with a thoughtful smile,
held it up that the light might strike through its rose and pearl, then
crushed it to dust between his fingers.

"Ay," he said with an oath. "If you win against the cutlass of Red Gil,
the best blade of Lima, and the sword of Paradise, you may call yourself
the devil an you please, and we will all subscribe to it."

I lifted my hand. "I am to have fair play?"

As one man that crew of desperate villains swore that the odds should be
only three to one. By this the whole matter had presented itself to them
as an entertainment more diverting than bullfight or bear-baiting. They
that follow the sea, whether honest men or black-hearted knaves, have in
their composition a certain childlikeness that makes them easily turned,
easily led, and easily pleased. The wind of their passion shifts quickly
from point to point, one moment blowing a hurricane, the next sinking to
a happy-go-lucky summer breeze. I have seen a little thing convert a
crew on the point of mutiny into a set of rollicking, good-natured souls
who--until the wind veered again--would not hurt a fly. So with these.
They spread themselves into a circle, squatting or kneeling or standing
upon the white sand in the bright sunshine, their sinewy hands that
should have been ingrained red clasped over their knees, or, arms
akimbo, resting upon their hips, on their scoundrel faces a broad smile,
and in their eyes that had looked on nameless horrors a pleasurable
expectation as of spectators in a playhouse awaiting the entrance of the
players.

"There is really no good reason why we should gratify your whim," said
Paradise, still amused. "But it will serve to pass the time. We will
fight you, one by one."

"And if I win?"

He laughed. "Then, on the honor of a gentleman, you are Kirby and our
captain. If you lose, we will leave you where you stand for the gulls to
bury."

"A bargain," I said, and drew my sword.

"I first!" roared Red Gil. "God's wounds! there will need no second!"

As he spoke he swung his cutlass and made an arc of blue flame. The
weapon became in his hands a flail, terrible to look upon, making
lightnings and whistling in the air, but in reality not so deadly as it
seemed. The fury of his onslaught would have beaten down the guard of
any mere swordsman, but that I was not. A man, knowing his weakness and
insufficiency in many and many a thing, may yet know his strength in one
or two and his modesty take no hurt. I was ever master of my sword, and
it did the thing I would have it do. Moreover, as I fought I saw her as
I had last seen her, standing against the bank of sand, her dark hair,
half braided, drawn over her bosom and hanging to her knees. Her eyes
haunted me, and my lips yet felt the touch of her hand. I fought
well,--how well the lapsing of oaths and laughter into breathless
silence bore witness.

The ruffian against whom I was pitted began to draw his breath in gasps.
He was a scoundrel not fit to die, less fit to live, unworthy of a
gentleman's steel. I presently ran him through with as little
compunction and as great a desire to be quit of a dirty job as if he had
been a mad dog. He fell, and a little later, while I was engaged with
the Spaniard, his soul went to that hell which had long gaped for it. To
those his companions his death was as slight a thing as would theirs
have been to him. In the eyes of the two remaining would-be leaders he
was a stumbling-block removed, and to the squatting, open-mouthed
commonalty his taking off weighed not a feather against the solid
entertainment I was affording them. I was now a better man than Red
Gil,--that was all.

The Spaniard was a more formidable antagonist. The best blade of Lima
was by no means to be despised: but Lima is a small place, and its
blades can be numbered. The sword that for three years had been counted
the best in all the Low Countries was its better. But I fought fasting
and for the second time that morning, so maybe the odds were not so
great. I wounded him slightly, and presently succeeded in disarming him.
"Am I Kirby?" I demanded, with my point at his breast.

"Kirby, of course, senor," he answered with a sour smile, his eyes upon
the gleaming blade.

I lowered my point and we bowed to each other, after which he sat down
upon the sand and applied himself to stanching the bleeding from his
wound. The pirate ring gave him no attention, but stared at me instead.
I was now a better man than the Spaniard.

The man in black and silver rose and removed his doublet, folding it
very carefully, inside out, that the sand might not injure the velvet,
then drew his rapier, looked at it lovingly, made it bend until point
and hilt well-nigh met, and faced me with a bow.

"You have fought twice, and must be weary," he said. "Will you not take
breath before we engage, or will your long rest afterward suffice you?"

"I will rest aboard my ship," I made reply. "And as I am in a hurry to
be gone we won't delay."

Our blades had no sooner crossed than I knew that in this last encounter
I should need every whit of my skill, all my wit, audacity, and
strength. I had met my equal, and he came to it fresh and I jaded. I
clenched my teeth and prayed with all my heart; I set her face before
me, and thought if I should fail her to what ghastly fate she might
come, and I fought as I had never fought before. The sound of the surf
became a roar in my ears, the sunshine an intolerable blaze of light;
the blue above and around seemed suddenly beneath my feet as well. We
were fighting high in the air, and had fought thus for ages. I knew that
he made no thrust I did not parry, no feint I could not interpret. I
knew that my eye was more quick to see, my brain to conceive, and my
hand to execute than ever before; but it was as though I held that
knowledge of some other, and I myself was far away, at Weyanoke, in the
minister's garden, in the haunted wood, anywhere save on that barren
islet. I heard him swear under his breath, and in the face I had set
before me the eyes brightened. As if she had loved me I fought for her
with all my powers of body and mind. He swore again, and my heart
laughed within me. The sea now roared less loudly, and I felt the good
earth beneath my feet. Slowly but surely I wore him out. His breath came
short, the sweat stood upon his forehead, and still I deferred my
attack. He made the thrust of a boy of fifteen, and I smiled as I put it
by.

"Why don't you end it?" he breathed. "Finish and be hanged to you!"

For answer I sent his sword flying over the nearest hillock of sand. "Am
I Kirby?" I said. He fell back against the heaped-up sand and leaned
there, panting, with his hand to his side. "Kirby or devil," he replied.
"Have it your own way."

I turned to the now highly excited rabble. "Shove the boats off, half a
dozen of you!" I ordered. "Some of you others take up that carrion there
and throw it into the sea. The gold upon it is for your pains. You there
with the wounded shoulder you have no great hurt. I'll salve it with ten
pieces of eight from the captain's own share, the next prize we take."

A shout of acclamation arose that scared the sea fowl. They who so short
a time before had been ready to tear me limb from limb now with the
greatest apparent delight hailed me as captain. How soon they might
revert to their former mood was a question that I found not worth while
to propound to myself.

By this the man in black and silver had recovered his breath and his
equanimity. "Have you no commission with which to honor me, noble
captain?" he asked in gently reproachful tones. "Have you forgot how
often you were wont to employ me in those sweet days when your eyes were
black?"

"By no means, Master Paradise," I said courteously. "I desire your
company and that of the gentleman from Lima. You will go with me to
bring up the rest of my party. The three gentlemen of the broken head,
the bushy ruff, which I protest is vastly becoming, and the wounded
shoulder will escort us."

"The rest of your party?" said Paradise softly.

"Ay," I answered nonchalantly. "They are down the beach and around the
point warming themselves by a fire which this piled-up sand hides from
you. Despite the sunshine it is a biting air. Let us be going! This
island wearies me, and I am anxious to be on board ship and away."

"So small an escort scarce befits so great a captain," he said. "We will
all attend you." One and all started forward.

I called to mind and gave utterance to all the oaths I had heard in the
wars. "I entertain you for my subordinate whom I command, and not who
commands me!" I cried, when my memory failed me. "As for you, you dogs,
who would question your captain and his doings, stay where you are, if
you would not be lessoned in earnest!"

Sheer audacity is at times the surest steed a man can bestride. Now at
least it did me good service. With oaths and grunts of admiration the
pirates stayed where they were, and went about their business of
launching the boats and stripping the body of Red Gil, while the man in
black and silver, the Spaniard, the two gravediggers, the knave with the
wounded shoulder, and myself walked briskly up the beach.

With these five at my heels I strode up to the dying fire and to those
who had sprung to their feet at our approach. "Sparrow," I said easily,
"luck being with us as usual, I have fallen in with a party of rovers. I
have told them who I am,--that Kirby, to wit, whom an injurious world
calls the blackest pirate unhanged,--and I have recounted to them how
the great galleon which I took some months ago went down yesterday with
all on board, you and I with these others being the sole survivors. By
dint of a little persuasion they have elected me their captain, and we
will go on board directly and set sail for the Indies, a hunting ground
which we never should have left. You need not look so blank; you shall
be my mate and right hand still." I turned to the five who formed my
escort. "This, gentlemen, is my mate, Jeremy Sparrow by name, who hath a
taste for divinity that in no wise interferes with his taste for a
galleon or a guarda costa. This man, Diccon Demon by name, was of my
crew. The gentleman without a sword is my prisoner, taken by me from the
last ship I sunk. How he, an Englishman, came to be up