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  IN GREEN AND WHITE—VOL. I.

  X-MAS SKETCHES

  FROM THE

  Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

  EDITED BY

  EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER, ’94.


  CONCORD, N. H.:
  REPUBLICAN PRESS ASSOCIATION.
  1893.




  Copyrighted, 1893,
  BY EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CONTENTS.


  MEDALLION OF OLD PINE                                   Frontispiece

  SUITE FOUR                                                         1

  OUR WINTER BIRDS                                                  15

  A NEW YEAR’S LEGACY                                               29

  BY PROXY                                                          47

  IN THE SHADOW OF SHEEP MOUNTAIN                                   61

  CHRISTMAS EVE,—A FANTASY                                          87

  CLANCY’S HOME-COMING                                             103

  MUSIC HATH CHARMS                                                115

  THE SPRIG’S BALL                                                 129

  CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE CLUB                                        145




JUST A WORD.


Just a word in regard to this little book, which we venture to add
to the more pretentious undergraduate literature. The sketches and
illustrations are those which appeared in the Christmas number
of The “LIT.” We do not present them as masterpieces, but merely
as representing the present literary work in college along the
line of fiction. Several of the stories are their author’s “first
appearance,” and the thumb-nail sketches are the first attempt, we
believe, at college magazine illustrating. It is hoped that other
volumes may in time be added, forming an “In Green and White”
series. If this vest-pocket volume serve as a souvenir of The “LIT.”
and an incentive to story-telling, it is well.

  E. O. G.

  HANOVER, N. H.,
  December, ’93.




SUITE FOUR.




SUITE FOUR.

H. C. PEARSON.

[Illustrations by E. V. Spooner.]


Ted Tracy sat in his little back room, gazed out of the window, and
sighed. The sighing was not consequential upon the gazing, though it
might well have been, for four walls of windows about a roofed-in
court, with a grey sky sullenly peering in three stories higher, does
not form a remarkably cheerful spectacle; not even when compared with
a ten-by-twelve room containing as its sole ornaments a folding bed,
a commode, three chairs, and a mirror. But Ted’s usually buoyant soul
would have risen above these surroundings, as easily as the curls of
his cigarette smoke; something much more depressing squeezed out that
sigh.

Six months before, this young graduate of a fresh-water college had
come to Boston and entered upon the twin pursuits of journalism and
agriculture. As a newspaper man, he had so far succeeded in earning
the munificent salary of $6 per week, which almost paid for his room,
his laundry, and his cigarettes. As a farmer, he had sown with signal
success one of the finest lines of wild oats in the city, and was
now finding some difficulty in their gathering. His only relative—the
rich old uncle common to all fairy tales—had hitherto settled the
periodical deficits in his accounts with unfailing good humor and
abundant generosity; but now he had suddenly thrown up his role of
good genius, objecting, perhaps, to being used as a patent reaper.

[Illustration: Man looking down]

So Ted sat and gazed and sighed; sometimes, to vary the monotony, he
swore. The French dancers from the “Black Crook,” who roomed next
door, were screeching some Parisian street song as grotesque and
inharmonious as their acrobatics. The parrots and macaws in the bird
store down stairs answered them back with scarcely more discordance;
and between them Ted felt sure his environment would drive him to
suicide or drink.

Before he had time to grasp either horn of the dilemma, however,
a knock at the door ushered in one of his few welcome visitors.
The little dark chorus girl in “Venus,” who roomed with her mother
two doors beyond, was pretty enough to attract Ted’s attention the
first time they met, and modest and womanly enough in a sweet,
old-fashioned way to retain, not only his earnest admiration,
but his hearty respect. This afternoon she was bubbling over with
happiness, so much so that she never noticed Ted’s lugubrious
expression.

“Oh! Mr. Tracy,” she began at once, “I’m to have a part to-night.
Mr. Rice and Miss Tinnie have had a row, and I’m to do Absurdaria.
You know I’ve understudied it all the season; and, Mr. Tracy, mother
wants to see it so much, but she can’t go alone very well; and could
you—would you—be her escort? I’ve the tickets; and it will be so kind
of you.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said Ted, as she stopped for breath.
“I should never have forgiven you if you had not allowed me to share
in your first night’s triumph.”

“Oh, nonsense!” replied the girl, with a charming blush. “But I must
not, will not, fail with mother there. And I should like to please
you, too,” she added shyly.

[Illustration: Woman looking left]

So Ted put on his dress suit, spent the evening in an orchestra stall
at the Park, by the side of dear little old Mrs. Burnham, and was
as proud and happy as she at “her Eva’s” success, for although the
Princess Absurdaria is not the most attractive part in a “comic
opera” that has many superiors, still the newcomer in the cast was
so pretty and graceful and young that the crowded house noticed the
change at once, and manifested its approval many times. So great was
her success, indeed, that the mighty Poom condescended to crack a
joke about it, and the shapely star herself took a thorough mental
inventory of the new favorite.

When the performance was over Ted and Mrs. Burnham waited for Eva
at the stage door, and they all walked home together in the clear,
crisp November night. After his congratulations had been gracefully
tendered and prettily accepted, Ted was silent, trying a plan for
a little supper for his companions; but Mrs. Burnham relieved his
perplexity.

“You must stop in for a bit of lunch with us, Mr. Tracy,” said she.
“I’ve gotten up a little surprise for Eva, and we both want you to
share it, too.”

A dainty little supper it was, more cosy and homelike and wholesome
than anything Ted had experienced for years. Alone with these simple
friends, his foolish conceits melted away, and the good side of his
nature was revealed as it had never been before in Boston. They
were all very chatty and confidential. Ted told his troubles, and
was tenderly pitied by Eva and wisely advised by her mother. Then
the latter, in spite of her daughter’s remonstrances, told their
story—how her husband had died when she herself was ill three years
before, and how Eva, finding the burden upon her shoulders, had
pluckily taken it up and supported her mother in comfort by her wages
as a chorus girl.

“It’s been hard sometimes, dearie,” said Mrs. Burnham, as she stroked
her daughter’s wavy hair, “but the worst is over now; and, thank
God, you are as true and pure a girl as the first night you saw the
foot-lights.”

Ted went back to his little room with a lighter, braver heart than
he would have thought possible six hours before. The next day and
for many succeeding days he went at his work with a dash and vim that
could not help bringing success. And when, as often he was, tempted
to go back to his old ways, a pair of clear brown eyes seemed to
look out of a piquant, merry face straight into his, and to make him
refuse with almost rude abruptness.

In the spare moments, that before he would have more than wasted,
he wrote out with tender reverence the life-story Mrs. Burnham had
told him. His heart was in his work, and the result was a touching
and really well-written little tale. A great New York editor thought
it was so good, in fact, that he promptly mailed Ted a check for $25
and promised his effort immediate publication. When it did appear
the author read it to the principal characters, who listened with
tear-wet eyes, and immediately decided that Ted was without doubt the
American Dickens.

Its further effect was apparent a few days later, when a gruff but
kindly letter was received from Uncle John. One of its paragraphs was
as follows:

“I was much pleased with your story in the _Cosmopolitan_. The
heroine is, I suspect, a flesh and blood girl of your acquaintance.
If she will marry you, I will settle $2,000 a year on her and change
my will again.”

Ted repeated the words to Eva just as they reached her door, after
the walk home from the theatre one night.

“Can we live on $2,000 a year?” he asked with a smile, but gravely.

The girl grew pale and trembled; but when she looked up shyly and
sweetly into his ardent eyes there was no need for words. With a
happy sigh she threw her arms around his neck, and their lips met for
the first time.

[Illustration: Decoration]

No one was ever so near heaven before as the happy pair which New
Year’s found in dingy, stuffy old Suite Four.




OUR WINTER BIRDS.




OUR WINTER BIRDS.

ROBERT A. CAMPBELL.

[Illustrations by H. M. Chase and H. H. Gibson.]

    “Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
      No winter in thy year.”


It is not remarkable that poets and bird-lovers consider the spring
of the year preëminently the season in which birds are to be studied
and admired. The change from the winter to the spring, from the
sombre to the variegated, the harmony that wakes the silent woods,
the dreamy south wind that mellows the air,—in truth, all life,
awakening, seems to be striving to render nature beautiful and
attractive. To say that spring-tide is not the best season of the
year for studying birds would be indicative of ignorance; but to
say that spring is the only season in which birds may be profitably
studied, would show an equal lack of knowledge.

[Illustration: Hanover sign]

When the leaves redden and fall, the birds that greeted us so
joyously six months before begin to disappear. Silently they depart,
dreading the rigor of the winter, seeking a warmer and a sunnier
clime. No longer is the dawn betokened by their chorus; yet we are
far from being entirely deserted, as there are over fifty species
that brave the cold weather with us. These winter birds are generally
from the north, spending their summers in Labrador or the Hudson Bay
region, and finding a warmer and more congenial resort in the pine
and hemlock vales of New England. On the other hand, there is a very
respectable minority who make this their permanent home. A sunny
day suffices to bring several kinds of them into the village, and
then only are they observed by the multitude, though a few, more
interested and zealous, know where to find them at other times.

[Illustration: Bird in tree]

Between January and March I am never unable to find flocks of the
pine grosbeak; they are generally found in the college park, but if
not there, they will be in Webster glen, or surely on Balch hill.
None of the birds that spend the winter with us receive so much
notice as these, on account of the frequency with which they visit
the village in search of the seeds of frozen fruit, or the buds on
evergreen trees. A low mellow whistle apprises the pedestrian of
the proximity of the grosbeak, and the bird is quickly discovered,
probably with from six or eight to thirty companions, that gradually
show themselves to the admiring observer. About the size of a robin,
the females are distinguished by a soft yellow coloring, which
becomes a brilliant scarlet in the male. It is at once noticed that
there are about five females to one male, which is natural, when we
consider that the male is the hardier bird, and for that reason often
remains behind in the northland. It is sometimes called the “Canadian
robin” about here. I did not appreciate the fitness of the name
until last February, when I found a half dozen of them apparently
leading three half-frozen and half-starved robins to a place where
they might find food. They are of about the same size, and fly in a
manner very like the robin, so that a careless observer might very
naturally consider them a kind of robin. Last winter they arrived
on the 14th of November, and stayed until the 21st of March. It was
perhaps a trifle strange, that on the 22d of March, the very day
after the last grosbeak was seen, the spring migration began with the
arrival of robins and bluebirds.

Though I have never heard the grosbeak sing, yet, at the setting of
the sun on some of the warmer March days, I have listened to some
of their low, liquid warblings that were marvels of sweetness, and
proved to my mind their right to be considered among the finest of
our singing birds.

[Illustration: Birdhouse]

The grosbeak has a cousin smaller than himself and rarer, that is
equally interesting, the American red crossbill. During the past two
years a large number of these birds have spent the months of January
and February in the park, and on account of their accessibility
have furnished me many interesting notes. In general coloring they
closely resemble the grosbeak, but they are scarcely two thirds its
size. Their crossed bills, which furnish them their common name,
are their most noticeable and interesting characteristic. It is a
spectacle as pretty as it is curious to see one take the seeds from
the cone of a fir tree. The hooked upper mandible serves to catch
hold of and tear out the seed, while the lower one is a receptacle
for it. With the red crossbill is sometimes seen the white species,
which is much the rarer visitant of the two.

But if mention is to be made of any representative winter birds, we
must notice the chickadee. A rugged little fellow, undaunted, though
the weather be ever so cold, he salutes us almost everywhere, and as
he passes busily from tree to tree, seeking his sustenance, he makes
his little remarks in a business-like way, occasionally approaching
his admirer with a confidential message, which he rattles off and
then flits away to join some _bon camarade_. The chickadees, on
account of their excellent temper and character, make many friends,
and we frequently find nuthatchers, kinglets, sparrows, and other
small birds about with them.

[Illustration: Bird nest]

That these birds are forced to be gregarious, in order to protect
themselves from hunger and cold, is well illustrated by the fact
that the snowbirds and pine linnets occasionally swoop down upon us
in flocks of two to three hundred. If one searches the wooded hills
at some distance from the town, rarer species of owls and the like
may be found with partridges, occasionally Canada jays, and during
especially severe winters straggling Arctic birds. Indeed, one can
hardly walk abroad without having his interest well repaid, and rare
finds and new discoveries are of sufficient frequency to keep the
observer enthusiastic. I think I was first attracted to these cold
weather observations from selfish motives, for there was a great
charm to me in walking through pathless fields of snow, and feeling,
from the absence of human footprints, that no one else was seeing
what I saw and enjoying what I enjoyed; and if a few days later
I went over the same ground and found no tracks but my own, this
pleasure was increased. There is something peculiarly fascinating in
an interesting solitude.

[Illustration: Decoration]




A NEW YEAR’S LEGACY.




A NEW YEAR’S LEGACY.

JOHN H. BARTLETT.

[Illustrations by F. H. Trow.]


“Now, Dan, you must try to do your best to-night. There will be
heaps o’ people at that speaking, and Squire Barnard’s hall will be
full, and I fear how you might be kind o’ shakey when you see ’em
all looking at yer, boy. But be brave and powerful smart to-night,
Dan, and maybe, some day, somebody’ll do ye a good turn, and ye might
get a bit more learning.” These were the words that broke the deep
quietness of a strangely impressive hour in a home freighted with
ill fortune and cursed by nearly every event. It was in the days of
early American life when Puritan simplicity and colonial customs held
society in a more natural state, and allowed the highest and lowest
a more ready approach. But the home of Dan Kenashton, though decent,
was the simplest of the simple, and the most unpretentious of the
unpretending. And on that November evening long ago, when, in other
home-circles the “husking bee,” the evening kitchen party, and other
ancestral pastimes told of pleasantly passing days, in this there
lurked a legend of something wrong. The roughly hewn timbers which
presented their ugly faces to the two inmates, in the two solitary
rooms of this weird old cot seemed to speak curses on whomsoever was
within. Even the dusty old motto, “God Bless Our Home,” which hung
over the crude board shelf, seemed to bear an ill-omened import.
Beside it was a well kept picture, a battle scene. Brave men were
defending a fortification, amid snow and sleet and fire and lead,
against an insidious attack by the Muskigo tribe on New Year’s eve.
’Neath the feet of those still contending lay the bleeding bodies of
those who had fought their last. Did this have any special meaning
in that home? If so, surely war is honorable, and to die in loyal
defence leaves not a stigma upon one’s posterity. An old flintlock
musket stood in the corner. It had not the appearance of recent
use; the hammer was rusty and flintless; the bayonet was blunt and
rusty, too;—but there it stood as it had stood for years, becoming
such a part of the house that Dan never wondered at its use nor
questioned its origin. Hanging to it was an old canteen. They were
certainly relics of war, but war was common in those days, and the
sight of arms familiar. A few antique pieces of furniture and the old
spinning-wheel completed the scene in this strange, scanty home.

[Illustration: Rifle]

Dan, in his honest, quiet way, replied to the simple, yet feeling,
words of his mother, “Indeed I’ll do all I can to win the prize, but
it’s little use, you know I hav’n’t very good clothes to wear, and it
’pears to me that Deacon Ackley and Squire Barnard himself, and the
other judges, don’t like me very well, and besides, I haven’t had any
help until I spoke the piece to General Brockaway to-day.”

“What, how did that happen, Dan?” asked the mother, startled with a
sudden impulse of rage at the mention of that name.

“Well, I couldn’t say how it was, exactly. He happened to hear that
I was going to speak a war piece, and so he wanted to hear it. I
thought it would be all right to recite it to him, and I did. He is
writing a book on the old Indian wars. He said Mr. Kenashton, my
father, was once a good soldier and fought under him at the battle of
the Creek, that he remembered his face distinctly, and thought I had
some of his marks.”

“I warn you, my boy, to keep away from that old man. He’s no friend
of ours, Dan, nor was he a friend to your father. Friend! Oh, my God!
were he not an enemy, less bitter would be my cup. But it’s well you
know not all, my boy.”

“I don’t exactly understand,” replied Dan, “but I’ve wondered why we
are not like other people, and why nobody cares to know us, but the
old General wants to see that flint-lock and canteen, and says he
intends to say something about them in his book, and so I told him
I’d take them down to him to-morrow.”

“Curse the old general and his book,” said the mother, thinking she
had detected him in some new plot, and becoming almost mad with
rage, “take them to him and bid him keep them; they are not my——ah!
but it’s well you know not all, Dan; yes, well, indeed.”

Like a lightning flash the whole past was mirrored in her mind. She
never would believe him a traitor. Not for one moment. Fort Shelby
may have been betrayed and the betrayer shot by his comrade captors,
but he was not John Kenashton, nor is that his musket and canteen.
They are the only signs of his guilt, and God knows they are not his.
His name may have been on that canteen, but it was not his writing,
not as I saw him write it. If General Brockaway had been a braver man
himself, things would appear different. But of one thing I am sure,
John Kenashton fell fighting bravely for what to him was most dear.
Thus meditating to herself she passed the evening.

[Illustration: Man standing with hand out]

Dan had gone to the speaking. It was one of those old-time lyceum
contests. The would-be literateurs of the vicinity had their
organization, and on every Thursday evening during the colder
months assembled to carry out programmes of a grave and stately
nature, mostly on literary, political, and agricultural topics.
The occasion on this November eve was the annual prize contest,
open to all competitors, when the little surplus in the treasury,
weekly reimbursed by a small collection to defray “incidental and
other expenses,” was devoted to prizes which were awarded at the
grand declamatory competition. It was the great event of the year.
Dan had competed time and time again since his small boyhood, and
always without any recognition, although, did people dare to utter
their own thoughts, they would call him the best speaker. He had
the strong, clear articulation of an orator—calm, composed, yet
forcible in utterance. The flash of his keen, black eye would have
held any audience spell-bound, could it once forget the betrayer of
Fort Shelby. Although he spoke better this time than ever before,
and his preëminence was more pronounced, his name was not read on
the prize list. The reason was apparent. A few justice-loving people
shrugged their shoulders, looked disapproval and cast sympathizing,
if not almost admiring, glances at his strong, honest face. General
Brockaway, proud of the results of his instruction, half wanted Dan
to win, and even started to rise in his seat to interpose objections
to the decisions rendered, but as quickly as cloud follows sunshine,
evil impulse follows good, one thought another, he realized the risk
of his prestige and settled back in his seat. The weekly lyceum was
continued for years thereafter, but the last prize contest in Shelby
town was over.


II.

Two years had passed and all the citizens of Shale Valley were
preparing to celebrate in a grand mass assembly on New Year’s eve the
twenty-fifth anniversary of the repulse of the Muskigos. This victory
of the settlers, following closely upon the disastrous affair of Fort
Shelby, practically prevented the complete annihilation of these
settlements, and on this account New Year’s had since been held as
a kind of holy day in all Shale Valley. General Brockaway, the hero
of many conflicts and the chief functionary of the vicinity, had been
selected to deliver the oration on this great occasion.

[Illustration: Fireplace]

For years he had been engaged, as his leisure hours would permit, in
historical investigations, with special reference to the conflicts
which were related to this anniversary; and his eloquent words, fired
with the zest of experience in the events concerned, were freighted
with new and startling facts. One paragraph of that memorable oration
struck deep in every heart, and its verification revolutionized the
sentiment of the whole region in one particular at least. It was
this:—“I have a grave correction to make, a long continued injury
to set right. John Kenashton, who fought by my side with dying
heroism at the Creek battle, is not, as was supposed, the betrayer
of Shelby Fort. He fell, fighting as he always fought, bravely and
loyally, of which fact I have living and indisputable evidence.” At
this statement all were amazed. Old men shook their heads, the women
looked volumes of doubt, and the young keenly bent their attention.
A revelation, mingled with surprise, sadness, and joy, manifested
itself in the countenance of the injured son, toward whom all
eyes were turned instantly. The general’s words were accepted as
true, and the moral, Puritan sense of that people, realizing their
long-continued injustice, was quick in making all possible reparation
to the widow and son of the loyal soldier who, for a quarter century,
had been branded as a traitor. The revulsion of feeling was so great
that Dan soon became the most popular fellow in the Valley, and all
were glad to congratulate him three years afterward, when, on New
Year’s eve, he had won the most charming belle in Shale Valley, and
become the only heir to General Brockaway’s large estate.

[Illustration: Decoration]




BY PROXY.




BY PROXY.

B. C. TAYLOR.

[Illustrations by M. S. Sherman.]


Harry St. Albans was good looking, that was conceded by all. His
father was wealthy, and Harry was the especial admiration of all the
young ladies. Whether from his ability to entertain, his good looks,
or his father’s wealth, no party or private theatrical of any account
was a success without him as principal actor. At college he had been
a member of the dramatic club, and taken one of the leading parts in
“The Rivals.”

The wonder of every one was, that Harry did not get married. There
surely were several young ladies whom one in his circumstances
might be proud of taking for a wife, but he stubbornly adhered to
bachelorhood, and prospective mothers-in-law became more abashed as
he obstinately resisted the charms of all the young ladies.

[Illustration: Woman looking right]

It was on the evening of the 30th day of December that Harry was at
a party given in honor of Mrs. Slocum’s friend. At first sight of
her he was captivated; she was the belle of the season, they told
him, and he did not doubt it. In every movement there was a charming
grace, and the mellowest pair of blue eyes seemed to laugh at him
all the time. Her words seemed like music to Harry’s ears, with that
rich, Italian accent which only a woman of great accomplishments
possesses.

When he departed that evening, it was with the greatest reluctance
that he left her side. And as he put on his coat and went out into
the cold night, his mind still wandered back to a pair of blue eyes.
In every window he seemed to see that pair of blue eyes watching
him. What was the trouble? He, a confirmed bachelor, being so
agitated by a pretty face and a pair of blue eyes.

Finally he reached his home, and now he was trying to forget the
happenings of the evening. But those eyes still pursued him in his
sleep. Upon awakening, he knew that it was all a dream; yet not all,
for those eyes were a reality.

“Harry,” said his father, “when you are in the city to-day I wish you
would call on my old friend, Tom Harris, and give him my best wishes
for his success. To-night is New Year’s eve, and he is to open his
new theatre, ‘The Grand Royal,’ and his daughter, who has lately
returned from abroad, is to be the leading actress.” Of course Harry
would be only too glad to call on his father’s old friend; and the
first place he went, on his arrival in the city, was to the private
office of “The Grand Royal.”

“Henry St. Albans’ son? Oh! yes, but you will excuse me for a moment.
I have some urgent business with my leading actor. Please step
into the office for a moment,” replied Manager Harris, when Harry
introduced himself.

[Illustration: Man leaning on arm]

The door was left ajar, and he could not very well help hearing the
conversation. It seems that Oscar Redmond, who was one of the most
promising actors of the day, had the failing of a great many actors,
and would drink occasionally, yet seldom get intoxicated. That
morning, however, he had been out with some of the boys, and as all
wished to drink to his success, he had indulged rather too freely,
and in such a condition he had come to the manager of “The Grand
Royal” and demanded an exorbitant salary, above the amount specified
in the contract. Mr. Harris refused, saying that he would rather
close his theatre than submit to such an outrage, and Redmond left,
declaring that he would not appear that night.

“Harry,” began the manager as he returned, “did you”—“Yes, I heard
every word, Mr. Harris; but perhaps I can aid you in some way.”

“You?” “Yes, years ago when I was at college I was considered a good
impersonator and quick to learn my part,” said Harry, “and if you
have no objection I will learn the lines this morning and rehearse
with the company in the afternoon.”

“But can you take this part?” said Mr. Harris, with a peculiar accent
on the you. “I don’t want to have a bad performance on the opening
night, it will almost ruin my reputation.”

“You can rely on me,” said Harry, “I played just such a part in
‘The Rivals’ when at college, and my friends told me I would miss my
calling unless I took the stage for my profession?”

“Harry, you’re a brick!” said the manager, slapping him on the
shoulder, “and if you succeed, I’ll do anything in my power for you.”

The rehearsal was gone through with successfully, all being present
except the leading lady, who wished to save her strength for the
evening performance.

The theatre was crowded, for Oscar Redmond was an excellent actor
and a great favorite. Just before going on the stage, Harry was
introduced to the leading actress. He was thunderstruck; it was the
lady with the blue eyes.

Never did actor play with more enthusiasm and fervor, never was a
love scene more realistic; for the time being Harry forgot he was
reciting so many words, but he was pleading his own cause with a love
that knew no bounds. If one had been watching Harry with an opera
glass, as he knelt at the feet of the heroine, he could have seen him
raise a dainty hand to his lips and kiss it. It was all that Harry
wanted; for to him it meant that he had been accepted—not by the lady
in the play, but by the girl whose blue eyes had won him the night
before.

The audience was thunderous in its applause, and curtain calls
were numerous. The next day Oscar Redmond, shamefaced yet curious,
appeared at Mr. Harris’s private office. The morning papers were
lavish in their praise of the young actor, and he was anxious
to learn the meaning of it. When he was told that his part had
been taken so admirably by another, he made his first New Year’s
resolution, which he has never broken.

“And now, Mr. Harris,” said Harry, “I ask, as the fulfilment of your
promise of yesterday, the hand of the sweetest and best girl that
ever lived, that of your daughter.”

“But what of the young lady, Harry? Surely, she ought to be
consulted first.” “She has already accepted me,” replied Harry, “it
now remains with you.”

“I am only too glad to give my consent,” said Mr. Harris, and a
moment later Harry was receiving congratulations from Oscar Redmond
and a score of new made friends.

[Illustration: Decoration]




IN THE SHADOW OF SHEEP MOUNTAIN.




IN THE SHADOW OF SHEEP MOUNTAIN.

EDWIN O. GROVER.

[Illustrations by W. B. Plummer.]


The narrow valley which nestled in the lap of the Ossipee and Sheep
mountains had already begun to awaken from its summer reverie.
The early September days had touched it with their first faint
suggestiveness of autumn glories, and the second growth maples in the
lowlands had answered with a few crimson leaves and golden boughs.
The little Bear Camp brook, which had hardly moistened the sands of
its sinuous banks during the long, dry summer, had begun to flow
again. Farther up the valley the saw-mills of Forest City could be
heard, starting up after their summer’s idleness.

It were strange if the two shanties, which adorned in their ugliness
the western side of Sheep mountain, had not participated in the
new life of the little valley. To the passerby they were the same
patched and dilapidated huts which they were the day Pete Larkim and
Lize Simonds had made that memorable “weddin’ tower” to Bear Camp
a couple of months ago. Pete’s “ole man” and “Ria” had flattered
themselves that their bit of diplomacy, which had prearranged and
carried out Pete’s marriage to Lize, would bring them a happy old age
of ease and indolence.

To Pete and Lize, however, their “gittin’ merred” was but a part of
their day’s outing at Bear Camp and the Bluff. It meant nothing more
than the enjoyment of the peanuts together and the satisfying of
their parents’ wishes. Pete still lived with his “paw” and “maw,” and
spent his days in hunting, while Lize remained in the Simonds shanty
and scolded the half dozen younger children as they quarrelled over
hoecake and hominy. Pete’s “ole man” objected to his spending his
whole time in hunting, and Pete had taken to crawling quietly from
his bed of straw in the loft long before Bill Larkim was up, and
starting on his day’s tramp over the steep sides of Black Snout or
Sheep mountain.

[Illustration: Two men talking]

This morning, however, Pete had overslept, and as he took down his
gun, Bill Larkim rose from the low bench by the door, where he had
taken his accustomed seat to watch for driftwood.

“Naow look er hyar, Pete,” he said; “there hain’t no call fer yo’ ter
go a huntin’ ev’ry day an’ leave me ter do the hull o’ the work. Yo’
got ’nough plovers yisterday ter las’ a week.”

“Naw thar wa’n’t nuther,” said Pete, with a grin. “They’re all gone
a’ready.”

Bill looked up angrily, and blew a cloud of smoke from between his
clenched teeth.

“Yo’ can’t fool yer old paw,” he said, with an emphatic gesture
toward the Simonds shanty. “I ’low I know who et them plovers
yisterday. Jack Simonds got ter feed hisself er starve!” and Bill
shook his bushy head of hair and his massive fist toward the
dilapidated shanty, which seemed to tremble in very fear.

Pete, who had been leaning on his gun, tightened his belt as he
muttered, “Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve ef Jack Simonds does.”

“Ef Lize hed ruther starve than come ter live with us, as she’d
orter, I ’low we can stan’ it,” continued Bill, without noticing the
interruption. “What ’d yo’ git merred fur, ef Lize hain’t goin’ ter
help me’n yer maw, naow we’re gittin’ old an’ rickety? D’ yo’ hyar,
Pete Larkim?” he almost yelled, in his anger. “Thar hain’t one o’
that Simonds gang ez gits another drap from me. Ef yo’ ’re goin’
huntin, yo’ can go; but ef yo’ ’re to feed that cuss of a Jack
Simonds, don’t yo’ never let me ketch yo’ round hyar agin. Yo’ kin
take yo’r chice ter s’port yo’r paw an’ maw, ez yo’ orter, or them
shiftless Simonds.’”

Pete had stood leaning on his gun, and digging with the toe of his
cowhide boot a miniature crater in the soft earth. As his “ole man”
sat down sullenly on his bench, Pete buttoned up his leather jacket,
and, his gun on his shoulder, shambled down across the brook and out
into the clearing beyond.

“Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve,” he kept saying to himself all day,
as he tramped through the rocky woods of Sheep mountain in search of
game.

It was early evening when Pete came down with his brace of plover
from the open summit of the mountain into the shadows which had
settled on the narrow valley.

[Illustration: Music symbols]

Just where he was going he did not know; but whenever he thought of
returning to his old home, he would seem to hear some one say, “Lize
hain’t goin’ ter starve,” and he would stop, as if to listen. He was
nearer the shanties than he thought, for once as he paused he heard
the voice of some one singing down the mountain path. A moment later
Lize appeared, and Pete greeted her with, “Hello, Lize; I’m moughty
glad ter see yo’. It’s been kinder lonesome on the mounting ter day.”

[Illustration: Woman standing]

To most, Lize would not have been good looking, but Pete thought he
had never seen so beautiful a picture as that of Lize standing in the
rocky pathway in her soiled and ragged gown of calico. The leafless
twigs of the pathside had caught her hair, and tangled it till it
floated bewilderingly about her freckled face. A moment before, Pete
was thinking of going home; but now, when Lize questioned him, he
answered quickly, “Goin’ up to Forrest City. Paw ’lows I can’t go
home no more ’thout I quit givin’ yo’ game, Lize. An’ yo’ hain’t
goin’ to starve, not ef Pete Larkim knows it. Hyar, Lize, take these
plovers; they’ll feed yo’ for a day or two. Game’s moughty scarce on
the mounting, but I’ll git yo’ suthin, Lize.”

As they walked down the path together, Pete could not help wondering
what made him feel so tenderly for Lize. Ever since he could
remember, they had made mud pies together, and quarrelled over
their dams of dirt and rocks which they had built across the little
stream. In fact, their life acquaintance had not been a particularly
pleasant one. But since his father’s interference, Pete had
discovered an attraction in Lize as simple, yet as strong, as love
can create.

Pete had no difficulty in finding a home among the shanties of the
mountain “city.” Day after day he would go after game for Lize, and
every evening she would meet him, and they would walk together to the
turn of the road, in the cold November twilight. These walks made
Pete very happy, for he had never before experienced the joy of doing
a kind deed, and Lize was very thankful in her simple way.

The December days had brought the first scuds of snow down the
little valley from the already whitened summits of Ossipee mountains.
The walks with Lize became less and less frequent as the snow became
deeper, but she never failed to meet Pete at the turn of the mountain
road, to receive his gift of game.

[Illustration: Decoration]

As they met one evening in late December, Pete hung his head in
shame. His hands were empty.

“’T ain’t my fault, Lize,” he said, hardly daring to look up. “I hed
moughty fine luck up ther mounting ter-day, an’ war goin’ ter give
yo’ a real surprise, fur tomorrer’s Christmas, yo’ know. But paw jest
laid fur me up hyar in the brush, and stole ever plover I hed. I’m
moughty sorry, Lize, but p’raps”——

“’Tain’t no matter, Pete,” interrupted Lize. “Maw can make a hoe-cake
fur Christmas. You’ve ben moughty good ter me, Pete, an’ some day
mebbe I can do sumthin’ fer yo’,” and Lize looked at him in simple
thankfulness.

“I’m moughty sorry, Lize,” repeated Pete. “But bein’ yo’ hain’t got
nothin’ ter eat, can’t yo’ come up ter the celebrashun ter-night?
They’re goin’ ter hev a real Christmas tree at the school-house, an’
the parson’s comin’ up from Bar Camp an’ bring er lot o’ presents
with him. Mebbe we’ll get one, Lize.”

The deep-set black eyes of Lize lighted up with evident pleasure at
the thought.

“Mebbe we will,” she answered. “At enny rate, Pete, I’ll come,
shore,” she called after him, as he started towards his “city” home.

It was a great event in the history of the little mountain hamlet,
for it was the first time that Christmas had ever condescended to
visit the cluster of half a dozen shanties. The lights were all
extinguished, save in the ten by twenty school-house where the
celebration was being held.

[Illustration: Decoration]

As Pete and Lize came in from the cold night air to the warmth and
glow of Christmas which filled the stuffy little school-house, they
were silent in surprise. It was something unheard of, this giving of
presents to friends, much less to strangers; but as they heard the
story of the first Christmas, and the message it brought, they began
to realize the true meaning of _Love_. As if it were contagious,
it dawned upon Pete for the first time, that his affection and
regard for Lize was nothing less than _love_. He felt as if with the
distribution of the presents and the strings of popcorn something
new and strange had come into his rough life.

“I ’low we must er got it, Lize,” said Pete, as together they ate
their string of corn. “Maw ’lowed I hed the measles, but she never
said nothin’ ’bout my gettin’ in love.”

“’Tain’t no disease, Pete,” said Lize, who had a woman’s intuition
and tenderness in her childish heart. “Lovin’ hain’t catchin’ no
more’n nothin’. It’s jest er hevin’ er big heart an’ lettin’ er
loose, thet’s all.” And Lize flushed a little at her evident display
of knowledge. “The parson ’lowed ez how nobody who wa’n’t in love
orter git merred,” Lize continued. “’Tain’t that way hyar; leastwise,
I hain’t never heard er nobody bein’ in love up hyar on the
mounting.”

Pete was very quiet now. His hat was drawn over his deep-set eyes,
and he was playing nervously with the folds in Lize’s calico gown. He
was evidently thinking. “Lize,” he said, at length, “I ’low ez we’ve
got it, sartin; an’ we’re gittin’ ole, too. I’ve known yo’ fur a long
spell, Lize. It’s nigh sixteen year, hain’t it?”

Lize, who could hardly tell her own age, ’lowed it war a moughty long
time.

“Wa-al,” said Pete, hesitatingly, “bein’ ez how we’re in love, Lize,
let’s git merred fur keeps. Thet wa’n’t no weddin’ last summer, when
paw and maw sent us daown ter Bar Camp, was it, Lize?”

“A weddin’?” asked Lize, “naw; we jest got merred. Thar hain’t no
weddin’ ’thout yo’’re in love; an’ we’ve got it naow, Pete, sartin;”
and Lize looked surprised at the new thought.

Pete needed no more encouragement, but taking his slouch hat in hand
he walked nervously to where the parson was distributing the last of
the Christmas presents.

“Me’n Lize ’low ez we hain’t got no call ter bother yo’, parson,” he
said, as he looked attentively at a hole in his old hat. “But me’n
Lize wan’ ter git merred fur keeps, an’ we ’lowed ez mebbe you’d do
it fur nothin’, ez we hain’t got no present ter-night. It only costs
half er dollar,” Pete suggested, as the surprised parson seemed to
hesitate.

[Illustration: U.S. half dollar coin]

The mention of the fact that it only cost half a dollar seemed to
recall something to the good parson. Before he could answer, however,
Pete continued:

“Thet wa’n’t no weddin las’ summer, daown ter Bar Camp, ’cause we
wa’n’t in love. But we’ve got it naow, sartin; an’ we wan’ ter git
merred fur keeps.” Pete looked up pleadingly.

A moment later, Pete and Lize stood blushingly, hand in hand, before
the group of rough mountaineers. As the parson put this question to
Pete, “Do you take this girl for your Christmas present for keeps?”
his dark eyes lighted up with a new happiness, and he answered
quickly, “I ’low I does, fur keeps.”

There was a movement of surprise in the audience as Pete and
Lize went down the narrow aisle, and one or two of the uncouth
mountaineers instinctively drew their slouch hats from their heads.

“Whar yo’ goin’, Pete?” inquired Lize, timidly, as they went out of
the school-house into the Christmas night.

“Goin’ home, uv co’rse,” he said. “Paw’ll be moughty pleased, fur
I ’low ez he hain’t hed nothin’ ter eat fur mor’’n a month. I tell
yo’ what, Lize, I’ll su’prise him with er Christmas present. ’Tain’t
allus ez paw gits er Christmas present.”

As Pete and Lize plodded down the valley road, they were very happy
in their plans for the future. The dilapidated Larkim shanty seemed a
mansion in their unrestrained happiness.

It was nearly midnight when Pete and Lize reached the two shanties
which for sixteen years had been all that “home” meant to them. Pete
pounded loudly on the rough door of the Larkim shanty, eager to
present his angry “ole man” his Christmas present, which had brought
so much happiness to him. In a moment there was a big bushy head
thrust out the little square window at the side, and Pete called,—

“Haow are yo’, paw? I’s got a Christmas present fur yo’.”

“Naw yo’ hain’t, nuther,” broke in Bill. “What yo’ doin’ ’round hyar
ennyways, yo’ young rascal, yo’? Be that Lize?” he yelled, as he
recognized the shivering form at Pete’s side.

“Uv co’rse,” replied Pete. “We’ve got merred for keeps, an’”——

“Merred!” exclaimed Bill, from his window. “Hain’t yo’ been merred
all summer, an’ then yo’ lighted out and left yo’ paw and maw ter
starve. Yo’ don’t wan’ ter come sneakin’ ’round hyar, Pete Larkim; if
yo’ do, I’ll shoot yo’. I don’t want none o’ yo’ Christmas present.”
And the window dropped with a crash.

For a moment Pete was silent with astonishment, till Lize, taking him
by the hand, said,—

“Don’t yo’ keer, Pete. It’s moughty hard luck. But I ’low ez haow
Bill Simonds hain’t fergot. Yo’ come er long with me, Pete;” and
together they sought refuge under the roof of the Simonds shanty.

“Paw hain’t no call ter kick us out,” said Pete, at length. “But I’m
moughty glad we went ter the celebrashun, hain’t yo’, Lize?”




CHRISTMAS EVE, A FANTASY.




[Illustration: Christmas Eve]

A FANTASY.

R. H. FLETCHER.

[Illustrations by M. S. Sherman.]


It had been for me a day of toil and weariness and grief. Sick in
body and heart, I returned home late at night and threw myself just
as I was upon a couch. In an instant slumber came, but not relief.

I seemed again to tread the weary streets, crowded with the
ever-surging throngs. On the icy-mirror pavements, in the
blazing windows of the stores, on the faces of the joyous
purchasers,—everywhere was the Christmas glow; and once more in
bitterness of spirit I cried out against the hollow mockery and sham.

There was a change. All had vanished save the lights. Nor were they
frigid, blinding, cruel, as before; a rosy glow, warm, soft, and
kind, filled all the room. Before me stood an angel form, whence
streamed the radiance. Beautiful was her flowing robe; beautiful must
once have been her face, but now the deep lines about the large,
appealing eyes, the quavering of the patient lips, and the pallor of
the sunken cheeks had marred its symmetry and grace.

“Come,” said the figure in a voice plaintive, yet sweet.
Unhesitatingly I grasped her hand, and straightway we were flying
through the air. The night was inky and awful. The wind moaned
dismally as it hurled upon us the huge masses of clouds, threatening
and demon-like, and naught but implicit confidence in my conductor
preserved me from a sense of loneliness and of desolation, from an
utter horror like to that of death.

Long thus we flew, outstripping the swift pursuing blasts, until day
bloomed like a rank marsh flower. A gloomy, dismal day.

Beyond the vision on either side, a mighty pile stretched; above,
it was lost in the low-lying clouds, reaching, perhaps, to the very
skies I thought.

Grand the design appeared, yet grand rather in what it should have
been than in what it was; for here the walls stood all in moss-grown
ruins, as though shaken by some overwhelming earthquake shock, here
still unfinished. Everywhere, besides, had been inwrought marble
blocks and shattered columns from the ruins that strewed the plain
for leagues around. All about were men engaged upon the palace; but
though some were earnestly endeavoring to prop the leaning walls, or
to set the great stones firm and true, some, I thought, strove only
to cover the gapping seams with useless tinsel, while some were even
battering with rams whatever places were the weakest.

Stumbling beneath an arch whose very keystone threatened to drop
upon us as we went, and then through dark and ruinous passages, we
entered. We emerged into a great hall, whose gaudy, gilded splendor
could not long blind the eyes to the bare foundations protruding
all about and crumbling in decay. Here a preacher was describing
the true Christmas, yet, though his words rang with wondrously
fervid eloquence, they met but little response in the faces of his
congregation. Unconsciously my guide approached the speaker, while
her splendor became even more intense, until it shone almost like the
sun, and yet it might be gazed upon, so soft and friendly was it. But
even as it blazed most gloriously it faded, and with a halfstifled
sob the angel turned away. To my questioning glance she made reply,
“I am Love, and as I come where love is my effulgence grows more
bright.”

Through ruined chambers and dark corridors, around black, yawning
chasms, up and down great tottering stairways, now we passed, while
I held in terror to the hand of my unmoved conductor. At length we
stood in a city street. Remember, all was vague and indefinite to
me, for it was but a vision or a dream. In the great surging mass of
humanity I noted but two beings, a ragged woman and a little sleeping
child which she was bearing in her arms. Plainly she was wandering
in search of work. Behind her stood a black, misshapen something,
gaunt and grisly, wearing a faint resemblance to the human form,
and upon his gloomy forehead I thought I read the impress of this
word, “Hunger.” In his hand he held a lash, and with it he even beat
the shoulders of the woman, compelling her to quicken her weary
steps; of escape she had no hope. Once she would have sank upon the
pavement; the demon strode before with a starved and frightful laugh,
and struck the child, which wakened with a moan. As if in answer
to its call Love drew near, shining with a subdued but cheerful
light. The tense lines upon the woman’s face relaxed; she arose and
struggled on, but for a moment only. As the demon Hunger turned
and beheld Love standing there he rushed upon her with a fearful
cry, then turned and fled. Not an instant was the monster’s place
unfilled. Another of his kind, with a still more awful countenance,
upon which was written “Despair,” appeared and struck the woman
to the ground; nor did he cease to rain upon her frightful blows,
while she glared at him in fierce defiance. I hid my eyes, and when
I looked again woman and child had vanished and in their places were
two clods of earth.

I fled in terror, for Love was nowhere to be seen; but at length
I found her weeping bitterly. The sight of her, even in distress,
renewed my courage to behold other things, dreadful though they
might be. Yet what need to tell more? Hour after hour we wandered
on, and always we found only such scenes of squalid misery or gilded
hypocrisy as well might break the hearts of men though they meet
them every day.

At length Love lost the way, and she wandered through fearful ruins
until, upon the brink of a fearful chasm just beneath the gloomy
clouds, she sank to earth. Near by lay stores of all things necessary
for life, yet it was a gruesome place. “Here we must perish,” moaned
my guide, and from below I saw grisly Despair rising to drag us
down. But even as Love spoke a rushing sound was heard above, and a
great glory dissipated all the gloom. Before us stood another angel,
bearing in his hands an anchor of jewelled gold. “Did you forget your
wings, my sister?” she asked reproachfully. “How can you die, being
immortal?”

Before her gentleness and confidence doubt could not stand. Joyfully
we grasped her anchor and rose with her above the clouds. And now I
saw that the palace did not reach the skies, but that its topmost
story was, oh! so near the earth.

As we passed beyond the walls I read in great letters, carved upon
the blocks above the ruinous portal, “The Social Structure of Christ.”

“Kind Hope,” I cried, “if this be all that Christ can do for man, in
self-derision do we celebrate his birth to-day.”

She smiled half sadly, and half sweetly, for she could never, I
believe, seem wholly sad. “Many of the stones,” she said, “are
fallen. The inscription read at first not ‘of Christ,’ but ‘of
Christendom.’ Before the memory of any living now the blocks were
laid, and those which have crumbled have fallen, so that many believe
the words were ever what they are. But turn and look.”

Far away the clouds had broken and were all gilded by the rising sun.
There stood another palace, which seemed much like the first, yet
perfect in symmetry and beauty.

“It is of the future,” I heard Hope say; “somewhere—beneath, above,
behind, before, within,—somehow, future borders on that place which
some call Heaven, the home of Love, of Knowledge, and of Joy.”

As she ceased to speak I knew I was alone within my chamber. The
Christmas bells were ringing merrily, and as I went forth into the
cheerful sunshine and saw the pleasant sights that I had passed by
in the palace of my dream I felt all my old despair rung out and a
cheerful, living hope rung in.

[Illustration: Decoration]




CLANCY’S HOME-COMING.




CLANCY’S HOME-COMING.

I. W. BISHOP.

[Illustrations by C. W. Berry.]

[Illustration: Two drunk men]


Mrs. Clancy glanced around the kitchen of the four-room flat on the
top floor of a Broome-street tenement, and wondered why Clancy didn’t
come. It was almost 7 o’clock, and he “struck work” at 6. Besides,
to-morrow was Christmas, and their turkey depended on Clancy’s
ability to get home with his week’s pay in his pocket. She had not
much confidence in this, for he had come home with an empty purse and
a full bottle too many times. So Norah Clancy slipped a shawl over
her head, and started down stairs. Just as she reached the door, whom
should she meet but Officer Dorgan, of the 3d precinct.

“Good avenin’, Mr. Dorgan,” said Norah, her mind full of Mike’s
whereabouts.

“Good avenin’, Mrs. Clancy, and could I be doin’ anything for yez?”

“Have yez seen onything of my man?” asked Norah.

Now Dorgan did know where Clancy was, but he was kind-hearted and
hated to tell Mrs. Clancy that her husband was endeavoring to
fill himself with bad whiskey at Casey’s gin-palace on the corner.
So Dorgan told Mrs. Clancy, in a comforting way, that her man was
probably on his way home, and not to worry.

With that, Mrs. Clancy started up stairs, and only stopped to
slap one of “them Linkowski brats,” as she called the children of
Linkowski, the Polish Jew on the third floor.

[Illustration: Drunk man at bar]

Dorgan started for Clancy when Mrs. Clancy left him, and, true to
his instinct, found him trying to hold up one end of Casey’s long
mahogany bar. Dorgan approached him, and began,—

“Clancy, your wife’s a-lookin’ for yez.”

Clancy turned around still clinging to the polished hand-rail, and
recognized Dorgan.

“What’ll yez drink?”

“Nothing, Clancy,” said the officer; “but yez better go home.”

Clancy turned around with an assumption of gravity and started for
the door, for he was a little afraid of Norah.

She heard him coming, as he stumbled up the stairs, and waited for
him. But as he grasped the knob of the door it opened of its own
accord, and Clancy was precipitated against the kitchen table, which
was set for supper. Concluding that it would be unwise to move under
the existing circumstances, he remained leaning on the table and
waited. He had n’t long to wait, however, for Norah began,—

[Illustration: Decoration]

“Mike, give me your money!”

He started to remonstrate, but quailed before the terrible look in
her eye, and emptied his pocket on the table.

Norah counted it over.

“Three dollars an’ a half is missin’, Clancy, and yez eat cold
corned-bafe to-morrer, av ye plaze.”

With this, Mrs. Clancy left the room and slammed the door.

Clancy, left to himself, sat down.

It wasn’t long before Mrs. Clancy returned, and again referred to the
turkey which they would not eat on the morrow.

This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Clancy’s manhood
asserted itself, and he arose in a dignified manner and started for
the door.

As he reached it he turned around and, with the air of a king
bestowing a favor, said, “Mrs. Clancy, yez’ll hov that turkey.”

Clancy walked down stairs and out into the street, where he stood for
a moment, irresolute.

His ideas on where to procure the turkey he had so rashly promised
were very hazy, and, furthermore, he thought Mrs. Clancy had his
money. As he reached his hand down into his pocket he felt something.
He took it out, gazed at it contemplatively, and bit it. This seemed
to satisfy his doubts. He had a quarter!

Then he considered what should be done with it. A quarter would
hardly buy a turkey, and a quarter would buy considerable in the line
of drink. Still thinking, he strolled down the street.

As he passed his old haunt a large white placard, with the following
notice in green letters, attracted his attention:




[Illustration: SALOON.

RAFFLE

  THERE WILL BE A
  RAFFLE
  FOR A CHRISTMAS TURKEY
  AT THIS SALOON TO-NIGHT
  25 CTS. A CHANCE.

CASEY]


Clancy did not hesitate, but entered the saloon. With determination
in his eye, and all the straight-forwardness that he could put into
his gait, he marched up to the bar-tender and inquired about the
raffle.

“Ober dere,” said the man, pointing to the other end of the room.
“Dere’s anoder chance left.”

Clancy, with an eagerness born of despair, deposited his quarter and
drew his ticket, No. 13. “Thot may be bad luck,” thought Clancy, “but
I’m bound to win.”

Clancy waited with stoical indifference as the numbers were drawn. At
last he heard some one in the front of the crowd call out, “Thirteen
wins.”

Ten minutes later, Clancy marched proudly into the presence of his
wife, and laid his turkey before her.

[Illustration: “Mike.”]

“Mike,” she said, “where did you get that turkey?” “Mike,” she said
in a louder tone, “did you steal that turkey or beg it?”

Mike did not reply to the calumnies of his wife. He was asleep.




MUSIC HATH CHARMS.




MUSIC HATH CHARMS.

DANA D. WALLACE.

[Illustrations by A. W. Stone.]


They sat upon the wide piazza of the St. Sauveur hotel, gazing
through the August twilight upon the extended purple of Frenchman’s
Bay, the low-lying islands and erratic cliffs that have made Mt.
Desert the Mecca of so many pleasure-seekers.

“It is strange that we should have come here together!” exclaimed
Grace Egerton, folding her wraps about her gracefully.

“It is, indeed,” responded Ralph Leighton. “Of course, Grace, we
rather hoped to meet you here; but you, George, who would have
thought it!”

“It was certainly a pleasant surprise to meet you,” answered George
Wardsworth. “I must truly consider myself fortunate,” with an
emphasis on the last word, as he glanced at the beautiful face of
Grace Egerton.

The glance was intercepted by Ralph, who was becoming annoyed at
his friend’s earnest endeavors to be agreeable to his betrothed. It
was with great pleasure that Ralph heard his sister’s voice asking
George Wardsworth if the evening air wasn’t becoming a little chilly.
Compelled to respond, George gallantly escorted her into the parlors.

Drawing his chair closer, Ralph dwelt with loving words upon his
favorite topic, their engagement. “And when that happy day shall
come,” he said, “when our engagement is over and real love begins, do
you think, Grace, that we will be happier?

“No, Ralph; for it is already over.”

“What! My God—not that, Grace: why, but yesterday you vowed you loved
me!”

“Yes,” she interrupted, her eyes seeking the ground. “You are right:
one day ago I was yours, to-day I am another’s. Then I thought I knew
what love was, but I find that I was ignorant of that passion. It is
cruel,” she said, “but with my soul in sympathy with another’s, I
could not be faithful to you, Ralph. Forget me, as unworthy of your
love. I regret the pain I have caused you. But I”——

“Stop,” he cried. “It is true you never loved me. Oh! that I should
be deceived by a woman’s love. Go, and may the curse”——but with
an angry movement she was gone. With a muttered curse for George
Wardsworth, whom he knew too well was to be Grace’s successful
suitor, and almost maddened with grief, he strode down the gravel
walk and was lost in the gathering night.

An hour later he returned, haggard and broken-hearted; and with
little wonder, for in a few short minutes all that earth held dear
had been ruthlessly snatched from him. Yet not all: there was his
sister, whom he loved so sincerely, she would be his one comfort in
life; but ever before him lingered the vision of Grace Egerton’s
lovely face.

As he neared the hotel, he paused and listened. Sweetly floated from
the parlors on the still evening air, the grand words and melodious
strains of “Lead, Kindly Light.” It was his sister’s voice, singing
as she never had before, so it seemed to him. Almost divine became
the music. Such strains as cause us for the moment to forget the
outside world with its laughter and tears, and fill our minds with
nobler and better thoughts.

[Illustration: Lead kindly light]

And though the singer knew it not, there was one who heard and never
forgot that hymn, which for the time soothed his wearied heart as he
listened in the silence of the night.

       *       *       *       *       *

The bustling, good-natured throng, crowding New York’s busy
thoroughfares, and the brilliantly lighted show-windows, told to all
that Christmas eve, with all that it suggests, had fallen upon the
city.

On Fifth avenue a man hurried past the wealthy and cheerful homes of
the most fortunate citizens. The electric light glared upon him and
revealed the face of an old friend, Ralph Leighton. But how changed
from the handsome Ralph of former days! His unfortunate love affair,
followed by the death of that sister whom he so dearly loved, had
added many a year to the once youthful face.

“I might do it,” he muttered as he strode along, “I might dash
George Wardsworth from his proud position to the level of a beggar; I
wonder if the haughty Grace would come to him then. To-night George
Wardsworth stands on the verge of financial ruin; if he can stave off
his creditors for another week, the tide will change, and he will
remain as he is, wealthy, happy, and loved. To-morrow I will tell the
secret to his creditors, they will foreclose, and George Wardsworth
will be a penniless man, and I shall have had my revenge.”

Wrapping his ulster more closely about him to keep warm his
revengeful spirit, he passed on, but in a short time paused,
attracted by the unusually cheerful appearance of one of the
mansions. He gazed into the window. The sight for a moment unnerved
him. There seated at the piano amid all the luxury of the Egerton
mansion was the one who had made him the hardhearted, revengeful man
that he had become,—with her face turned to a sofa on which easily
reclined George Wardsworth. How contented and happy they looked!

[Illustration: Woman playing paino]

He had not known where Grace was living, and this sudden discovery
maddened him, and he muttered, “I will do it. George Wardsworth,
beware!” He started on to carry out his threat, when the sound of
music recalled him. As though guided by the hand of fate, Grace had
turned to the piano and run her fingers over the ivory keys. Now
instrument and voice chorded together, and softly there came to the
revengeful listener, the sweet harmony of Cardinal Newman’s hymn. He
waited through it all, and as

    “And with the morn those angels’ faces smile,
     Which I have loved, long since and lost, a while.”

lingered and died away, Ralph recalled the same hymn, that other
night, when his hopes had forever vanished. He heard again the voice
of his beloved sister. Even now she might be watching him from the
star-lit heavens above. How false was he to her trust, meditating
such vengeance. He hurried away, humming to himself the words of the
sacred hymn, and the business house of Wardsworth & Co. weathered the
financial storm.

[Illustration: Christmas bells]

Next day as the glad Christmas bells heralded the story of Christ
throughout the land, they mingled with the merry bells of Grace
Egerton’s wedding; but they told not to the world the message which
had come into one man’s heart on Christmas eve.




THE SPRIG’S BALL.




[Illustration: The Sprig’s Ball]


WILLIAM GIBBON.

[Illustrations by C. W. Berry.]


Several years ago, at the junction of two little streams in a fertile
section of the cotton district, stood a rickety old blacksmith-shop.
The master of its forge, Remington Ingleheart, familiarly known as
“Rem,” was a stout, thick-set man, of slave parentage. He was a
thrifty young fellow, sure of success at his trade. For some time he
had been “goin’ with a gal,” as he said, about half a mile up one of
the little streams, but had never come to any definite understanding,
because there had been but one room to the shop. By the time of which
we write, however, things were different. An extra apartment was
practically completed. The neighbors wondered what “Rem” was up to.
When asked about it, he simply answered that he was tired “workin’
an’ sleepin’ in de same place.”

Among all the young negroes of the vicinity, “Rem” had but one
particular friend. This was Hicks Gale. Hicks was a sort of
blacksmith, too. In rushes of work he would come over and help
“Rem.” One cold December night, “Rem” had a job on hand that must
be finished before he turned in. How he wished for Hicks! As if the
wish had anything to do with it, Hicks actually appeared about nine
o’clock.

“Hullo, Hicks!” exclaimed “Rem.” “Jus’ de man I wants to see. Take de
sledge an’ strack a little fur me.”

“Dat ain’t presactly what I come fur,” said Hicks; “but I kin hit you
a few licks, anyhow.”

“What’s on hand?” asked “Rem,” thrusting the iron back for a new heat.

“A ball at St. Michael’s, Christmus eve,” responded Hicks, in much
glee. “Sim Sprigs is givin’ it, an’ he tole me fur to tell you to be
shore an’ come, an’ fetch Judy. You’ll be dar, won’t you?”

“Coase,” answered “Rem.” “Ever know me to miss a ball?”

[Illustration: House]

St. Michael’s was a church: a shabby looking structure on the east
bank of the large stream formed by the two smaller ones. On the
night of the ball, it was pompously illuminated by a number of
tallow dips that peeped uneasily forth from every nook and corner.
The dilapidated wooden shutters had been drawn to and fastened with
pieces of heavy twine, to keep out the gusty blasts. In the centre
was a small stove, which was filled with pine knots till it gave out
the necessary degree of heat. The crude benches, on either side of
the common aisle, were gathered into a large heap beside the door,
to make room for the pedal antics. The most striking feature was the
old pulpit. It consisted of a low platform, shut in across the front
and half way back on either side by a rough framework of boards. Each
projecting corner looked toward a vendor’s stand, laden with the
influences which make “A fool and his money” soon part.

The form of entertainment which the negroes call a ball is rather
a comprehensive institution. It may be given on the slightest
provocation, and under any auspices whatever, public or private.
Ostensibly, the enjoyment consists in dancing to the music of a
scratchy fiddle. Really, the interested parties bring together as
many of their friends as possible for the purpose of disposing to
them of cheap nicknacks and third-class refreshments at a profit of
three or four hundred per cent.

By eight o’clock on the Christmas eve in question, St. Michael’s
was full to overflowing. The din of loud talking and yelling was
deafening. The voice of Sim Sprigs, the manager, could be heard above
that of any one else, exhorting the young bloods to “furmember”
their sweethearts, and “treat ’um often.” The idea of treating was
of primary importance to the success of the entertainment. It meant
that the boys were to lavish their last cent on the girls. In fact,
the prompting in the dance was equipped with a special figure for
such occasions,—“Promenade to de bar.” The cry of “treat me” could
everywhere be heard in powerful soprano tones. If a girl met a boy
she knew she invariably asked him to treat her. When a boy asked a
girl to dance, she usually answered, “Yup, uf you’ll treat me fust,”
frequently stipulating the amount of the investment.

“Rem” and Judy arrived a little late. The first dance was already in
progress. Every one naturally glanced up to see who had entered. The
newcomers shook off their slight embarrassment by at once joining in
the waltz. Very soon they were as much a part of the crowd as any
other couple in the house.

[Illustration: Man and woman on bench]

As soon as the opening set closed, there was a general thronging to
“de bar.” “Rem” made his purchases and retired. With a large bag in
one hand, and Judy on the other arm, he sought the seclusion of the
old pulpit. The inclosure was furnished with only the preacher’s
bench, but that had plenty of length for two. “Rem” and Judy sat
down, with the bag between them. The former seized a huge piece of
cake, and intimated to the latter that she might “dip in.” The second
dance was “sot out.” When the third was announced, neither “Rem” nor
Judy had engaged a partner. It was natural and pleasant enough for
them to dance together again. Further along, they did not hesitate
to pass over several sets at a time. All spare moments were spent in
the pulpit. “Rem” kept an abundance of nicknacks on hand, so that
they might “dip in,” and relieve the embarrassment of occasional
silence. Until quite late the conversation was, on the whole,
comparatively general. “Rem” now came a little more to the point, by
remarking that he had “bin ’templatin’ takin’ a wife.”

“Is you?” said Judy, simply. “Dat’s good.”

“Jobs is bin putty brisk dis fall,” added “Rem,” “an’ I’s got my
yother room all fixed.”

“Is you done picked her out?” asked Judy, with apparent unconcern.

“Picked her out!” exclaimed “Rem,” “long’s I bin gwine wid you, Judy
Marshall, now you ax me who I wants to marry!”

Rosy dawn dispersed the moneychangers from the temple and shamed the
lovers from the pulpit. On the following Sunday, St. Michael’s church
was packed with an unusually large audience, and the morning service
was concluded with a wedding.

“Judy Marshall,” said the preacher, “does you solemnly promise to
live up to dis man, lack you ought ter?”

“I does.”

“Remington Ingleheart, is you gwine to cherry dis ’oman, whether
she’s sick or no?”

“Sho’s God, I be!”

[Illustration: Decoration]




CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE CLUB.




CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE CLUB.

HARRY A. TERREL.

[Illustrations by H. M. Chase.]


“What if she i-s waiting? Ha, ha, ha,—hic! it’ll do her good to wait.”

The speaker was a well dressed, wealthy young aristocrat of New
York. It was Christmas eve at the club, and he had sat with his
comrades-in-revelry at cards and wine till the early hours of the
morning, not thinking of his young wife at home, alone; and when one
of the soberer of the company asked if his wife would be waiting for
him, he answered, with a mocking laugh, “Ha, ha, ha—hic! it’ll do her
good to wait.”

[Illustration: Man with cane]

Finally the wine-cup was emptied for the last time, and the party at
the club dispersed. The aristocrat wandered unsteadily homeward. A
few blocks from his residence a fire-engine thundered past him, and
he gave a drunken shout to the drivers, as if to encourage them, and
continued on his way.

As he turned the corner of the street on which his house stood,
almost horror-stricken, he saw it wrapped in flames. The sight
sobered him instantly, and, remembering his wife, whom he had left
alone seven hours before, he rushed to the spot, and pushing through
the crowd which had gathered he cried, “My wife! my God! My wife!
where is she! Is she still in there?”

Not heeding the intense heat, he rushed to the building and attempted
to climb a ladder resting against the house, but the firemen held him
back, and led him to a group of his servants and some officers.

They parted as he came up, and he beheld there, lying on a rough
blanket taken from one of the engine horses, the beautiful, white,
but cold form of the one he left a few short hours before in the
beauty of womanhood. Oh, the agony of murdered love! He reeled and
sank to the ground, his head fairly bursting as he remembered her
parting words:

“Don’t leave me to-night, George, this night of all others, Christmas
eve, the anniversary of our wedding. You have left me alone every
night for months past. Don’t leave me to-night.”

Then flashed across his mind his own words at the club, “What if she
is waiting? Ha, ha, ha—hic! it’ll do her good to wait.”

It was too much for his wearied brain, and his mind gave way. With
the fiendish crackling voice of a maniac he cried, “Ha, ha, ha—hic!
it’ll do her good to wait.”

[Illustration: FINIS]




A COMPLETE LIST

OF DARTMOUTH COLLEGE UNDERGRADUATE PUBLICATIONS.


The Ægis.

Founded in 1865, and published annually by editors chosen from the
Junior class.

  =95’s Ægis is Just Out=,

and contains the following special features: Portraits and
biographical sketches of President Tucker and the late Professor
Patterson; the words and music of the Dartmouth Song, by W. B.
Segur; fine half-tone pictures of the new Alumni Athletic field; the
champion Foot-ball and Athletic teams; base-ball nine, Dramatic club,
and Glee club. It is bound in green cloth, with white lettering, and
is a model of typographical and press work. Price, $2.00. On sale at
Storrs’s bookstore, or by the business manager.

  ROBERT A. CAMPBELL,
  Managing Editor.

  ROBERT M. THORNBURG,
  Business Manager.




THE

Dartmouth Literary Monthly.

The “LIT.” was started in 1886 and aims to represent the literary
life of the college. It is published monthly by editors chosen at the
end of the sophomore year according to competition during the first
two years.

  =The “Lit.” for ’93-’94=

has many new features. Its green and white cover is representative
of the college. Each month it contains short stories, essays, a
department of college verse, and bright sketches. This volume of
“X-mas Sketches” is from the December number of the “LIT.” and shows
the work the “LIT.” is doing in developing the literary spirit in
college.


For the Alumni.

It contains the most complete alumni department ever published. Each
issue has an interesting article by some prominent alumnus upon _the
war record of the College_. The portrait of some Dartmouth hero
accompanies each article. These articles are attracting a great deal
of attention. The frontispiece of The “LIT.” is the portrait of
some prominent alumnus. In its holiday number it presents the steel
engraving of Mr. Mark Wentworth Fletcher, Dartmouth’s oldest living
graduate.

Every alumnus and undergraduate should support the “LIT.” Price,
$2.00 a year.

  EDWIN O. GROVER, Managing Editor.
  ASHLEY K. HARDY, Business Manager.




The Dartmouth.

THE COLLEGE NEWSPAPER.


This is one of the oldest of the college publications, and has the
largest circulation of any college paper printed. It is published
bi-weekly.

  =The Dartmouth for ’93-’94=

is furnishing all the college news, with complete reports of all
foot-ball games and athletic meets. Portraits of prominent alumni
appear from time to time. The Alumni department receives especial
attention.

The only way to keep in touch with the college is to take THE
DARTMOUTH. Price, $2.00 a year, single copies 12 cents. On sale at
Storrs’s bookstore.

  FRED C. ALLEN, Managing Editor.
  FRANK D. FIELD, Business Manager.




Dartmouth Lyrics.

A collection of Poems from the undergraduate Publications of
Dartmouth college.


The first of the undergraduate volumes to appear was the first
edition of DARTMOUTH LYRICS, which was published in 1888, by

  OZORA STEARNS DAVIS ’89, and
  WILLIAM DRUMMOND BAKER ’89.

It was among the first undergraduate publications of any college, and
was a great success. It was bound in green cloth, with gilt top and
untrimmed edges. A year ago the edition was exhausted, and it is no
longer on sale.




Dartmouth Lyrics.

NEW EDITION NOW ON SALE.


Containing upwards of 125 selections from the best verse Dartmouth
undergraduates have written. Among the contributors are J. A. Bellows
’70, H. H. Piper ’76, H. R. Foster ’82, Richard Hovey ’85, W. D.
Quint ’87, F. J. Urquhart ’87, W. B. Forbush ’88, W. F. Gregory
’88, N. M. Hall ’88, F. L. Pattee ’88, N. D. Baker ’89, O. S. Davis
’89, C. F. Robinson ’90, M. P. Thompson ’92, H. B. Metcalf ’93, G.
C. Selden ’93, P. E. Stanley ’93, E. O. Grover ’94, Kent Knowlton
’94, R. A. Campbell ’95. Finely illustrated by half-tone pictures
of prominent Dartmouth literary men, and familiar Hanover views.
Beautifully bound in grey and green, with gilt edges.

Those who have seen the book speak highly of its appearance and
make-up. The selections were made with the approval of Prof. C. F.
Richardson. Mr. Bertrand A. Smalley ’94, is editor. Price, $1.00.
For sale at Storrs’s and Lake & Sanborn’s. Orders by mail will be
promptly filled.

  C. C. MERRILL ’94, }
  B. A. SMALLEY ’94, } Publishers.




Dartmouth Sketches.

Selected from the undergraduate publications of Dartmouth College.


The first edition of “The Sketches” was published in December, 1892,
by

  G. C. SELDEN ’93, Literary Editor.
  G. G. FURNEL ’93, Business Editor.

It contained sketches from the “LIT.” and “DARTMOUTH” from 1843 to
1892. Twenty portraits and views accompanied the sketches. It was
bound in green cloth.

Although a large edition was issued it was at once exhausted, and can
not now be had.




Dartmouth Sketches.

(SECOND EDITION.)

Selected from the undergraduate publications of Dartmouth College.


To supply the demand after the first edition was exhausted

  G. C. SELDEN ’93 and
  A. G. BUGBEE ’95

issued a second edition, enlarged and with additional portraits. It
contained new sketches by ’95 men, and was issued in two bindings,
grey cloth and heavy paper.

Price, $1.00 in cloth; 50 c. in paper.

On sale at Storrs’s Book store, Hanover, N. H.




THE

“In Green and White” Series

VOL. I.

=X-mas Sketches from the “Lit.”=


The sketches which compose this vest-pocket volume are those which
appeared in the Christmas number of the “LIT.” They are illustrated
with forty-three thumb-nail sketches made by men in college. It is
the first attempt at college magazine illustrating ever attempted.
The “X-mas Sketches” indicate the work that is now being done in the
artistic and literary line in college.

It is expected that other volumes will be added to this, forming an
“In Green and White” series. It is hoped that this little volume may
serve as a souvenir of the “LIT.” and an incentive to story writing
in college. Price, 50 c.

  EDWIN O. GROVER, Editor.




Dartmouth Athletics.

_Just out._

A COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED HISTORY

Of Athletic sports at Dartmouth from the earliest time to the present.


Contains 350 pages, beside 53 full page half-tone engravings of
Dartmouth’s greatest athletes and teams; and is beautifully bound in
“green” and gold.

“This unique book is having a remarkable sale.”—_New York Tribune._

“The general features of ‘Dartmouth Athletics’ make it of interest to
all college men.”—_The Tech._

“It is creating general interest among Dartmouth alumni.”—_Boston
Herald._

“No school library should be without it.”—_Merrimack Journal._

“An admirable book.”—_Concord Monitor._

Price, $1.50 (postage extra).

  Address “DARTMOUTH ATHLETICS,”
  Hanover, N. H.

  JOHN HENRY BARTLETT,
  Literary Editor.

  JOHN PEARL GIFFORD,
  Business Editor.