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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 VZi^ oS 
 
 Chap. CopyriglTt No. 
 
 Shei£._..i:„iD 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
SIXTY AND SIX 
 
 CHIPS 
 
 FROM 
 
 LITERARY 
 
 WORKSHOPS 
 
 EDITE0 BY 
 
 WILL M. CLEMENS 
 
 Author of '* The Life of Mark Twain,'' ** Famous Funny 
 Fellows," "Songs of To-morrow," Etc , Etc. 
 
 NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY 
 
 156 : FIFTH : AVENUE : NEW : YORK 
 
 <>^*:»ir^^§\ |,v4D^ 
 
 V> 
 
 VJ( ^ 
 
 J 
 
 TWO COPIES HECEiVED 
 
.CSS 
 
 Copyright, 1895-1896-1897. 
 By WII^L M. ClvEMKNS. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 (Entered at Stationer's Hall, lyondon.) 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 lo. 
 II. 
 
 12. 
 
 13- 
 
 14. 
 
 15. 
 
 16, 
 
 17 
 
 18. 
 
 19- 
 20. 
 21. 
 22. 
 
 23 
 24. 
 
 25- 
 
 26. 
 27. 
 28. 
 29. 
 30. 
 
 31- 
 32. 
 33- 
 34- 
 35- 
 
 In the Rajah's Palace 
 The Duel .... 
 Portia . ^. . . . 
 The Edge of Nowhere . 
 IvAvinia's Napkins 
 The Duke of Japonski 
 PANSIES, OR Pansies? 
 In Extremis 
 
 The Maiden of the Val- 
 ley 
 
 Orville and His Guitar . 
 The Eternal Struggle . 
 A Dream of Yesterday . 
 The I^iving Death . 
 A Human Spark 
 Found in an Old Bible . 
 The Passion Flower 
 Death and Dolls 
 The Suicide .... 
 
 A Wife 
 
 The Worm Turneth 
 
 A Priest .... 
 
 Jeremy's Consolation 
 
 Venus of Milo . 
 
 A Mockery .... 
 
 The Japanese Collector 
 
 Repentance .... 
 
 The Society 
 
 Othman the Turk 
 
 The Mound Builder . 
 
 Heart Thoughts 
 
 The Nightmare . 
 
 A Demon of the Depths 
 
 The Breath of I^ife 
 
 At the Meadow Bars 
 
 The Siege of Paris . 
 
 Herbert Ware. 
 
 Heleu I^eaveuworth Herrick- 
 
 Anthony I,eland. 
 
 Will 1\I. Clemeu.s. 
 
 lyOuis How. 
 
 Andrew Millard. 
 
 Edgarda Williams. 
 
 J. H. Kennedy. 
 
 Marye Thornburg. 
 
 Merritt Post. 
 
 Emily B. Stone. 
 
 John Northern Hilliard. 
 
 E. Meserve James. 
 
 Will M. Clemens. 
 
 Annie Weston Whitney. 
 
 Helen L,eavenworth Herrick. 
 
 Georgia Harriet Pangborn. 
 
 Frances A Hoadley. 
 
 Elizabeth C. Cardozo. 
 
 Harry Saint Maur. 
 
 Anthony Iceland. 
 
 Charles F. Howell. 
 
 Albert Bigelow Paine. 
 
 Will M Clemens. 
 
 IvCe J Vance. 
 
 Elizabeth C. Cardozo. 
 
 I,ouis How. 
 
 Herbert Ware. 
 
 Georgia Harriet Pangborn. 
 
 Eloise Gray. 
 
 Will M. Clemens. 
 
 James H. Griffes. 
 
 layman Horace Weeks. 
 
 Percie W. Hart. 
 
 Paul Mahalin 
 
2,6. From Guillotine to 
 Glory 
 
 37. The Nun 
 
 38. His IvIttle Boots 
 
 39. A lyOST lyETTER . 
 
 40. The Journal 
 
 41. Spoken . 
 
 42. At the Opera 
 
 43 The Valley of Dismal 
 
 Pools 
 
 44 A Man and a Woman 
 
 45 Two Ends of a Proposi- 
 
 tion 
 
 46. Unmasked .... 
 
 47. The Stranger 
 
 48. As It Is 
 
 49. The Bachelor 
 
 50. Souls Know .... 
 
 51. Youth 
 
 52. The Panama Railroad 
 53 As In a Dream 
 
 54. The Monks .... 
 
 55. The Execution . 
 
 56 A Phantasmal World 
 
 57. The I^egend of the Cross 
 
 58. Faith Renewed . 
 
 59. The Perversity of I,ove 
 
 60. Answered .... 
 
 61. The Island of Wine 
 
 62. The Luilaby 
 
 63. Jem 
 
 64. As It Was .... 
 
 65. The Optimist 
 
 66. FiFINE 
 
 Will Hubbard Kernan. 
 James Knapp Reeve. 
 Will M. Clemens. 
 Harry Saiiit-Maur. 
 A. F. Brickell. 
 M G. Robinson. 
 Abbie Farwell Brown. 
 
 W. R. A. Wilson. 
 Will M. Clemens. 
 
 Harry Saint-Maur. 
 Frnest Peabody. 
 Fmily B. Stone. 
 William Forsyth. 
 Will M. Clemens. 
 FleanorB. Caldwell. 
 Carlotta Perry. 
 Mark Twain. 
 Frank M. Weeks. 
 James Knapp Reeve. 
 Will M. Clemens. 
 Klla Sterling Cummins. 
 Ruth Ward Kahn. 
 Herbert Ware. 
 Ernest Peabody. 
 Claudia Stuart Coles. 
 Philip Verrill Mighels. 
 C. F. I^ester. 
 Kathryn Jarboe. 
 El nest Peabody 
 Will M. Clemens. 
 Harry Saint-Maur. 
 
 $i 
 
•y*<:^riv) (xz^:>tr Gi'iOfc* c^Zi^s^ wifioK* G'cZ>^ * 
 
 irn tbe IRajab's palace 
 
 THE beautiful Queen lay ill. All the long hot after- 
 noon a strange silence filled the palace; men moved 
 about softly, looking with fear into each other's eyes ; 
 and even the little pages let their hair hang quiet on their 
 shoulders, and crouched in the shady court, hearkening 
 to the water as it fell in the fountain. No need would 
 there have been to-day for the Queen to check their 
 quarrelling. 
 
 But she, forgetful of them, was lying in the upper 
 western chamber, in that darkened room, which turns 
 the heart sick with dread when the loved one enters it. 
 
 Beside her sat her lord, at last forgetting taxes and 
 his skillful cheetah. Around the couch the slave-girls 
 watched, and sang at times, but softly, for the Queen 
 was weary. And when the day was gone they drew 
 aside the curtains to let her see again the beloved moun- 
 tains against the darkening sky. And as she looked on 
 those immovable white summits rising beyond the 
 dusty plains, peaks that had greeted her troubled heart 
 each night since she had come a bride out of the south- 
 land, the Queen grew rested, and laughed, the low, sweet 
 laugh of her childhood. Among the girls there ran a 
 shudder of relief, a rippling sound of clinking silver, as 
 when a soldier in hiding after the Dacoits pass rattles 
 his weapon, loosening his grasp. 
 
Then Sang a girl the evening song of the maids as 
 they bathe in the tank by the temple: 
 
 O, Sweet and Bitter ; O, Bitter and Sweet ; 
 
 O, life, so full of delay ! 
 O, distant hills, ye are blue and fair, 
 
 Though the lowlands waste in decay. 
 
 O, idle Youth ; O, restless Age ; 
 
 O, wide and voiceless stream. 
 Wending in thy winding course, 
 
 Is thy long-sought sea a dream ? 
 
 She ended, and there was stillness. A breath of the 
 night crept chill through the room. Then there came 
 up from the city below the voice of a woman calling 
 her child ; the Queen opened her eyes and smiled, a little 
 trembling smile, and closed her eyes again, and the river 
 had found the sea. 
 
 HERBERT WARE. 
 
HE would and she would not." 
 The evil, that was a part of her, imbued 
 her with the desire of all that was akin to its 
 own corruption. 
 
 The good, that was a part of her, inspired 
 with longing for a scheme of Hfe in accordance 
 with its own purity. 
 
 « Love duty ? Duty love ? " 
 
 A thousand little angels and a thousand 
 little devils whispered the words to her. 
 
 Sometimes it seemed as if it were the devils 
 that said " Duty ! " and the angels that whis- 
 pered " Love ! " Then it was just the other 
 way and the angels murmured " Duty ! " while 
 the devils cried " Love ! " 
 
 She stood before the mirror and viewed 
 her fair reflection, with half-closed eyes. The 
 lights burned dimly, her surroundings, wrapped 
 in soft shadow, seemed at last to fade away 
 entirely. 
 
 She was as one in a trance, between life 
 and death. 
 
And there was nothing in all the world save dark- 
 ness, the pale face and burning eyes that looked into hers 
 from the mirror, and her persistent companions, the little 
 angels and the little devils. 
 
 Her strength left her, yet she forced herself to stand, 
 unable to withdraw her gaze from her own reflected eyes 
 that stared at her intently, fixedly, maddeningly. 
 
 A thought of hope came to comfort her. 
 
 She would try an experiment; she would hypnotize 
 herself, and whatever was the stronger part of her nature 
 would rule the weaker. 
 
 Would it be good or evil ? 
 
 The opposing elements in her soul fought for su- 
 premacy. It was a hypnotic duel, a fierce struggle be- 
 tween two forceful antagonists battling in one human 
 being. 
 
 Her eyes glowed like coals of fire and then, in turn, 
 shone hke stars of light. 
 
 A thousand little thought-angels awaited the signal 
 to chant a hymn of victory and a thousand little thought- 
 devils awaited the signal to screech a paean of triumph. 
 
 And good sought to subdue evil. 
 
 And evil fought to conquer good. 
 
 At last the duel ended, and that which was the 
 stronger part of her nature became her soul's master, 
 guided her will, decided her future. 
 
 But which was victorious — Good or Evi , Love or 
 Duty? 
 
 HELEN LEAVENWORTH HERRICK. 
 
Portia 
 
 THE shadows in the corners are deepening and growing 
 mysterious, a drowsy fire flickers upon the hearth, 
 while outside the window a grey half-light steals over 
 the desolate autumnal garden, and on a level with my 
 eyes, as I lounge in my great chair, I see a band of cold 
 red sky, against which the bare branches of the elm 
 trees weave strange, clear-cut arabesques. The November 
 twilight drifts into night, and in the pleasant melancholy 
 of that hour my soul sinks into the past. Some one in 
 a distant room is playmg softly " Auf wiedersehn,"and as 
 the air of that sweet old song touches my ear, I see 
 another room than that in which I sit a-dreaming — an 
 Old-fashioned room with mullioned windows, through 
 which the pale light of an autumn gloaming of long 
 ago gleams feebly, and a young girl clad in a clinging 
 gown of white wool sits there in the gathering gloom, 
 and plays idly that same tender tune — " Auf wiedersehn," 
 and I lean over her and lose myself in the swimming 
 glories of her dark eyes, which are fixed upon a print of 
 St. Cecilia upon the wall above my head. It is Edith — 
 Edith, whose fathomless eyes seems to enfold and to be- 
 wilder one after all these years, and the tones of whose 
 voice, like low, sweet, chiming bells, echo even yet in my 
 heart. Pale, dark-eyed, red-lipped Edith — so fair, so 
 gentle, and so false. Ah me ! She did make me suffer — 
 until Kitty came. Laughing, curly headed, impudent 
 little Kitty. How well 1 remember that first night when 
 she tripped out behind the flaring footlights of the old 
 Globe Theatre. What life, what abandon, what diablerie 
 was there I And what passion 1 My hands grew eagerly 
 
feverish, and my breath comes quickly as I see a vision 
 of that shining head and those wickedly glittering eyes 
 so full of daring challenge as they gleam into my face 
 from out the shadowy past. Life was well worth the 
 living then, even if she did make a fool of me, as she did, 
 I suppose. Every one said so, and I had a glimmering 
 sense of it myself when the end came, and she flitted 
 gibingly away from me with Old Maxwell, who was sixty 
 odd, blue-lipped, tottering and worth a million. Ah, 
 well ! It was paradise while it lasted, Kitty, and luck be 
 with you in whatever pathway your twinkling wayward 
 feet have carried you. And then, I remember, I stole 
 away to Essie for comfort — fair-haired, long-suffering 
 Essie, with caressing voice and gently drooping mouth. 
 
 The strains of " Auf wiedersehn" have died away, the 
 corners of my room have quite disappeared in the gloom, 
 and I hear a soft footfall coming toward me. It is 
 Portia 1 I hear her pass across the floor, and come 
 quite close to me, so close that I feel the gentle pressure 
 of one little foot against my own. I know that she is 
 looking with calm, inscrutable eyes into my face, but I 
 am selfishly happy in that past in which she has no part, 
 and I keep my eyes upon the now dead western sky, and 
 pretend not to know that she is by my side. I feel her 
 imperious touch upon my arm, but make no sign, and 
 then she passes with slow grace behind me, and soon I 
 feel her velvet facfe against my own, and her warm 
 breath brushes my neck. Then, I surrender, and bidding 
 those unedifying shapes of a dead past begone, I pluck 
 her from my shoulder and place her upon my knees, 
 where she purrs softly, and blinks her green eyes con- 
 tentedly at the firelight on the walls. 
 
 Well, well ! I am one and seventy now, and Portia 
 does very well, I suppose. 
 
 ANTHONY LELAND. 
 
Ube 3E^ge of IRowbete 
 
 THROUGHOUT the hot, dreary day they plodded 
 Westward. Above them hung the sky, a soHd field 
 of blue. Beneath them, the yellow of the sand and the 
 bronze of the sage brush, formed a dull brown waste as 
 wide and as long as the field of blue above. The very air 
 seemed dead like the animal and plant life all about 
 them. Nothing but the sage brush and the sand. 
 
 They plodded on, following the sun's wake. The 
 horses, with drooping heads, moved like the snails. The 
 white cover of the old wagon seemed a drifting ghost 
 on the desert. Within, Mary sat motionless, silent — 
 her breath coming in short gasps. Upon her breast the 
 babe slept peacefully, for babes seem always sleeping. 
 
 Jason walked by the side of the off horse. He 
 simply plodded, drooping and spiritless, like his horses. 
 There were no flies to drive away from the flanks of the 
 tired beasts, for even the flies had left the desert forever. 
 
 The day waned and slower moved the little caravan. 
 Jason's back bent low, Mary's face was drawn with pain. 
 The horses dragged along even slower than the snails. 
 The babe slept on. 
 
As the sun sank, the blue of the sky became a 
 deeper, darker blue. 
 
 A joyful cry suddenly escaped Jason's lips. Far 
 ahead he saw something on the desert — a tree — perhaps 
 a well. Hopeful, they plodded on. There came a faint 
 smile to Mary's pale face. Jason appeared to have been 
 born again. The jaded horses, too, awoke and walked 
 now instead of dragging themselves along. 
 
 The man, the woman, the beasts, longed for water. 
 Not the babe — for the babe still slept. 
 
 The little caravan drew near the thing on the desert. 
 Jason rushed forward and found a tree and a well — a dry 
 well. And there upon the plain, under the ribbon shadow 
 of the tree, they found the ruins of a wagon, the skele- 
 tons of men and horses — wierd finger-posts in this un- 
 known land. 
 
 A wave of ghastly silence swept upon them. 
 
 Jason looked at Mary and Mary looked at him. 
 They bowed their heads upon their breasts. The horses 
 fell upon the hot sand. The babe awoke with a cry of 
 pain. 
 
 Then the everlasting night closed in about them and 
 the moonlight danced among the dead.. 
 
 WILL M. CLEMENS. 
 

 %avinia'5 1Rap??ins 
 
 After Miss Mary E. Wtlkins 
 
 LAVINIA sat alone in her tidy kitchen, sewing. She 
 had made everything clean, and a kettle of water- 
 gruel for her supper bubbled on the stove. Three white 
 stone plates, with gilt edges, shone on the dresser. They 
 were her Sunday china; she was very poor. Nine square 
 inches of neatly cleaned rag-carpet were spread under 
 her stiff-backed chair. She was dressed in a simple 
 blue-check calico, bought at a fair ten years ago. Her 
 hair was dfawn straight from her forehead; she was a 
 seamstress. One yellow "consider" lily was in a glass 
 on the table; she had gotten it in the woods that morn- 
 ing. 
 
 Lavinia had had toast for dinner, her first dinner in 
 three days, and she was feeling contented and happy. 
 
 " I reckon I'll finish this napkin by summer," she 
 said to herself; it was one of her wedding napkins. 
 
 There were a dozen of them, all covered with the 
 same intricate pattern and bordered with a wreath of 
 arbutus. Seven were already finished. Usually they 
 took some time to do. Lavinia's work did not leave her 
 much chance to sew for herself. 
 
 Lavinia's eyes were pale blue and very weak. But 
 her lips were still red and full, and her cheeks had not 
 gotten much paler. Her hair was almost white now. 
 She had been engaged to Silas Jenkins for thirty-three 
 years this February. 
 
 " I dunno when we'll git married," she had said to 
 Mis' Murray at Christmas; •* times is so awful hard." 
 
But it was beginning to be considered a long engagement. 
 As she sat there now, quietly stitching, and wondering 
 whether she could afford to keep a cat, there came a tap 
 at the door. Lavinia slowly got up. She was very 
 much surprised. Silas never had come but on Sunday. 
 Yet this was a man's tap. She folded her napkin with 
 her thimble inside, put it on the table, and went to the 
 door. As she opened it, she said, " Wipe your feet, 
 please." 
 
 Horatio Martin was there ; he was her cousin. La- 
 vinia asked him in, and offered him the chair. There 
 was only one. Horatio would not sit down ; he was 
 very tall. 
 
 " Nice weather we're havin'," he said. 
 
 " Yes," answered Lavinia, looking out the window, 
 over the patched white muslin curtain. 
 
 " S'pose you heard of Silas's death," said Horatio. 
 
 Lavinia looked steadily at him. Her lips and cheeks 
 became white. She put one hand on the back of the 
 chair. 
 
 «' No," she said, faintly, " I hadn't. When did ■" 
 
 She paused here; she had gotten very pale. 
 
 " Apoplexy," said Horatio. 
 
 Lavinia made a strong effort, and walked to the table. 
 She got her napkin and came and sat down. 
 
 " You better stay to supper," she said; " I got some 
 real nice gruel." She put on her thimble. 
 
 " I reckon I'll give my napkins to Hetty. She's only 
 been engaged seven year, and ain't hardly started with 
 her Hnen. Only the sheets is done." 
 
 She smiled bravely. 
 
 Suddenly she put down her work, with a sigh ; she 
 was still very pale. 
 
 '' I s'pose I'll miss him on Sundays," she said. 
 
 LOUIS HOW. 
 
TLbc Dufte of Japonsl?! 
 
 SITKA, 1877. February. Not an American sword in 
 Alaska since June. Fire and pillaging everywhere. 
 The Swine at Washington have abandoned us to God and 
 the savages. 
 
 For weeks of nights the painted Tlingits slunk and 
 razed our stockade, piece by piece. They looted the 
 Kehoor. The golden icon, above the couch of the lovely 
 Princess Maksoutoff of Russian days, is melted to an in- 
 got. The deserted barracks are a wreck. Every dwelling 
 was sacked except the log-house. We glance at the cross 
 of Saint Michael's. They will burn the cathedral. Then 
 they will burn us. 
 
 We are half a hundred, Americans, Russians, Cana- 
 dians — barricaded in the log-house. To-morrow we die ; 
 but there is little to eat and naught to drink. Vainly we 
 appealed in the last months to the Swine. Swine cannot 
 interpret human expression. To-morrow we die. 
 
 We sit by dim whale-oil light, our rifles at our feet. 
 All night we hear the howHng of the Sheetkas, like the 
 yelping of mad dogs ; and the howling of the Siwash 
 curs, like the yelping of Sheetkas. Kokwantons and 
 Kaksattis are dancing around a bon-fire m.ade of our 
 treasures — three hundred foul. 
 
 Some pray, some smile — some curse the Swine. 
 Michael Travers laughs the loudest. He saw his cabin on 
 Japonski Island tumbling earthwards, his crops trampled 
 underfoot — " all in the nose of my patron Saint ! " He 
 recalls Mobile and Farragut laughing and sneezing in 
 powder smoke. One man unspreads an English flag: If 
 Sitka were British — then 1 Travers cheers for Old Glory. 
 
Yet he knows our last desperate entreaty reached Wash 
 ington days ago. Will the Swine heed ? No. 
 
 The dawn glows behind Edgecombe. Verstovoi.too, 
 hooded with virgin snow, glistens like a maiden's breast. 
 The air is at freezing. No one has slept ; we have eternity 
 for that. The silence without is fearful. The Tlingits 
 are rallying — thirsty for the blood that palpitates our 
 hearts. Travers, poised at the gable window, silently 
 curses the Swine, while he glares at him who spoke of 
 England. No ship. Instead, a hundred war canoes, brist- 
 ling with Tlingits. A witch with a labrette points gloat- 
 ingly from the foremost prow. An arrow cuts Travers' 
 sleeve. An Indian writhes with a bullet in his breast. 
 Travers waits. Even if we write our wills, they — 
 
 " A ship ? " cries Travers. " Yes," says one — " an 
 Englishman — curse the Swine ! The Queen, then ! Raise 
 the British flag ! Security and British annexation ! " 
 " Yes, yes ! " shout all but one — " up, up ! " They have 
 started to fling it to the breeze. "Pause," murmurs 
 Travers, leveling his rifle — '' because each man that hauls 
 must die. IVhich : treason, or the Stars and Stripes ? 
 Hands off, damn ye ! " 
 
 It is her Majesty's ship Osprey, Captain A'Court. 
 Before she anchors a hundred swords are away from her 
 in boats. The Tlingits vanish like fog. Travers salutes : 
 *' We are proud to be cousins to the British, sir." 
 
 Some weeks later the Swine awoke with a snort. 
 
 For Michael Travers, called the Duke of Japonski, 
 what did they provide ? Why, in 1890 — when he had 
 made a garden of his little island, and sat with his pipe 
 at the cabin door, content with a passing in the peace of 
 his fruits — the Swine proclaimed the island Government 
 Property. Travers had to go. He did — mad. If he still 
 lives you may see him at St. Elizabeth's Asylum, near 
 where the Swine wallow. andRew Millard. 
 
panstes, or iPanstes 
 
 PANSIES from him, pansies from the other man. 
 Great luxuriant things, purple as midnight, golden 
 as the noon, white as the moonlight, with their long 
 fragile stems and great smooth faces, placid as the god- 
 dess of fate. These were from him. From the other 
 man were little crinkled things, with short stout stems, 
 flecked, capricious in their coloring, with love in their 
 anxious wrinkled little faces. Those — from the warm 
 moist air of a conservatory ; these — from the autumn- 
 touched air of a little garden. Those — plucked by the 
 hand of a servant from under a canopy of glass ; these 
 — plucked by the hand of a lover from beneath the 
 foliage of an old-fashioned Damask rose-bush. 
 
 On the one side, love, wealth, fashion, influence ; on 
 the other side, love — and nothing else. Was there noth- 
 ing else ? She pondered for awhile. 
 
 On that side was a noble name dimly connected with 
 dishonor which was hinted at with bated breath ; on this 
 side, a good, substantial, but ordinarv name, honor and 
 honesty. 
 
 That or this ? Which, O which ? 
 
 The girl tossed the fragrant blossoms upon the table 
 
before her, and looked into the mirror. What mor6 
 beautiful face did the mirrors of the daughters of wealth 
 reflect ? 
 
 Both loved her. Did she love both ? 
 
 The name she bore had never been tarnished. Her 
 ancestors had been true nobles of the soil, honest, hon- 
 orable, upright. No one could accuse one of them of a 
 dishonorable action, or of — wealth. She laughed a little 
 harshly. Were they always hand in hand, wealth and 
 dishonor, poverty and honor ? 
 
 The pansies watched her with knowing eyes. The 
 smooth, placid-faced ones said, '* Come." The anxious, 
 wrinkled little ones said, " Come, O come, do come ! " 
 The placid ones said, " We shall make you great." The 
 anxious ones with ragged petals cried, " We shall make 
 you happy or die in the attempt." 
 
 " Pansies for thoughts." Aye, anxious thoughts, 
 
 worried thoughts, care. That's on one side. 
 
 Here are pansies, heart's ease, happy-hearted 
 thoughts, pleasure. That's on the other side. 
 
 Pansies for anxious thoughts ; pansies for ease of 
 heart. Which ? 
 
 Wealth, poverty ; dishonor, honor; anxiety, happi- 
 ness ? 
 
 She took her pen, wrote "yes " on a sheet of paper, 
 took up one of the pansies, hesitated, looked again into 
 the pansy's eyes, and, gathering strength, kissed the 
 written word, and sent it on its mission of joy. 
 
 EDGARDA WILLIAMS. 
 
Ifn lExtremi^; 
 
 THE newspapers referred to it under the caption, " A 
 Street Runaway." The physician said it would be 
 fatal The victim dictated a dispatch : 
 
 Jean, I am dying. Will you forgive, and come? 
 
 David. 
 
 The lightning express swung on at its fifty miles an hour. 
 The cars rattled and rocked. The landscape flew by like the 
 pictures of a dream. But the motion was as the pace of a 
 snail beside the eager beating of her heart. " Forgive ! For- 
 give, and come ! " was the only voice she heard in the roar, 
 and dash, and confusion all about her. 
 
 He touched earth once more in the endless flight of 
 delirium, and felt a hand on his forehead. He seemed stand- 
 ing with her again under the apple trees by the Maumee. 
 
 •' David, I am here." The white apple blossoms van- 
 ished, and the white ceiling of the hospital was again above 
 him. She saw the recognition in his eyes, and, with an arm 
 gently held about his neck, she laid her face against his 
 haggard cheek and whispered : " Not a word, David, my 
 boy — my poor, poor boy. I was yours, and always yours. 
 I only learned the full lesson when you were gone. Oh I 
 if God were good, He would let me go into the grave with 
 you I " 
 
 And he could only whisper, " I knew it would come ! 
 No anger and no trouble can keep asunder the hearts that 
 God hath touched as one. I shall die, now, in the sacred- 
 ness of that belief." 
 
 She gathered all her soul into one plea, and poured it 
 forth : " Come back to me, David 1 Come back I " 
 
 He was sinking into the deep, deep shadows. But the 
 desolation of her cry thrust itself into every fibre of his 
 
being, and he took a supreme hold on life, and deain was 
 baffled and beaten back from his prey. 
 
 The apple blossoms were indeed above them this 
 time, and the broad Maumee rolled at their feet. She was 
 in white, and orange blossoms circled her hair. There was a 
 crutch beside him that would be his companion to the 
 grave, but there was no bitterness in his heart toward it. 
 He simply laid his hand upon it and said : " It was fate that 
 gave me this. Because I lean upon it, I have gained you 
 also to lean upon in our walk through time, and as we go 
 together up the long avenues of eternal life." 
 
 She answered : " Your cry, forgive and come ! ' pierced 
 like a spear-thrust through my pride and stubbornness. It 
 saved me from a sacrifice and a sacrilege — from a loveless 
 marriage of pride and wealth together. It showed me the 
 path back to love and happiness and you — and God has 
 been very good ! " 
 
 Then the bells chimed in the tower of the church, the 
 children sang, and sv/eet showers of white sprinkled down 
 from the apple trees. 
 
 J. H. KENNEDY. 
 
Ube /iDat^eu ot tbe IDalle^ 
 
 THE maiden knew not whence she had come nor why 
 she was there, any more than the liUes that clustered 
 in the field could tell the secret of their growth, beauty 
 and fragrance. Her lithe suppleness was like that of the 
 tall grasses which stood so straight, and yet bent them- 
 selves before every touch of the wind. Her hair was 
 tawny with the warm beams of the sun, and her eyes 
 shone like the stars that came out at night to look at her. 
 She ran swift races with the boastful stream, exhaling 
 the fresh perfume of violets as she moved, and when she 
 lay down to sleep beneath the trees they lowered their 
 branches protectingly over her, the soft grasses tried to 
 embrace her, and the flowers nodded above her. The 
 music of her voice echoed up and down the valley where 
 she dwelt, and the feathered songsters would pause in 
 their flight, turning their heads first on one side and then 
 on the other, to listen to the notes that they could not 
 rival. 
 
 The sun warmed her, the rain cooled her, and the 
 breeze refreshed her. Every day was a carnival of glad- 
 ness, and every night a journey into an enchanted and 
 peaceful land. 
 
 But one morning the maiden awoke, not to the de- 
 lights which had brightened and filled her Hfe, but to 
 something which she did not understand, something in 
 the air about her which caused the hot blood to course 
 quickly through her veins, and to stain the whiteness of 
 her forehead with a color beside which the red gold of 
 her hair grew dull. 
 
In the distance among the greenwood she saw a be- 
 ing with face and figure somewhat like her own ; but he 
 was strong like the oak tree, and she was like the willow. 
 As she gazed, he raised his arms, there was a sudden, 
 sharp report, and a bird fluttered lifeless to the ground. 
 All through her body she was thrilled and stirred as 
 never before, and sprang fleetly forward with an instinc- 
 tive rage against the intruder, but, as she drew near, he 
 turned and looked at her with eyes as beautiful as her 
 own. Then he dropped the instrument with which he 
 had slain the bird, and held out his arms to her. For an 
 instant she hesitated, swaying lightly as the tall flowers 
 at the first onset of the breeze, then felt herself sink into 
 the outstretched arms with the mingled joy of heaven and 
 earth. 
 
 When she awoke it was in a strange world. The 
 trees were dropping their dry leaves, the flowers were 
 faded, the wind moaned and the once cheerful brook was 
 at work in mills and shops. She heard no sound of 
 birds save once, when a whip-poor-will came betwixt 
 the sun and earth with its sad complaint. The maiden 
 was alone, and in the unrelenting embrace of a great 
 throbbing pain. She started to find her valley with 
 slow, weary steps, carrying the burden of her pain, but 
 faint, sick and travel stained, she fell at last by the way, 
 and, as she fell, a palpitating, blood-stained mass of 
 feathers fluttered down beside her in the throes of its 
 death agony. The huntsman's work was done, and bird 
 and maiden lay very still upon the grass beneath the blue 
 sky. 
 
 MARYE THORNBURG. 
 
i^^CcM^^^i^^l^^i^^l^^iMl^^^^^ 
 
 ©r\?tlle anb Ibis Guitar 
 
 IN the gathering twilight Orville sits meditatively thrum- 
 ming his guitar, but neither the instrument nor the 
 music has any place in his reflections. He is thinking of 
 Jeanette — the beautiful, false-hearted Jeanette — and the 
 erratic strains are but the language of his reverie. 
 
 "His fingers wander unconsciously among the strings 
 and frets, and the magic guitar, in accents softly pas- 
 sionate and expressive, tells that his thoughts are now of 
 that blissful evening when they two walked together by 
 the old mill-stream. He can hear, again, the murmuring 
 brook, and see the phosphorescent glow which the moon- 
 light imparts to the rippling water. The music grows 
 rapturously sweet as he recalls the halting love-tale that 
 he whispered to her, while she listened with eyes down- 
 cast, and the toe of her dainty boot traced fantastic char- 
 acters in the sand. He remembers her tremulous avowal 
 of constancy, he remembers fondly the lover's seal 
 which he imprinted upon the quivering lips, and the 
 guitar speaks the enchantment of his retrospect. 
 
 Now the notes come forth in brilliant allegro, sug- 
 gesting a glint of flying feet. It is the recollection of 
 the dance that occupies the mind of the unhappy Or- 
 ville. He sees the smartly gowned damsels and their 
 graceful partners as they move in time to the sprightly 
 music. He can almost feel the yielding form of the fair 
 Jeanette in his arms as they float upon the sensuous 
 strains of the waltz. Then, he remembers that officious 
 young captain; a cloud crosses the horizon of his fancy, 
 and the notes become short and angry. He recalls the 
 
gracious smiles bestowed upon the officer by tlie fickle 
 Jeanette, and he strikes viciously at the strings as he sees 
 them dashing through the polka, and notes, with flaming 
 jealousy, her sparkling eyes and the evident pleasure she 
 takes in his remarks. 
 
 The angry staccato changes to a movement express- 
 ive of grave earnestness at the recollection of his un- 
 availing remonstrance with Jeanette for her flippant con- 
 duct. The pique and sadness which her exasperating 
 replies gave him reveal themselves in the music. He 
 hears, again, her careless laugh and sees that, in spite of 
 her afl'ectation of indifference, she is on the verge of 
 tears, as he proposes to release her from her pledge. 
 
 The twilight has passed into darkness, and the 
 mournful, waiHng melody tells how he repented his 
 jealousy, and again sought Jeanette to say to her that all 
 would be forgiven if she would only dismiss the captain 
 from her mind ; how he found that she had gone the 
 day before, no one knew where, in company with the 
 captain. There is a depth of feeling in the plaintive 
 tones that bring tears to the eyes of the unhappy musi- 
 cian as they speak the anguish he felt upon learning of 
 Jeanette's departure. The despair he felt as he returned 
 to his mother's house is told in a finale of sadly express- 
 ive chords which fade into melancholy silence. 
 
 A heart-broken sob in the darkness starts the musi- 
 cian to his feet. The guitar falls unheeded to the floor, 
 and he turns around, peering into the uncertain gloom. 
 
 ♦'Ah, jeanette, is it you come back again?" 
 
 Another sob is the only answer. 
 
 « And the army officer, Jeanette," 
 
 "O, Orville, I thought you knew. The captain is 
 my cousin, and I went with him to see his mother who 
 is ill." 
 
 MERRITT POST. 
 
Ube J6ternal Struggle 
 
 ONE day he awoke suddenly from the vague dream of 
 childhood and became conscious that he was a 
 man. He was standing on a wide plain. Before him was 
 a tower, and on the rampart stood an aged, white-haired 
 knight keeping guard. 
 
 " It is not just," thought the Youth, «' that yonder old 
 man should have a strong place and thus dominate the 
 world. Let him come out onto the plain, and not en- 
 trench himself so proudly. His tower must be leveled 
 to the ground." 
 
 " Yield, Old Man," he cried, "I am young and strong, 
 and I will knock down your battlements." 
 
 But the Old Man shook his head as though he did 
 not understand, and answered in a language that was 
 strange to the Youth. And so they shouted, vainly, defi- 
 ances, explanations, even entreaties in words incompre- 
 hensible to each other. The Youth felt strong enough to 
 shake the walls and pull down the gates, and he attacked 
 boldly. The Old Man came out and engaged with him. 
 The Youth grappled his hoary opponent scornfully, but 
 his hands slipped on the smooth armor, his heavy blows 
 rang on the shield. The Old Man knew how to use both 
 sword and spear skillfully. Day and night they waged 
 their cruel strife ; both warriors gave and received deep 
 injuries and smarting wounds that would not heal, but 
 still they fought relentlessly. The Youth stood always 
 facing the East, he drew his strength from the dawn, but 
 the eyes of the Old Man sought constantly the fields of 
 the setting sun, and so the two looked upon different 
 v/orlds, although they stood so close together. When 
 hard pressed, the Old Man would often retire within his 
 waLls, and then the Youth, in a rage of disappointment, 
 would madly assail the fortifications. 
 
One day the Youth paused to think. " After all," he 
 said to himself, «* that is a fine old tower. No wonder 
 the Old Man likes to live in it. He is not such a bad fel- 
 low really, though he would like to be lord. 1 begin 
 to understand him" — the last words seemed to have a 
 magic power, for as they left his Hps there was a great 
 clangor, and lo ! the iron gates of the tower sprang open 
 before him. He gazed a moment in astonishment, and 
 then walked unmolested into the castle he had fought so 
 long to conquer. Its warden had disappeared, but his 
 armor was in the hall. The new owner of the tower put 
 on the steel corselet ; it fitted perfectly ; he girt about the 
 sword ; all the pieces seemed to have been made for him. 
 
 " It seems to me 'twould be a pity to destroy this 
 noble building," he mused. '^ I never knew until now 
 what a commanding position it has, nor how thick are 
 the walls. It is a protection to the plain." 
 
 There was a poHshed placque of brass in the hall ; he 
 picked it up to see how he looked in his new armor. 
 What change was this ! He beheld reflected an old man, 
 wrinkled and white-haired, with trembHng mouth. His 
 blood ran cold in his veins, his heart beat slowly. . . 
 
 . . He heard a call from without, and hastened to the 
 rampart. A young man stood before the gates gesticu- 
 lating boldly and calling to him in a loud voice. He 
 could not understand the words ; they were famiUar yet 
 strange. He had already forgotten the language of Youth. 
 And so the eternal struggle between Youth and Old Age 
 recommenced. 
 
 Old Age behind the high walls of authority and cus- 
 tom ever defends himself with the same weapons. Youth 
 fights with hopeful courage until the moment when he 
 oegins to understand his opponent ; that moment his arm 
 slackens, he pauses, he is old. 
 
 EMILY B. STONg. 
 
H Bream ot igesterba^ 
 
 A COOL breath, as of the country, drifts through the 
 open window and rustles the papers scattered on 
 my desk. There is a perfume of locust bloom and a 
 scent of honeysuckle inthedeHcious draught so ineffably 
 sweet to the nostrils clogged with city dust and smoke. 
 It brings with it a fragrant memory of pasture-lands and 
 meadow-streams. There is something so kindly so- 
 porific about it that soon I am dreaming of the days that 
 are dead, those rare, lost Junes of buoyant boyhood, 
 when life was pitched to notched notes of mirthful 
 melodies that fell tumultuously on the ear like clouds of 
 snowy apple blossoms drifting in the wind. Happy years, 
 long before I had become one of the motley remnants in 
 the rag-bag of the world. 
 
 Once more I sit on a jutting, worm-drilled beam of 
 the little bridge that spans the creek — an awkward 
 country boy, barefooted, tanned and freckled, a tattered 
 straw hat shielding my head from the scorching rays of 
 the sun. A hickory switch serves the purpose of a fishing 
 rod, some coarse linen string makes a serviceable line. A 
 yellow dog sits by my side beating a rataplan on the 
 dusty planks with his bushy tail. Myriad midges glide 
 across the surface of the stream. The cat-tails sway 
 softly in the breeze and murmur a marshy melody. 
 Wandering swallows soar and dip, their shadows glassing 
 the water. 
 
 Down to this same bridge when twilight swoons upon 
 the rushes, and the kildees cry, I ride old blind Dobbin. 
 I sit on his sharp back and brush the mosquitoes away 
 while he plunges his silken nostrils deep in the delicious 
 pool. . . What nights ! . . The ghostly night- 
 hawk flits above my head. . . The glow-worm lights 
 his lamp in the hay-marsh beyond. . , The bats criss- 
 
cross in the deepening gloom, and from tiie reeds and 
 lily-pads floats the hoarse serenade of the bull-frogs. . 
 . Ah-rr-ooomp ! . . Ah-rr-oomp ! . . Ba-aa- 
 rooomp ! . . 
 
 . . After watering blind Dobbin, I trudge down the 
 dew-damp lane after the cows, whistling a tune as gaily 
 as a thrush. A few stars twinkle in the sky, and the 
 crescent of an icy moon ghdes ghost-wise among the 
 purple curtains of night. . . " Co-boss. . . Co- 
 boss. . . Co-boss." . . From afar comes the an- 
 swering tinkle of cow bells, drifting dreamily over the 
 summer-haunted pasture-lands. . . "Co-boss. . . 
 Co-boss. . . Co-boss." . . "Tinkle. . . tinkle. 
 . . tink. . . le." . . I reach the rickety stile at 
 the end of the lane, and there a young girl in white is 
 waiting. A sun-bonnet dangles from her hand. A tangle 
 of hazel curls swirl about her ears and ripple down her 
 back. Occasionally a saucy puflf of wind whips the curls 
 into flossy ravellings. . . We linger by the stile until 
 the vesper purple has deepened into somber black. The 
 berry-stained hand rests timidly in mine. The dark 
 lashes fringe the down-cast eyes and kiss her cheeks. . 
 . In stammering words I whisper in her ear the old, old 
 tale, and can almost feel the warm blushes of her face. 
 Her answering words linger lovingly on the soft atmos- 
 phere, no sound save the garrulous chattering of a cricket 
 to drown their melody. . . A touch of lips, a sweet 
 "good-night," and she glides through the stile and 
 vanishes in the gloom beyond. . . I am alone. . . 
 The night wind sweeps past moaning. . . Alone. . . 
 
 It is here that my dream always ends, and I grow into 
 myself. 
 
 JOHN NORTHERN BILLIARD. 
 
Ubc %ivinQ Deatb 
 
 WEARILY they wandered on under the warm May 
 sunshine of that Southern sky. 
 
 Man and wife they were, outcasts of fortune, going 
 down together, he wilfully, she devotedly, bound in the 
 fetters of that unbreakable bond. 
 
 He was wasted and pallid ; his eyes had no lustre, 
 his step no firmness. 
 
 Her face reflected the whiteness of his, just as once 
 in happier days her mind had reflected his aspirations 
 and her heart his love. 
 
 They had reached an inviting homelike place on the 
 outskirts of the village. They must rest. The door was 
 hospitably opened. 
 
 Within the air was cooler. There were easy chairs, 
 comfort and tokens of refinement. 
 
 But the woman's eyes never ceased their anxious 
 watch over her husband. 
 
 He tried to speak, but the sentence was left half 
 finished. He tried to read, but the hand which held the 
 paper dropped slowly down. There was no power in it ; 
 no will behind it. 
 
 Now he recovered himself. He must appear well 
 before his host. But his eyes closed, and again his hand 
 slipped slowly down. 
 
 Once more he recovered himself, but in vain ; both 
 hand and paper were at rest on the chair. 
 
He had given himself up to the alluring dreams of 
 his drugged brain. 
 
 " He is ill ?" inquired the host. 
 
 " No, it is no illness. It is death, death at the top 
 first; death of head and heart. No active thought, no 
 generous impulse can now be his. He has killed them 
 all." 
 
 And she, his wife? The drunkard's wife is happy 
 compared with her. The drunkard is sometimes him- 
 self. There are moments when he remembers that once 
 he loved. There are hours when his children may creep 
 into his lap and his arms close around them in a strong 
 embrace. 
 
 But O, that cursed drugl Not one lucid moment 
 does it grant its victim. 
 
 Slowly she roused him. Out of the home and on 
 into the shadow of the ever-darkening future they 
 moved; he, the opium eater, and she, his bondwoman, 
 chained to the body of a Hving death. 
 
 E. MESERVE JAMES. 
 
H Ibuman Spar?? 
 
 HENRIQUE met her in the crowded street. Their sleeves 
 touched. Her eyes met his. 
 
 To this day he cannot remember the color of her 
 hair. He has forgotten her face and form. Her name he 
 never knew. 
 
 Their eyes spoke each to the other, as the sunlight 
 whispers to the dewdrop. 
 
 In an instant she was gone, and he was going. 
 
 Henrique was trembling. He walked unsteadily, be- 
 wildered. Through their marvellous little windows these 
 two human souls had recognized each other. The quiver 
 of the eye was like unto the clasping of a hand. 
 
 Does soul thus speak to soul, in mute recognition of 
 friendship long forgotten ? 
 
 Can the human spark shed light through centuries of 
 darkness, outlive the crumbling earth, the roaring sea; 
 grope through misty space, shine forth in new worlds as in 
 old, and conquer even death ? 
 
 Should you meet him in the crowded street to-morrow, 
 ask of Henrique. 
 
 WILL M. CLEMENS. 
 
jfounb in an 01^ Bible 
 
 WHO was she ? Where did she live and when ? 
 Who knows her history ? 
 
 Did the love-light from her eyes make hearts beat 
 wildly as she passed by ? 
 
 Did men plead fearfully and hopefully for favors at 
 her hand and wait for words to pass her lips that would 
 mean hfe or death to them ? Who knows ? 
 
 Did her feet perchance join in the stately minuet 
 where, in her satin petticoat and panniered gown, she 
 touched the hands of those whose whitened wigs would 
 bend, that eyes might catch the radiance of her smile ? 
 
Did little children gather round her knee and call her 
 by the holy name of mother ? Who knows ? 
 
 Did time dial gently with her till a second generation 
 rose to call her blessed, as the light for her grew dim, 
 and the whitened hair and saddened face told those who 
 loved her that her work on earth was nearly done ? 
 
 Or did she die young? Who knows ? 
 
 Had she perchance a heart secret, that went with her 
 through a long and saddened life and to the grave ? Who 
 knows ? 
 
 Who was she ? Where did she live and when ? 
 
 Was she a heroine ? 
 
 Did she perchance perform some great deed of which 
 the world may well be proud ? 
 
 Is the world better for her having lived in it ? 
 
 Who knows ? 
 
 ANNIE WESTON WHITNEY. 
 
WHAT strange fate led her to my studio door on 
 the day of all days, when I was ill and troubled ? 
 
 I had destroyed my canvas — I had thrown my brushes 
 on the floor. My thought was so beautiful, my work so 
 unworthy. 
 
 The rain beat down on the glass roof ; the pattering 
 drops mocked my despair. Even the thought of an 
 absent one, dear to my heart, had no power to console 
 me. I needed the presence of a sympathetic soul. I 
 needed the actual grasp of a friendly hand — the sound of 
 a real voice to help me. 
 
 There was a knock at my door and a woman, I had 
 not seen in years, entered timidly. She was clad in 
 sombre black, a purple passion flower at her breast. 
 
 We had been friends in the old time ; friends — no 
 more— no less than that. But in the great city our lives 
 drifted apart and we had almost forgotten each other. 
 What strange fate led her to my studio door on the day 
 of al days when I was ill and troubled ? 
 
 She said she had awakened that morning in a strange 
 bitter-sweet mood, had thought of me— and had come. 
 
 When she had spoken, she sat by my side and looked 
 sadly at the torn canvas and the discarded brushes. 
 
 Then I began my work anew — still it was not good. 
 She read the sorrow in my eyes and, bending over me, 
 kissed my trembling lips. 
 
 The rain on the glass roof sounded like the tinkling 
 laughter of fairies. My brush flew over the canvas, the 
 colors blended divinely, and, at last, when all was 
 finished, I could have wept for joy. The dream, the 
 beautiful dream was realized, and a woman's kiss had 
 wrought the miracle. 
 
 Afterwards, on every sunny day, we left the cruel city 
 
and wandered through the fields, like happy children. 
 But on rainy days 1 worked in the studio, and she sat 
 beside me, turning the gray gloom to sunlight by the in- 
 spiration of her kisses. 
 
 It was at twilight, her hand was in mine, her head was 
 on my breast and I was tooking at the passion flower, 
 whose purple splendor illumined her sombre gown, when 
 I bethought me of the absent one, dear to my heart. 
 
 "You are cold, you shivered?" said the woman at my side. 
 
 Then I told her of the other. 
 
 She left me alone in the twiHght, but the memory of 
 her white, tear-stained face will haunt me forever. 
 
 After she had gone, something shone palely before me. 
 It was a passion flower, such as she always wore, and to 
 me she seemed alhed in some strange, vague way to her 
 favorite blossom. I placed the flower on my crucifix, 
 kissing it passionately, for I felt that the fragrance of her 
 soul clung to the delicate petals. 
 
 She came once again to the studio to greet my bride 
 and wish her joy. My bride is like a June rose and I 
 love her dearly. 
 
 The passion flower is faded ; my bride laughed as she 
 showed it to the woman who had inspired me by her kisses. 
 
 "See!" said the one dear to my heart; "There's a 
 flower like the one you're wearing, only this is faded." 
 
 The other took the dead blossom and threw it away, 
 saying : " There should be nothing sad in this new life 
 of yours, and a dead flower is not fit to dwell with a 
 happy bride." 
 
 Then she left us and went out of my life forever. 
 
 My bride is like a June rose and I love her deaily — but 
 — the other — the other ! 
 
 What strange fate led her to my studio door, and on 
 the day of all days, when I was ill and troubled ? 
 
 HELEN LEAVENWORTH HERRICK. 
 
^^ ^^ ^$^ ^t» ^a^ 
 
 Deatb anb 2)oll5 
 
 THE room was still as Sunday. The dampness of Au- 
 tumn storms brooded in the cold heavy air, and 
 dragged a clammy finger across the child's warm face as 
 she peered through the mysterious door. The curtains 
 that she pushed aside in straight formal folds, and 
 through the gloom grotesque figures of the carpet 
 blinked pompously. Released from their Hnen palls, 
 the chairs sat about the walls in the mournful silence of 
 red velvet finery, and from the yawning fire-place snowy 
 asters looked out with pallid indifference at the dead old 
 lady. 
 
 The child cautiously approached the bier and looked 
 at the drawn grey face on the pillow ; her own was just 
 level with it. She was pleasantly curious and excited. 
 When the cat caught her white rat the day before, she 
 had cried herself hoarse and kissed passionately the 
 small red wound in the white fur. That was different ; 
 Jackie was playing so quietly, when all of a sudden Malty 
 put her teeth right through the tiny red heart. And 
 Jackie squealed. The tears began to tremble in her 
 eyes as she remembered it. 
 
 Grandma just breathed shorter and shorter, as she 
 lay with her knees drawn up and her hair straying a little 
 from her cap across the pillow. Grandmother was wear- 
 ing a black silk gown now, and her hair was smooth. 
 Then, she must be so very, very old. People must want 
 to die when they get as old as that. 
 
But Grandmother gave her a doll fast Christmas— 
 who would give her dolls now ? Another tear joined the 
 one shed for the white rat. There was a step in the 
 room. Grandfather came in. As he lifted her in his 
 arms he saw that the little face was tearful. " Poor 
 child," he quavered, "it was cruel to let you come in 
 here alone." His old voice broke with grief. 
 
 She looked at him bewildered. Why should he 
 care so much about it ? He would die too, soon ; he 
 was so awfully old. 
 
 Grandmother wasn't pretty. She looked at the 
 bony hands crossed over the dead heart, and then at 
 her own — small, plump, and soiled. 
 
 Suddenly the thought came, " My hands will grow to 
 be like hers, — I'll have to grow old and die too," and she 
 began to cry — loud and frightened wails, inconsolable, 
 helpless, until the old man forgot his own tears in 
 amazement that so small a child could feel so deeply the 
 loss of her with whom his own joy had died. 
 
 A black-robed aunt took the child back to the 
 nursery where she grew happy again, rigging up a box 
 for a bier and laying upon it her wax doll who would 
 shut her eyes — she meanwhile weepmg by its side. 
 
 GEORGIA HARRIET PANGBORN. 
 
 if« 
 
Ube Suicide 
 
 LIGHTS, laughter, music. The night before the wed- 
 ding. The great rooms stripped of their lavish trap- 
 pings to make way for the guests of to-morrow. 
 
 Florists everywhere, the air stifling from their burdens 
 of perfume. 
 
 Merry voices behind the silken portieres. 
 
 In the huge, state drawing-room deft fmgers erect an 
 altar for the coming sacrifice. 
 
 Pere and mere drift complacently about, satisfied pride 
 on every feature. 
 
 Is not this marriage the consummation of their cher- 
 ished hopes ? 
 
 What matters it if he is twice her age, and a roue ? His 
 name is an heirloom of centuries. 
 
 They knew she would forget that other one. They 
 had been wise to object. She ? Forgotten in the revelry 
 she hears it all. 
 
 Kneeling there alone in the dark she is not the radiant 
 creature the preparations would seem to warrant. 
 
 Letters — hundreds of them around her; the blue rib- 
 bons that had held them together flung here and there. 
 
 She tries to read one by the firelight; but scalding 
 tears blind her. Photographs strewn about ; faded flowers ; 
 a glove. All that was left her out of that mad confusion. 
 
 How can she go through to-morrow's mockery ? 
 
 If she could only see him first. 
 
 She will write him, telling him of her marriage. She 
 will wire him. Anything — anything — to prevent the horrible 
 to-morrow. 
 
But her pride ; her miserable pride, that has torn her 
 heart into shreds. 
 
 Wildly she hugs the letters, dead flowers, pictures. 
 
 Burn them ? Never. 
 
 A shudder ! His voice ! 
 
 It is time for the dress rehearsal. A heart-breaking- 
 groan, and she gathers her treasures together; smothers 
 them with caresses. The beloved face ; will she ever see it 
 again ? She cannot let him go. Sob after sob— dry, chok- 
 ing sobs. 
 
 For a brief space the slender figure lies prostrate, face 
 downward, while the delicate finger-nails leave their sharp 
 impress in the soft flesh. The burial service of her fondest 
 dreams. 
 
 A tap upon the door. No answer. They think she is 
 sleeping, worn out from the tiresome day. 
 
 Another. They have come for their victim. 
 
 In half an hour and she will join them ; she has some- 
 thing to do. 
 
 The letters are sorted and tied in the old form, to go 
 with her ; the photographs, and the crumbling flowers. 
 
 She writes a letter — a woman's passionate outcry of 
 pain, — seals it with a kiss a man might die for. Now for 
 the farewell to herself, to her womanhood, to all her once 
 fair ideals. 
 
 Like one in a trance she studies her face in the mirror. 
 
 " Good bye ! good bye ! " 
 
 Her head sinks slowly into her cold hands. 
 
 She stands there a trembling, helpless figure. The 
 dreary, desolate years to come confront her mercilessly. 
 
 Her punishment, she knows, is sure. 
 
 There is a final quiver of the sweet lips; her hand on 
 the knob, a wistful look backward. 
 
 Then — a rush forward — and she runs lightly down the 
 stairs to her doom. 
 
 FRANCES A. HOADLEY. 
 
H mite 
 
 IT was the tenth anniversary of her wedding-day, and 
 how happy she had been I Alone in a dim corner 
 of her conservatory, she paused a little, with a full heart, 
 to think it over. 
 
 She had stolen away from her guests for a moment. 
 Henry was with them and was telling them one of his 
 stories, so just at present they would not miss her. The 
 children were safe in bed at last, sated with sweets and 
 goodies ; she wanted a little moment to herself now to 
 draw a long breath. 
 
 They were like a dream as she looked back upon them, 
 those long years of her married life. There had not been 
 a breath of pain to mar them. She had just lived along, 
 petted and pampered, loved and flattered. 
 
 How, if it had all been otherwise ! 
 
 How, if Henry had not spoken of love to her that 
 evening more than ten years ago ; how, if he and she 
 had never gone together out upon the Newport cliffs; if 
 he had never courted, never won her 1 
 
 The blood rushed in a great surge to her face, and 
 her heart stood still a minute. She put out her slender 
 hand with the gold wedding-band upon it, and looked at 
 it strangely. Then suddenly she pulled the ring off. 
 
 How would it feel to be free Hke that ! 
 
 How would it feel to be out to-night under the cold, 
 bright stars ; to leap to the saddle as she had done in her 
 
girlhood out upon the western plains ; to ride and ride 
 through the dark, sweet night with the wind in her face 
 and hair 1 
 
 How would it feel to know that she might come and 
 go as she listed; that there was no one to claim her love 
 or her duty, none to demand her allegiance ! 
 
 Or if it had been still otherwise ! 
 
 How, if a voice she used to know were in her ears 
 to-night; were speaking in that low, vibrating tone that 
 had sounded to her in a dim conservatory, now so long 
 ago ! How, if a hand that had once met her's were clasp- 
 ing it even now, pressing it close and closer, till the rings 
 cut into the fingers ! How, if a force that had run for a 
 space side by side with her will were with her now, and 
 holding her in dominion I How, if that great wave of 
 chance had not caused two lives to drift apart, and if 
 to-night — 
 
 Across the lighted parlor, over the spreading ferns, 
 comes the sound of talk and laughter. They fall strangely 
 upon her ear as she stands alone, apart from them. 
 
 But someone behind her is saying : " Dearest, what 
 moved you to run away from us ? " 
 
 And she answers, looking down upon her slim left 
 hand that bears the wedding-ring : " I was just stealing 
 a little breathing-space, darling, to think about our 
 happiness." 
 
 ELIZABETH C. CARDOZO. 
 
XTbe XKHorm tlurnetb 
 
 • • A ND — I 'ave to die ? " Anette asked with the pretty 
 
 r\ French accent that had charmed all ears dur- 
 ing the long trial. Not a sound in the crowded Court. 
 The Judge gravely bowed. 
 
 " And it is permitted me to speak, oh, but, all that I 
 
 will ? Ah merci. Then I shall speak and from my 
 
 heart, is it not so ? Ecoute. I am a girl, a woman of 19 
 years. I am not pretty nor graceful made, and so poor 
 — only work girl, but that which I have to give, 1 did give 
 — myself. Monseur le Judge, and you messieurs labas, 
 figure to yourselves that when it is a question of the 
 best that a woman can give to a man, the best of all 
 womens is the same — it is her only self — and that I gave 
 to Louis who I poignarded. Ah ! — " her manner inten- 
 sified, her voice deepened — " if you all of the Court here 
 could have seen, have been there you ' must ' have said — 
 
 * elle a raison ; elle a bien fait — she was right.' Tenez; 
 c'etait comme ceci, it was like this: I had been out to 
 buy somethings. The butcher man, as I passed, mocked 
 himself of me. He said: * Behold the last of the hand- 
 some Louis. She shall not endure more long time now.' 
 Ah — what shame I I v/cep for shame. I enter to my 
 house. I tell Louis. He smile and go on, with the pretty 
 poignard he 'avc, to pick the butt of his cigar from his 
 porte-cLgaie. I pray, I beg my Louis to marry me and 
 save me from such insult; to let me care for him always 
 
now, de se ranger enfin. He look down upon me. His 
 red lips curl up under his belle moustache. His eyes 'arf 
 close. Ah, God! what an air of disgust, 'Marry you,' 
 he say, ' ugly little magot ? what do you take me for ? 
 there are only imbeciles who marry. Va t'en, go — get out! ' 
 — and he push me with his foot. It was not what he 
 say ; it was the contempt inconceivable of the tone. It was 
 a stab to me deep down to my heart, through my heart. 
 My blood commence to dance ; hisses sound in my ears. I 
 make one terrible cry and I return that stab of Louis 
 right to his heart — but with his own dagger ! " The girl 
 paused, her hand was uplifted and clenched as if with 
 the imaginary dagger, her eyes were blazing, the fierce 
 grandeur of her attitude gave the poor figure a moments' 
 grace. Slowly her arm dropped, her flash passion 
 flickered and died out. Gradually she became the mis- 
 erable chetifi^e little Anette of the trial. A poor, thin 
 voice added: " Je I'ai tue. I ki«ll him, and you. Monsieur 
 le Judge, must have me kill. Allez, allez, f aites. My Louis 
 have stab, have kill my heart " — she sighed pitifully — 
 " one is already 'alf dead who is at the 'eart dead. C'est 
 tout. It is all." 
 
 In profound silence the matron passed her arm 
 around little Anette and led her away. 
 
 HARRY SAINT-MAUR. 
 
H ipriest 
 
 A CHOCOLATE colored river drifting lazily between 
 low hills, under a soft blue sky. A yellow road 
 stretching its dusty length along the rounded hill-tops, 
 following the river until it was lost in the quivering 
 waves of heat in the southern horizon. A hot stillness 
 enveloping a world in which there was no sign of human 
 life, save where a cluster of low-browed red buildings 
 slumbered in the afternoon sun beside the river, and 
 from the encircling wall of which a man's figure came, a 
 black patch upon the yellow road. 
 
 His coarse robe licked the ground and was stained 
 by the dust. In his hand he held an open book upon 
 which his eyes were intent, his lips moving slowly as he 
 walked. A tall, spare man with the long, firm, swinging 
 step of an athlete, but with the waxen pallor of an 
 ascetic under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. He 
 paused in the shade of a spreading cottonwood tree, 
 whose white down hung in silvery listlessness in the 
 breathless air. He lifted his eyes and looked dreamily 
 across the wide river toward the forest clad hills beyond, 
 where the spirit of the midsummer day brooded dumbly 
 over the heavy green of the motionless trees. He re- 
 moved his hat and brushed the moist black hair bkck 
 from his brow, lingering a moment under the grateful 
 shade of the cottonwood ; and as he loitered there the 
 sensuous hotness of the day crept into his chilled veins, 
 and the earth odors of throbbing midsummer surged 
 
over him and benumbed his brain, and put his vigilant 
 soul asleeping, and from out the quivering, shining air 
 there came to him the vision of a woman— a woman 
 with low, level brows and shadowy eyes and hair, and a 
 mouth Uke a ripe pomegranite. Her dewy lips were 
 parted, and in the red cleft her white teeth gleamed. She 
 held her little plump brown hands toward him, and 
 through the eloquent silence of the July day there 
 chimed a voice, low and soft and caressing, and it said : 
 " I am the world — come ! " 
 
 A dull flush glowed in his pale cheeks, his smoulder- 
 ing eyes leapt into flame, and his book fell from his un- 
 heeding hands, clattering to his feet and lying with its 
 crumpled pages half buried in the dust. But as he stood 
 there, his senses swimming in the baleful beauty of her 
 eyes, there floated down upon him the soft note of a bell 
 tolling gently. 
 
 It was the Angelus. "Ave, Maria, gratia plena . . 
 ora pro nobis peccatoribus . . . " he murmured, as 
 with closed eyes he plucked his book of hours from out 
 the dust and resumed his march along the yellow road. 
 
 ANTHONY LELAND. 
 
ti^ Ht i^ i^ "^ 
 S^ ^ J^ ^ •^ 
 
 Jerem^'6 Consolation 
 
 BATHOS and pathos go hand in hand. A glance of the 
 eye, an inflection of the voice — and one is at a loss 
 whether to smile or to sigh. 
 
 I thus mused as I watched old Jeremy in his invalid's 
 chair, lumbering along the corridors of the hospital. He 
 was very old — seventy, I suppose — hopelessly paralytic, a 
 life-member of the hospital. One would have supposed 
 him given over to misery; but, on the contrary, he was 
 the most cheerful of all of the incurables. A delightful old 
 fellow, taking life splendidly, he was sustained by a single 
 consolation — a pot of eels ! 
 
 Each month, about the thirteenth, he received them 
 from a cousin at Hamburg. For years they had never 
 failed him. The old man would count off the days on 
 his calendar until the eventful thirteenth. What anticipa- 
 tion ! In ten days — in five days, they will be here ! And 
 then what delightful realization ! What rejoicings, with the 
 box actually set down before him, and all his invalid cronies 
 around ! 
 
 " How long will they last, do you think, Jeremy ? " 
 
 " We must make them do two weeks, at least ; and then, 
 in sixteen days, we will have the next box. Draw up your 
 chairs, old friends ! Only one apiece, to-day ; remember 
 that ! " 
 
 Dear old paralytic ? How often have I wished well to 
 that Hamburg cousin ! How often have I turned from that 
 innocent orgy divided between laughter and tears, wonder- 
 ing at the complexity of human emotions with bathos and 
 pathos almost one. 
 
 CHARLES F. HOWELL. 
 
Denus of /iDllo 
 
 THE room is hung with rich draperies and rare pictures. 
 The heavy, antique furniture is curious and costly. 
 A glowing fire sheds radiance on the polished brass and 
 oak, and brings out the crimson coloring of the curtains. 
 A marble statuette of Venus of Milo stands white and 
 chaste amid the luxury, gazing away into the unknown 
 with the same unfathomable look that her eyes have had 
 in them for two thousand years. 
 
 A little child ventures into the room, and stands for 
 a moment in the firelight gazing about her— pleased, 
 perhaps, with the flickering shadows and the winking 
 bits of brass on the furniture. Then her eye falls on 
 the white statue of the Goddess of Love. 
 
 The child knows nothing of love save that which is 
 satisfied in her mother's arms. She knows only that the 
 white woman is beautiful, and but one way of paying 
 tribute. 
 
 She ventures nearer and nearer, until at last she 
 puts her chubby arms about the figure, and presses her 
 warm lips to those of the statue. Then she starts back 
 a little, for the lips of Love are cold. 
 
 But Venus of Milo only gazes away into the un- 
 known with the same unfathomable look that her eyes 
 have had in them for two thousand years. 
 
 ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE. 
 
H jflDocfter^ 
 
 HENRIQUE found a withered rose upon the floor. 
 He moved about his bachelor apartments with 
 wavering steps, his hands trembHng, his face wine-flushed. 
 
 The withered rose upon the floor was as a magnet to 
 his blood-shot eyes. He scowled, he stared, and laughing 
 as the idiot laughs, he took the faded flower, and with the 
 tenderness of a woman's touch, placed it upon the marble 
 shelf above the fire. 
 
 He sank into the velvet depths of his favorite chair 
 before the glowing coals, and lighting his pipe, followed, 
 with half-closed eyes, the curling smoke. 
 
 As forbidden thoughts come quickly and with force, 
 there dawned upon his muddled brain the little drama of 
 the withered rose. In a flash it all came back to him — how 
 she — his Pearl, he called her — the week before, had given 
 him the flower, and in neglect, he failed to nourish it, the 
 petals drooped, and now it lay quite dead, even as she — 
 whom he called Pearl — lay dead at the undertaker's, not 
 far away. The midnight pace, the glitter and the gloss, 
 fade Pearls as well as roses, and Henrique, like other men, 
 had drugged his conscience to the truth. Not so much as 
 pity lingered. 
 
 A neighboring bell tolled three. It startled him, and 
 staggering to his feet, he took the withered flower from 
 the marble shelf, crushed it in his fingers, and with a smile 
 Satanic cast the hated thing upon the burning coals. Imme- 
 diately he uttered a terrible oath, and his face grew purple. 
 
 A green worm from out the heart of the dead flower 
 clung to his forefinger. .. ,. 
 
 WILL M. CLtMENS. 
 
XTbe Japanese Collector 
 
 IN the reign of lye Yasu, the founder of the Tokugawa, 
 or last Minamoto dynasty, there lived in Kiyoto a 
 simple-minded youth, who had more money than brains. 
 He was the son of a poor sandal maker, but by unhappy 
 fortune he succeeded to an immense estate from his 
 uncle. 
 
 The young man was seized with the notion to have 
 his house and tea-room decorated with costly ornaments 
 and art treasures, such as the wealthy and cultivated 
 people possess. He began collecting " antiques," but he 
 did not know the good from the bad, the true from the 
 false. 
 
 In a short time the young man had squandered his 
 vast fortune in buying mere imitations of the mat of 
 Confucius ; the sword of the great general, Taiko Sama ; 
 a glazed cup made by the celebrated Tanaka Cho-jiro, 
 now of priceless value, and " Kake-mono," painted by 
 inferior artists. 
 
 After being reduced to beggary, the foolish young 
 man carried these " antiques " about with him, and said 
 to people on the streets, " O that I had collected coins 
 struck by lye Yasu 1 I would have had a fortune." 
 
 LEE J. VANCE. 
 
 Xfx Xt'-* xtic xtit Vfx *,♦-< Vfi* xfit i^MC Vtif Vtx X"ti< 
 
IRepentance 
 
 IN the heart of the silent night and in the glare of the 
 lurid day my Sin was beside me. As I moved among 
 my fellows they saw the shadow of his black wings upon 
 me, and they held themselves aloof. 
 
 " Accursed ! " they cried. •' Unclean ! " 
 
 Therefore I went my way silently, with my Sin for 
 my only companion. 
 
 But in the heart of the black night I faced him and 
 let my glance meet his. And we understood one another. 
 
 Then it befell, after many days and by reason of 
 much weeping, that there came a change. For behold 
 this black Sin that towered above me grew paler and 
 paler of aspect; and at length there shone out a white 
 light from within that transformed him. 
 
 Nevertheless, as I walk among my fellows, they cry: 
 " Accursed ! Unclean ! " 
 
 For with a strange blindness they still behold him as 
 he once was, and they perceive not that, through long 
 vigils and by reason of much pain, he has acquired a 
 strange glory. 
 
 But I only smile and look upon my transfigured 
 companion, and we go our solitary way. 
 
 ELIZABETH C. CARDOZO. 
 
x^x rj^ r^x r^ r4!K x^x ir^x x^x x^x y^x r^x x^x 
 
 XTbe Society 
 
 ^//fr Mr. Henry James. 
 
 MISS SOFARING was tremendously vulgar, almost 
 vulgar enough to be an American. Probably it 
 was because of this undisputedly inherent trait of vulgar- 
 ity that she made no reply to my question. I was sur- 
 prised (as I realized when I came to consider the case 
 afterwards — I had failed to appreciate it at the time) ; 
 but on happening to look at her eyes, which were large 
 and of a somewhat hanal blue — (I mention these details 
 because I am in the habit of dotting all my i's) — I found 
 that in them an answer was clearly expressed. It was 
 not so much that the eyes said anything, but there 
 remains in my mind no doubt that they expressed what 
 I may put into words, thus : "I do not know what you 
 mean ; I am utterly at a loss." 
 
 This was on the Thursday, and it was not, so far as 
 I positively know, till the Tuesday following, that the 
 force of Miss Sofaring's opinion, at least in all its com- 
 pleteness, to me, occured to my rather troubled mind. 
 Then the impression was a somewhat fatuous but desul- 
 tory depression, such as one has on entering a railway 
 carriage and finding it to be pre-occupied by far from 
 effete Americans. 
 
 LOUIS HOW. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ti 
 
 
(S^tbman tbe Uurft 
 
 OTHMAN, the Turk, sits on his couch sipping his 
 coffee. Through the half-open door of the wo- 
 men's apartments comes the voice of his Circassian 
 wife, singing softly to herself. With the low droon of 
 the song Othman's thoughts fly away and roam in dis- 
 tant lands, in France, in Egypt, in Spain and in Kurdistan ; 
 now he thinks philosophy, now of the Koran, of the 
 Victoria regina, of Roumania. It is all a deHghtful con- 
 fusion, vague thoughts not hard to think, till suddenly 
 the song stops and he returns to himself, and to his foot 
 which has gone to sleep under him. 
 
 He changes his pose and claps his hands ; not as we 
 clap our hands, vigorously with a harsh noise ; he puts 
 his large, soft palms together slowly, making a low, 
 hollow sound, and Ibrahim the boy appears. 
 
 "Ibrahim," saith Othman, "tell the maid to continue 
 to sing. Bring me paper and pens with ink. Begone, 
 now ; I would think." 
 
 Maida hath resumed her song, and Othman hath 
 begun to dip his pen in the ink. For Othman knows 
 that thought is precious and must be saved, for he hath 
 travelled to Paris, and his brother even to Chicago, 
 where all men write whenever they think 
 
 Herbert Ware. 
 
Ubc /iDoun^ :ssutl^er 
 
 IN the field from which the potatoes had been dug, 
 leaving it an unsightly stretch of uneven brown 
 earth, littered here and there with dead stalks, a child 
 was playing. 
 
 The hot September sun burnished his white head with 
 a metallic lustre, and shining through his large ears made 
 them luminously pink, but as to the rest of him, Nature 
 had tanned his skin and faded his flimsy calico slip until 
 he was hardly distinguishable from the sand. 
 
 He was very busy. His gnome-like head drooped low 
 over a mound he was ornamenting with inverted tomato 
 cans and broken bottles; his lips were drawn in like 
 those of a toothless old man, and his forehead was 
 puckered with fine lines. 
 
 ** What's all this, Jim ? " I asked, indicating the curious 
 pyramid. He looked up with a wide grin, his light grey 
 eyes scintillating with satisfaction: "Ajail. There's an 
 angleworm in every tomato can. This potato bug is the 
 jailer, and I'm goin' to hang a caterpillar pretty soon." 
 
 GEORGIA HARRIET PANGBORN. 
 
Ibeart Ubougbts 
 
 {tAt Twenty-two) 
 
 (H, this pure, bright, beautiful, beautiful 
 
 world I 
 So full of light, and love, and happiness, 
 and grand and noble men and women. 
 What joy to live ! What a blissful future 
 awaits me, with him, my hero and my 
 king ! Love shall be our law, and success, 
 honor and renown shall be our portion. 
 " Hand in hand, and heart to heart," thus 
 will we accomplish our heart's desire, and make of life 
 whate'er we wish. My heart sings continually in its ex- 
 quisite enjoyment and contentment. God, I thank thee 
 for life and youth and love. 
 
 Sing on ! my heart, sing on ! 
 
 (iy4t Thirty-two) 
 
 Oh, this dreary, miserable, deceitful world ! 
 
 So full of poverty, and sorrow, and heartaches and 
 regrets, and wretched, wasted, ruined lives. Life is a 
 cruel strife, a continual disappointment. Idols crumble, 
 hopes decay, and love dies. Friends betray us, and Death 
 robs us. Courage and hope are fast leaving me. I fear the 
 future. Passion and Ambition are dead within me, but 
 Pride still lives. The world knows not my burdened 
 heart, and armed with patience I endure. 
 
 God, I thank thee for pride, and the power to en- 
 dure. 
 
 Bear on ! my heart, bear on ! 
 
 ELOISE GRAY. 
 
TTbe IRigbtmar^ 
 
 I AM strangely afflicted. My bones grow and my flesh 
 swells. I am immense. I am tremendous. The size 
 of me increases. To pass through yonder door I cannot, 
 for I am larger than the door, and I would suffer pain 
 were I to enter there. 
 
 You are my physician, you say ? Ah, then you can 
 give me of the mysterious medicine in your cabinet. 
 You can reduce me. You can ensmall me, curtail me, 
 shrink me as the sun withers the dead ferns. Then I can 
 pass through yonder door without so much as touching 
 my sleeve. 
 
 But you refuse me and say I must go within as I am, 
 with the greatness of me. To force me thus you say is a 
 remedy for my ill, a curative boldness, a severity of treat- 
 ment. To squeeze me, to crush my flesh ; you prescribe 
 this as a remedy for what you call a mental and not a 
 physical deformity ? 
 
 Take these men away. They seize me, they crowd 
 and crush me. They must not ! Hands off, I implore 
 you ! Through the door, you say ? What 1 this mass of 
 flesh through such a crack? It cannot be. It is impossi- 
 ble. See ; my flesh is being torn from my bones. My 
 limbs are breaking. I am being crushed — suffocated, 
 mangled to the death. 
 
 I am through the door, you say — safely within without 
 a hurt ? Ah, you mock me in my agony — I am suffering 
 — I am broken — undone — a mangled mass. Look, my 
 breath is stopping — I am dying. These men are my mur- 
 derers — they have killed me. 
 
 WILL M. CLEMENS. 
 
H Demon of tbe S)eptb5 
 
 MY written words cannot describe the Demon. In 
 Dante's dreams of hades there are no such phantasms. 
 The eyes are luminous, and red and green by turns, and 
 glassy. They send forth darts of fire like chains of light- 
 ning in the eastern skies. They charm and terrify. They 
 shoot forth a virile power that fascinates and attracts like 
 the loadstone. They rivet man's gaze, pierce him through ; 
 draw into themselves all that is good, and true, and noble 
 in man's soul — the very life, even the clay, of man himself. 
 
 The Demon is amphibious. I have seen it on land. To 
 see it once is to see it often. 
 
 I have seen it stalking through the streets as a funeral 
 passed, its great orbs fastened gloatingly on the mourn- 
 er's cab. 
 
 I have found the Demon in the cholera districts of 
 Europe, whither I had journeyed in vain to rid myself of 
 its fateful eyes. 
 
 Out in the broad Pacific, at the beautiful island of 
 Molokai, I saw the monster. There it eat, and slept, and 
 toiled with the damned ones. 
 
 In Death Valley I saw it, when the sands of the desert 
 were burning the weary feet of the lost. 
 
 In the madhouse and prison I have seen the monster ; 
 in almshouse and in tenement. 
 
 I have seen it on the streets after nightfall, tramping 
 side by side with the lost daughters of Phryne. 
 
 I have seen it force its way into hungry homes, into 
 the sick chamber ; it haunts the pesthouse. 
 
 It is a monster great in bulk, yet penetrating everything 
 that is sombre and sad. 
 
 In the sunlight the Demon cannot live. Where hope 
 abides the Demon may not come. 
 
 And the name of the Demon is Despair. 
 
 JAMES H. GRIFFES. 
 
XTbe Breatb ot %iU 
 
 THE wholesome breath of springtime quickened life and 
 stimulated hope in the sick man. Through the 
 weary winter months, while withering icy blasts had 
 prisoned him within doors and the sight of the white 
 blanket of snow that wrapped the earth as in cerements had 
 caused him to shudder, he had longed for these brighter, 
 warmer days, he who loved the blue sky and the open air, 
 who knew every blade of grass in the front yard, who 
 talked with the birds, and to whom every gnarled bough of 
 the apple trees in the orchard was dear. 
 
 His entreaties prevailed and, warmly wrapped, he lay 
 upon a couch under the trees, basking in the sun. A gentle 
 breeze now and then graciously fanned him and the sweet 
 aroma of opening bud and blossom filled his nostrils. 
 
 So deep was his sense of restfulness and quiet 
 happiness that he scarcely noticed the occasional electric 
 twinge of pain that ran through him. But he was very 
 feeble, and anon everything about him took on a subtle, 
 far-away appearance, as though he were dreaming and 
 slowly drifting away from the shores of reality. 
 
 A sharper twinge of pain recalled him and he lay back 
 more wearily upon the pillow for a moment, " It is so 
 good to breathe again. To-morrow I shall surely be 
 better," he gently murmured to himself, smiling. 
 
 And then a drowsiness stole over him, as though a 
 distillation of poppies had filled the air, and he slowly 
 closed his eyes to slumber. 
 
 A little gust of wind came along and the old apple tree, 
 friend of his childhood, youth and manhood, opened wide 
 its arms, throwing over him a beautiful shroud of pink and 
 white blossoms, and shaking from its leaves the dew that 
 fell like teardrops upon the upturned face, pallid and still, 
 forever. 
 
 LYMAN HORACE WEEKS. 
 
Ht tbe /n^ea^ow 3Bar5 
 
 THE little woman on the stage v/as singing a strangely 
 familiar song, and it so startled him, the wife and 
 daughter at his elbow were, for the moment, forgotten. 
 The words of the song fascinated him. 
 
 " Down by grandpa's meadow 
 You'd meet me at the bars," 
 
 and the singer's voice rose and fell, in cadence soft and 
 sweet. 
 
 Was it possible that someone else had met somebody 
 at the bars of their grandpa's meadow ? 
 
 Roguish, laughing brown eyes — tiny sunburnt hand 
 — and Hps, that even to think of kissing seemed sacrilege. 
 And down the lane came the overgrown boy — making be- 
 lieve that he had not seen her red gingham frock from afar. 
 
 " John Reeves, you're just too mean for anythin' — 
 you never brought me any May-flowers. You'd better 
 ask that city girl to go to Trout Ponds with you ; 'coz 
 I'm agoin' with Chad Hunter." 
 
 And how her curly ringlets danced as she tossed her 
 head and turned away — yet expecting John would follow. 
 
 "Coin' with Chad Hunter? Well, I don't care." 
 And the two young hearts suffered in silence for many a 
 long day thereafter. 
 
 And who could have forseen that they two should 
 never meet again — that cruel Fate should send Nellie to a 
 girl friend's on a visit — and he to the great city. 
 
 His mother must surely have guessed his boyish love, 
 and knew that he hoped to win her some day — or else 
 she would never have called him her darling boy, when 
 she wrote him ever so tenderly — that Nellie Graham, his 
 boyish sweetheart, had been drowned. 
 
 Through the mists of years he sees her — down by 
 grandpa's meadow — standing at the bars. And 
 
 The song ends. percie w. hart. 
 
XTbe Siege of pads 
 
 1871 
 
 SUNDAY the one hundred and eightieth day of the in- 
 vasion. All last night we heard the roar of cannon. 
 " We are no longer invaded," writes the Figaro; " here we 
 are besieged." 
 
 The north wind cuts like a sabre. The air one 
 breathes seems filled with bayonet points. The sky is a 
 faint silvery gray; then the sun comes up, like a bullet 
 heated in a forge. 
 
 Crowds of people out. An inconceivable absence of 
 excitement. Yet since the fourteenth of December Paris 
 has had no news from the rest of France. Every one is 
 disturbed within; but every one is silent for fear of 
 frightening his neighbor. 
 
 The churches are full: mothers, wives, daughters, 
 sisters, young people, old people, national guards, officers, 
 soldiers — each one prays for his own, prays to Him who 
 opened the tomb of Lazarus, for the doing of another 
 miracle in the resuscitation of France. 
 
 Not the shadow of a street booth. They have all been 
 sold for firewood. There is no more coal. Green wood 
 is worth two francs per fifty-five pounds; wood which 
 weeps like the Madeleine and burns as willingly as a heretic. 
 
 Nevertheless there are toys in the shops, bonbons at 
 the confectioners, eaters in the cafes, promenaders in the 
 streets. 
 
 After ten o'clock, not a cat stirs ; it would be slain to 
 make stewed rabbit. The clear sky is jeweled with stars. 
 In the long streets, punctuated here and there by the feeble 
 oil lights, we hear the tramp of the patrols and the sentinels, 
 and at frequent intervals the heavy grumble of cannon, 
 borne in on the icy wind of the night. 
 
 PAUL MAHALIN. 
 
ffrom (Butllottne to (3lor^ 
 
 IT was during the reign of the Jacobins. 
 Down the broad boulevard rattled a tum- 
 bril loaded with victims on their way to 
 the guillotine. One was a girl, with a 
 glory of golden locks, eyes of electric 
 blue and a face as fair as that of an angel 
 translated from the fields of asphodel. 
 On reaching the murder machine, she 
 left the death-cart with her condemned 
 companions,whilethe rabblement rejoiced, 
 and jested, and made most merriful sport. 
 "Ah ! " cried a Jezabel, pointing at the 
 girl, "ah, see! The proud princess is a 
 coward, for all she is a Bourbon. She 
 trembles — she turns pale ! But she was 
 to have been wedded to Prince d'Lanville 
 to-day. Well, poor thing, she shall not 
 be cheated of a bridegroom. Ha, ha I 
 But his name won't be d'Lanville. Ho, ho 1 
 It will be— Death !" 
 
 " Yes," roared the rabblement, and be^ 
 hold, the bridegroom cometh, with his 
 best man — the headsman! Ha, ha! Ho, ho! " 
 " And the Bourbon princess fears them 
 both ! Ha, ha I Ho, ho ! " laughed the Jezabel. "She 
 
 is afraid of her bridegroom — afraid of " 
 
 "I, a Bourbon, afraid of anything?" spake the girl, 
 steadily, calmly, grandly in that sovereign hour of her 
 fate. " / fear Death ? Never ! for where Death is, I am 
 not, and where I am. Death is not ! " 
 
 Then, baring her neck for the knife, she submitted to 
 the headsman ; the guillotine clicked, and her head rolled 
 into the basket. 
 
 WILL HUBBARD KERNAN. 
 
XTbe IFlun 
 
 WE were children together, and played beneath the 
 trees and in the lush grass of the meadow, and 
 dabbled in the running brook. I remember well how 
 white were her slender feet. 
 
 As youth and maiden, then we strolled beneath the 
 trees, and plucked the flowers in the fields, and listened 
 to the music of the purling brook. And then, one night 
 when the moon was out, and the soft breath of summer 
 was on the land, we rested together in a vine-clad arbor, 
 and her fair head lay upon my shoulder. 
 
 Some meddler found us there — and they sent her 
 away. 
 
 That was long ago. 
 
 But last night, as I strolled about the outskirts of the 
 town, I came suddenly upon a high wall, enclosing a 
 garden. It minded me much of the garden where we 
 played, when children together. 
 
 I heard the sound of voices behind the wall — the 
 voices of women, and one of them wakened strange 
 chords of memory that had long slept ; there are some 
 things one never quite forgets. 
 
 A peach tree grew against the wall. One branch 
 hung down, but was barren, and I could see that luscious 
 fruits grew further up. I caught the barren branch, and 
 drew myself slowly up the wall. The women ceased 
 their talk when they saw me, and one laughed and ran 
 away. But the other darted a glance from her black eyes 
 that gave me a sore wound. 
 
 To-night there will be no moon, and while the 
 village sleeps, I will return, and pluck the peach that I 
 missed yester'een. 
 
 JAMES KNAPP REEVE. 
 

 Ibis Xittle Boots 
 
 THIS Christmas morning I will see his grave again. A 
 year ago I took the snow from off the little mound, 
 and brushed away some dead leaves that had fallen there. 
 I think there was a tear dropped on the grave as I bent 
 over it, and there were tears upon my cheeks as I came 
 away. And when I entered the house again, how quiet 
 it seemed without the patter of his little feet, and his 
 little cry of welcome 1 
 
 There on the mantel are his little boots — his first 
 and only pair. I put them there, with my own hands, 
 the night before he died. 
 
 Dear little boots ! How I have looked at them, and 
 how she has taken them in her hands and kissed the stiff, 
 black things, and shed her tears upon them. How his 
 little eyes did shine with joy and happiness when I 
 brought them home. How the red tops and bright 
 copper toes enchanted his little heart. 
 
 Dear little boots ! On the mantel there, though 
 wrapped in silence, they seem to speak sweet and tender 
 words to me. I love them because he wore them. And 
 she loves them even more than I, for every morning she 
 kisses them, and every morning she wipes away her 
 tears. 
 
 Dear little boots! The kingdoms of the world 
 could not buy them ! they are sweet memories of our 
 dead boy. His little boots ! Even now I hasten to touch 
 them again with my rough fingers, and the tears are fall- 
 ing fast upon his little boots. * 
 
 WILL M. CLEMENS. 
 
H %03t Xettet 
 
 [An extraordinary document discovered in Boston, evidently written by a 
 New York Knight of the Tenderloin to a French lady of uncertain age.] 
 
 Vendome Hotel, New York. 
 cMa chere vielle fille (Can this mean "dear old girl" ?): 
 
 C'est une salle neusance que je suis oblige d'etre ici 
 mais je serais eloigne seulement deux ou trois jaurs- 
 Come je mangue vous. Vous etes si gai et etounaut. J'ai 
 entendue dire par un ami de moi que vous etieziet la plue 
 jolie petite Marguerite dans New York, et, encore vous 
 etes Francaise et ne comprends pas Anglais ansi que toute 
 le monde ne peub pas mentone vous. Vous savez ie ne 
 puis pas secaurs d'etre jaloux car il n'y a pas de vraie 
 armour sans jalousie. Si vaus plait peusez de moi et ne 
 flirtez pas avec des autres car je suis aucunfou et it serait 
 un froid jaur quand je suis laisse et ne pas vous aubliez 
 ca. Je suis venue ici seulement paur tirrer le jambe du 
 vieux homme (mon pere) paur attrapper du bootle paur 
 que nous puissions avoir un leon haute vieux temps en- 
 semble quand je revieus a New York. Je vous aime 
 comme, oh, comme le blue flammes, mais il est, difficile 
 paur moi de mettez fa en Francais. It ya un poet, le Lord 
 Tennyson, qui est un enter d'un poet. 11 a ecrit des vers 
 au taur dune fille nounne Lillian qui voudrait aller bien 
 paur comme une ficelle. Ceci sont les vers ie les traduiS' 
 
 Aire faire Lillian, 
 
 Voltant plairant Lillian, 
 Quand je demand si elle m'aime 
 Jaint ees petites mains au dessus de moi 
 Elle ne veut pas me dire si elle me aime 
 
 Cruelle petite Lillian. 
 
 C'est comme 9a que vous portez vaus avec moi. 
 Je vaus aime tojours come tartine. 
 
 Votre 
 
 H. SAINT MAUR. 
 
Ube Journal 
 
 THE logs in the fire-place sizzled and hissed and 
 crackled merrily as little tongues of flame curled 
 round and about them. 
 
 Bright sparks flew up the chimney and were lost 
 in the darkness. The clock on the mantle-piece ticked 
 in dull monotonous tones. Strange lights and shadows 
 danced among the silent furniture, and were reflected in 
 the polished floor. 
 
 The background was a mass of mysterious blackness 
 throwing into relief the figure of a woman. 
 
 Her gray hair was turned to silver ; her proud, firm 
 mouth looked less rigid in the firelight. 
 
 She held a book clasped closely in her white fingers. 
 They looked very white against her black gown. She 
 stepped forward with a swift marvelous grace, and 
 dropped the book among the logs where the blaze was 
 brightest. 
 
 For a moment it was darker, then she leaned forward 
 eagerly watching the stealthy tongues of fire curl about 
 the covers and steal into the closely written pages. 
 
 Page after page of a Hfe's history the hungry flames 
 devoured. Was there a sweet dream of happiness never 
 fulfilled? Was there disappointment — anguish and 
 remorse ? 
 
 The world shall never know. 
 
 Only the little heap of ashes remains. 
 
 She turns away with a sigh, and a half-weary gesture 
 of pain. Her eyes grow dim, and she gropes blindly for 
 her chair. It is over— the life that promised so much. 
 There is only the little future and— eternity. 
 
 A. E. BRICKELL. 
 
Spoften 
 
 " TT must be late," she said, rising from the low chair 
 
 1 beside the shaded lamp, and going toward him. 
 She, a woman of thirty ; he, a man past middle life, with 
 that unmistakable color that tells of the consuming fire of 
 heart disease. 
 
 " It must be late; I think I shall retire. Good night" 
 — lingeringly — " good night." 
 
 " Not yet," he cried, as if starting from a sleep; " not 
 yet ! There is something I must tell you." 
 
 " Better not," she said quietly ; then looking at him 
 and putting out her hands as if to ward off a blow, •' Do 
 not, do not ! " 
 
 " Ah, but I must. It is past your controlling, past 
 mine. I will, I must tell you that I love you ! Heaven 
 can hold no greater happiness for me than the knowledge 
 that you love me ; hell no greater torment than that vou 
 do not. 
 
 " I do not — love — you ! " 
 
 He grasped her by the wrists and drew her down 
 until her face was on a level with his own, and his eyes, 
 fierce and dark, gazed fixedly into hers. 
 
 " Do you swear it ? " 
 
 ♦' Hush ! Remember her you call by the sacred 
 name of • wife,' and God be my witness, I — love — you — 
 not ! " 
 
 His grasp upon her loosened, the eyes involuntarily 
 closed as though to shut out some awful reality, his head 
 fell back among the cushions. The slender thread that 
 held his life had snapped. 
 
 " 1 have killed him," she cried, in a low, strained 
 voice of agony ; " killed him ! killed him with a lie ! " 
 
 M. G. ROBINSON. 
 
Ht tbe (S)pera 
 
 THOUSANDS have come to witness the triumph of 
 La Diva's first night. Every seat is occupied. 
 
 Apart from the crowd and close to the orchestra 
 stands a man whose eager eye wanders over the house 
 as if seeking something — someone, yet it never rests even 
 upon the fairest in this sea of faces. There is a search- 
 ing, hungry look upon his handsome, reckless face, and 
 his hands, thrust into his pockets, finger nervously at 
 some rolls of paper, and clench them fiercely. 
 
 The curtain has risen. There is a moment's hush of 
 expectation — a breathless pause, then a tumultous roar 
 of applause. La Diva has entered. Beautiful, radiant, 
 spiritual, she pours forth her soul in silver ripples of 
 sound. The vast audience is at her feet, rapt, breathless 
 and adoring, full of a mystic sense of sympathy and 
 delight. 
 
 The man alone, of all the throng, remains unmoved. 
 He has not even turned his restless eyes from the great 
 audience to the La Diva's face or seemed to note her 
 presence. With the first tone of her voice, indeed, his 
 face lighted with a new expression : was it love ? was it 
 admiration ? was it pride ? was it merely greed ? With a 
 last triumphant glance at the multitude of rapt faces 
 attesting the power of La Diva's wonderful voice, he has 
 hastily passed out and away from it all. 
 
 As the last notes of La Diva's aria tremble forth to 
 the ears of the spell-bound listeners, with wine-flushed 
 cheeks and the same restless, eager eyes, he is throwing 
 the dice in a gambling hell. He has staked in advance 
 the profits of La Diva's first night. He has staked, and 
 lost, the price of La Diva's beautiful voice. 
 
 He is La Diva's husband. 
 
 ABBIE FARWELL BROWN, 
 
tlbe tDalle^ of tbe Dismal pools 
 
 ONCE as in a dream I came into a strange and distant 
 country, and as I wandered on I saw a deep en- 
 shrouded valley. I shuddered, for all about me lay 
 pools of water whose surfaces were black, and hideous 
 reptiles and all sorts of creeping things made their 
 homes beneath the slime. And from the pools arose a 
 horrid mist which hung above them like a cloud and 
 made one long black night. 
 
 Walking on, I found a rift in the mists and God's 
 bright, pure sunlight poured itself upon the surface of a 
 tiny hidden pool. Small it was, but pure as an angel's 
 tear, and its waters sweet as the first kiss of a lover. 
 From out this tiny pool a thin stream trickled slowly, 
 first into one and then another of the foul and loathsome 
 waters. The reptiles could not live, and sank writhing 
 to the bottom and died. And soon each pool was clari- 
 fied, the mists ceased rising and passed away, and let in 
 all the brightness, and the blue heavens above were re- 
 flected in the waters. And all was light. 
 
 And I was sore perplexed that from this one tiny 
 pool should go this power to change and beautify the 
 rest. And as I stood, a voice replied to my unspoken 
 questionings : " These pools, so dark and treacherous, 
 are the souls of men. Evil deeds and wrongs have 
 defiled them. But now you see them changed." 
 
 And, pondering on these words, a light broke in 
 upon me ; but still remained a good part unexplained. 
 And once again my wonder rose and I cried out: " Ex- 
 plain this tiny pool that has power to make what was 
 so dark, so bright ; what was so vile, so pure. Tell 
 me, whose soul is it ? " 
 
 And the voice all trembling with a quiet joy and 
 gladness whispered in my ear — " A woman's." 
 
 W. R. A. WILSON, 
 
H ^an anb a Moman 
 
 THE woman was very young. 
 In her face one could see a shadow of the beautiful 
 —if one had sharp eyes, for in the deserted room the 
 shimmer of the sun was never seen, and the candle light 
 flickered like a firefly. Her yellow hair was like a wreath 
 around the wan, pinched cheeks. The wasted hands lay 
 stark across the quiet breasts, and at her right, an empty 
 purse, and at her left, a small white plate of dry bread 
 crusts. Abandoned in her poverty — this victim of the 
 streets— hastened away in the night— never to return. 
 
 Strange men found her there, long dead, in solitude 
 and darkness, a silver mold upon the faded face, the dew 
 of death upon the saflFron hair. 
 
 The man was very old. 
 
 He was dying of a mental hurt — the doctor said — a 
 pain no human skill could stay, and through the weary 
 hours the sick soul lingered — a toy, a plaything for grim 
 Azrjel. Never did the waters of Lethe run quite so slowly. 
 Soft hands bathed the fevered face ; rich wine wet the 
 parched hps, and sweet voices dulled his moans of an- 
 guish. Then came at last a wild, hoarse cry — a wail that 
 echoed through the room and penetrated every nook — 
 and some eyes were moist and some were turned away. 
 For death was near and gaunt hands were beckoning. 
 
 He raised his head and shrieked, and with a froth 
 upon his pallid lips, fell quivering back upon the bed, 
 and silence reigned there with the dead. 
 
 For the woman — Peace and heaven. 
 For the man — Hell and agony. 
 
 o 
 
 WILL M. CLEMENS. 
 
ITwo JEnbs of a i&roposttton 
 
 (iA 'Draconian Dualalogue) 
 
 T{eginald — " Dolph, I want you to tell me something." 
 
 t^dolpbus — " If it doesn't require long sentences I'll 
 consider the request. If monosyllabic replies will 
 serve, the request is granted." 
 
 Reg.—'' Don't be a fool " 
 
 'Dolph.—'' Couldn't if I tried. Go on." 
 
 T^eg. — " You know what I mean " 
 
 Dolph.—" Don't. Go on." 
 
 Reg. — " Suppose an awfully jolly little girl " 
 
 Dolph. — " Can't. The race has died out. Go on." 
 
 Reg. — " Confound you, try. I say, suppose such a 
 little girl conveyed in quite a proper way her admiration 
 for you, and her respect for your splendid repose, and — 
 all that sort of thing " 
 
 'Dolph. — "You interest me. Go on." 
 
 Reg. — " and then you learned somehow that she 
 
 had a million, and could settle and fix it just how she 
 liked, and then — and then just dropped on her knees when 
 you were both alone, with the light just right, and the 
 flowers smelling sweetly, everything, don't you know, 
 working right — well, if she just dropped down on both 
 knees, don't you know, in quite a cunning way, and said, 
 ' Dolf dear, I love you. Will you marry me ? ' What 
 should you say ?" 
 
 Dolph.—" Go to Go on." 
 
 %eg.—^" Yes ; I thought you'd say that; but suppose 
 it was the other way ; that jyoii had flopped down, and 
 she had told you to go to , then what would you do ? " 
 
 Dolph. — " Marry her. Now get out." 
 
 HARRY SAINT-MAUR. 
 
XHnmasfeeb 
 
 IN a dimly lighted alcove a man, in evening dress, 
 stands peering between the half-drawn portieres into 
 the ball-room beyond. 
 
 Strains of a waltz come floating to his ears, but he ^ 
 hears nothing ; he is watching a man and woman going 
 and coming through the mazes of the dance. 
 
 Suddenly he turns and sees a stranger beside him 
 gazing into his eyes. 
 
 The face is repulsive in its expression of hate and 
 envy. 
 
 Involuntarily he recoils a step. 
 
 Only then he recognizes his own image in the glass. 
 
 ERNEST PEABODY. 
 
 XTbe Stranger 
 
 THERE came to the colony a young man whose face 
 was unmarked by care and whose blue eyes con- 
 tained a deep happiness. 
 
 The people stared at him, but none thought to oflfer 
 him lodging. They did not inquire his name nor from 
 what country he had journeyed. 
 
 "He is not like us," said one, and he berated the 
 new-comer with coarse words and threw stones at him. 
 
 " Let him alone," said another; " his odd conceits may 
 serve to make our children laugh "; and he gave to the 
 calm young stranger a gay cap with bells. 
 
 But a third said, *' This wanderer speaks words which 
 we do not understand. He is mad." 
 
 So they built with great stones a tower, and im- 
 prisoned the beautiful stranger, not dreaming that his 
 name was Wisdom and that he had come from their far- 
 away Fatherland. 
 
 EMILY B. STONE. 
 
Us irt 1F6 
 
 THERE was a certain man who had a goodly number 
 of servants, with one placed over them as overseer. 
 They had all served him for years, and he knew, or fan- 
 cied he knew, each and every one's characteristics. 
 There were the capable, the faithful, the honest, the in- 
 dustrious, the indolent, the tale-bearer, the eye-servant, 
 the Judas ; and those who were at their master's beck 
 and call, by day and by night, who were willing to lay 
 down their lives for his sake. 
 
 It so happened that the overseer died, and the master 
 set about putting one above his fellows. Passing by the 
 faithful, good and true, he made his way toward the 
 ranks of eye-service, indolence and deceit. 
 
 When the appointment was made, the faithful be- 
 held Judas exalted. william forsyth. 
 
 XTbe :fiSacbelor 
 
 HENRIQUE was at liberty to go and come at will. 
 There were no restraints, no critics to approve or 
 disapprove of word or deed. Yet at times there was a 
 feeling of hunger in his heart — a want of woman's love 
 and sympathy. 
 
 He often asked himself the question: "Does love 
 pay ? " And he would answer, " Yes," when he could 
 see happiness in the future; " No," when with marriage 
 would come every element of misfortune, of discomfort 
 and future disintegration. 
 
 He looked upon marriage as a trial, as a beautiful 
 passage through the valley of the shadow — and thus he 
 wavered, fearful of unhappy results on one hand, covet- 
 ous of a life of joy upon the other. 
 
 WILL Al. CLEMENS. 
 
Souls Iknow 
 
 OVER the seas there was a poet who believed souls 
 fluttered in the wings of moths. In the final 
 winding of the cocoon they departed to the blest. 
 
 Hence, the silk of his robe he called soul's cloth, ^ 
 
 The swarthy poet, dressed in blue, sat in his garden 
 on the little hills — down below, the almond blossoms 
 bloom. He smoked three whiffs, and a rest, and thought. 
 
 This is what his mind thought : " Man has feeling, 
 hearing, sight, taste, smell — has the soul more ? " Light 
 faded as he smoked and thought ; two moths flew by, 
 fluttering together. He laid his pipe aside and followed, 
 and caught them upon the ailanthus tree. One he 
 secreted most carefully within his robe ; the other placed 
 in the deep bell of a flower, and tied the opening with a 
 silken string. This flower-prison was hung upon the tree. 
 
 Then holding close his breast folds that the mate 
 might not escape, took his way down the hill — away, a 
 mile, two miles, into the valley. And stopping where 
 the almond blooms were thickest, released the fragile 
 prisoner on a branch. 
 
 Now night had come, and many lamps twinkled 
 through the hills. 
 
 The poet stood near and watched the soul. It 
 fanned its wings up and down, — and rested, still. For 
 five good minutes stayed thus ; and then, a little quiver 
 ran like a wave along the worm body, the antennae 
 moved in knowledge, and the soul rose. Slowly, often 
 alighting and waiting as for a signal — at the reception of 
 the spinal quiver, on it went, retracing their course. 
 
 And the poet followed, watching by the moon. 
 
 As the hills were neared, intervals of rest became less 
 frequent, the wings more bouyant, its course more swift. 
 
 It reached the garden long before the " soul-seeker." 
 
When he got to the ailanthus tree there was a neat 
 hole in the purple flower. The two moths clung to the 
 blossom — antennae mixed, as you would lay your cheek 
 to mine. 
 
 " Souls have more," said the poet, " they know.'* 
 And he went into the house to dream. 
 
 ELEANOR B. CALDWELL. 
 
 loutb 
 
 HE was old and gray, and was waiting for the sum- 
 mons. Life had been hard; all the way the wind 
 had blown in his face. Yet, now that he was near the 
 end he looked backward and lamented that it was past. 
 He spoke of the restless weary years, the hard paths, the 
 defeats and losses, as though they had been happy years, 
 smooth paths and glad victories. Youth was his again ; 
 youth that knows not any fear or dread, but is full of 
 hopes and dreams, and of the glamor of spring. He 
 stood again in the flush of morning ; again the dew was 
 on the grass, again the rose of May bloomed for him. 
 The world was new, all fair things and all fleeting things 
 were recreated. He had forgotten the frosts and the 
 snows, but he remembered the violets and the wild 
 flowers pushing their way through the dead leaves in the 
 woods. He spoke of the love that had smiled upon 
 him, of hope that had beckoned him. He talked of 
 youth, the beautiful, the winged ; youth that laughs and 
 vanishes. And to those who watched beside him his 
 face seemed almost young again with the strange spectral 
 youth that memory gives back. He whispered softly : 
 " It is mine once more — youth everlasting." And smil- 
 ing, he closed his eyes. carlotta perry. 
 
Ube Panama IRatltoa^ 
 
 THAT railroad down in Panama was a hard road to 
 build. The tropical fevers slaughtered the laborers 
 by the wholesale. It is a popular saying, that every railroad 
 tie from Panama to Aspinwall rests upon a corpse. It ought 
 to be a substantial road, being so well provided with sleep- 
 ers — eternal ones and otherwise. ^' 
 
 The Panama railroad was an American project, in the 
 first place. Then the English got a commanding interest in 
 it, and it became an English enterprise. They grew some- 
 what sick of it, and it began to swap back until it became 
 American again. The Americans finished it. It proved a 
 good investment. But the right of way granted by the 
 Columbian States was limited to only a few years. The 
 Americans tried to get the term extended. But they were 
 not particularly popular with the Governments of the Isth- 
 mus, and could not succeed. Delegations of heavy guns 
 were sent down, but they could not prevail. They offered 
 a few million of dollars, and Government transportation 
 free. President Mosquiera declined. The English saw an 
 opportunity. They made an effort to secure to themselves 
 the right of way whose term was so soon to expire. They 
 were popular with the Isthmian chiefs. They made the 
 Central Governments some valuable presents — gunboats 
 and such things. They were progressing handsomely. 
 Things looked gloomy for the Americans. 
 
 Very well; two American gentlemen, who were well 
 acquainted with the Isthmus people and their ways, were 
 commissioned by the Panama Railroad Company, about 
 the time of the opposition English effort, to go down to the 
 Isthmus and make a final trial for an extension of the right 
 of way franchise. Did they take treasure boxes along? 
 Did they take gun boats ? Quite the contrary. They took 
 down twelve hundred baskets of champagne and a ship- 
 load of whisky. In three days they had the entire popula- 
 
tion as drunk as lords, the President in jail, the National 
 Congress crazy with delirium tremens, and a gorgeous 
 revolution in full blast ! In three more they were at sea 
 again, with the documents for an extension of the railroad 
 franchise to ninety-nine years in their pockets, procured for 
 and in consideration of the sum of three million of dollars 
 in coin, and transportation of Isthmian stores and soldiers 
 over the road free of charge. 
 
 That is the legend. I don't know whether it is true, or 
 not. I don't care, either. I only know that the American 
 company had the franchise extended to ninety-nine years, 
 and that all parties concerned were satisfied. 
 
 MARK TWAIN. 
 
 Ub in a 2)team 
 
 THE deacon sat in his high-backed pew, his regular Sun- 
 day place. He heard the droning tones of the old 
 parson, and saw the dust-motes floating in the sunshine. He 
 heard, too, the distant lowing of the cattle, the twitter of the 
 birds, the ceaseless babble of the brook. They came to him 
 dreamily, drowsily. 
 
 He slept not, but he gave himself over to a delicious, 
 restful languor. He starts, then moves uneasily and looks 
 about. A strange feeling comes over him. 
 
 What is it? 
 
 It is in his hands, his feet, his head. Ah ! and about 
 his heart, too ; creeping, crawling, numbing. 
 
 He throws off the languor which bound him. His fac- 
 ulties are unusually acute. The parson's words ring out 
 with awful distinctness: 
 
 "Prepare to meet thy God." 
 
 His mind is quickened. Those words ; are they not a 
 message to him, and to him alone that terrible warning ? 
 
He shivers. What is it ? A thought of death, and there 
 — v/ill that tightening about his heartstrings never cease; 
 that creeping, numbing ? 
 
 Death, he remembers, comes sometimes that way, 
 crawling on with horrible diligence until it quenches the 
 vital spark, and then — 
 
 No! No! 
 
 But yet he cannot free himself from the grim arms that 
 encircle him. '^ 
 
 Tighter ! tighter ! tighter ! 
 
 His eyes close, his muscles become rigid, his jaw drops, 
 his whole frame shivers like a tree tempest-shaken, and then. 
 
 And then — 
 
 He sneezes. - frank m. weeks. 
 
IF it had been the desire of the founders of the Mon- 
 astery to place their retreat where all the environ- 
 ments would tend to take the thoughts of the Brothers 
 away from earthly things, and direct them toward heaven, 
 the place was well chosen. 
 
 Hundreds of feet sheer down the face of the cliff 
 which it surmounted, a stone could have fallen from the 
 doorway. Then, the vast plain that stretched away 
 beneath was brown and bare, and burned all day beneath 
 the fierce heat of a tropical sun. 
 
 If a Brother yielded to the enticement of this pros- 
 pect, and could not rest content to pace only the worn 
 paths in the rock above, but must place his feet upon 
 this wider plam below, there were two ways of reaching 
 it. 
 
 One was — to follow the stone over the cliff's face. 
 
 A longer and more toilsome way was to make care- 
 ful descent by some hundreds of steps that had been cut 
 in the rock centuries before ; and, unless one was as 
 sure-footed as the beasts of burden that toiled faithfully 
 up this weary ascent, bringing stores of food and drink 
 to the Brothers, it was sometimes all the same as if one 
 had followed the stone. 
 
 So earth was not a tempting place — after one had 
 once come to the top of the cliff. 
 
 But the way to heaven was very clear. It was only 
 a flight upward through the blue — some hundreds of 
 feet more, perhaps, than the flight down over the cliff's 
 face. 
 
 To be sure, there were some prayers and penances 
 to be done along the way ; some nights to be spent upon 
 the knees on the cold stone floors of narrow cells. But 
 it was not difficult — when the end was so sure. 
 
And so, because the Monks were content up there, 
 and came down to earth so seldom from their vantage 
 point up near heaven, their reputation for piety went 
 abroad through the land. 
 
 But I have had my doubts. For once, v/hen I had 
 climbed those hundreds of steps cut in the solid rock, 
 and at night found myself close by the gates, I heard 
 sounds of music and laughter ; and there were brilliant 
 lights within, and I saw great tuns of wine — and there 
 was the movement of dancing feet, and the sound of 
 voices — ^the mocking voices of women. 
 
 JAMES KNAPP REEVE. 
 
 1\-3\-3\ 
 
 XTbe Execution 
 
 THE sheriflf fastened the rope about the neck of the 
 unfortunate wretch, and drew down the black cap. 
 
 The priest with bowed head muttered a token for the 
 soul of the condemned man. 
 
 The jailer touched a spring and a quivering body 
 dangled from the scaffold beam. 
 
 The doctor heard the heart beat its final throb, and 
 pronounced him dead. 
 
 The men severed the rope then, and strong arms 
 laid the lifeless mass in a pine box at the foot of the 
 scaffold. 
 
 " Thank you, gentlemen ! " the corpse seemed to say, 
 " our little differences are now amicably adjusted." 
 
 WILL M CLEMENS. 
 
H pbantasmal TKIlorlt) 
 
 I WAS sorry to lose him out of my life. A regretful 
 poignancy filled my breast, but still I submitted 
 without a thought to have it otherwise. Because he was 
 interesting and attractive was reason enough to say " Fare- 
 well." I had habituated myself to giving up what pleased 
 me most, for I had resolved to have no more feelings. I 
 would be neither too elated nor too depressed, too 
 happy, nor too despairing. I would dwell upon an 
 even plane where no stirring of feelings should arouse 
 too close a contact with life. I preferred to remain 
 apart — it was my ultimate choice. 
 
 And yet, with many other elements to brighten, to 
 cheer, to give a faintly modulated pleasure that should 
 avoid the prosiness of things, I missed that element of 
 pleasant companionship. Why, I hardly questioned. 
 And so I found myself slipping into that depressed 
 stage of feeling. But I would not have it ! I would not 
 recall him, not if I could — and that was impossible. 
 What then ? 
 
 I had a gift — a strange one, but I rarely used it, save 
 unconsciously. To save myself I would use it deliber- 
 ately. This gift was an inheritance from an Oriential 
 ancestor, traced back to Persia — one of those turbaned 
 sages who had all the arts at his command. It had de- 
 scended to me with my love for sandal wood and fire- 
 worshiping and sunworshiping tendencies. I had the 
 art of creating phantasms of those who lived, and in 
 my dreams drew them thither, and, constructing a plane 
 
of dream-existence, talked and mingled in a social way, 
 under the laws of the phantasmal. 
 
 And so in my dream I came in and found him there 
 in a world of his own. It was a dull place, four great, 
 dark walls enclosing him. But the radiation of his 
 mind, like rays of thought, had warmed into life odd 
 little germs of growth. And there all about him were 
 delicate little purple blossoms springing thickly. And 
 they had grown from his brain, though he knew it not. 
 But I could not stay. I must go. Then the noon 
 hour came when he might escape from the thrall for a 
 little time. The great bell sounded twelve, and he went 
 forth for a free breath from out those gloomy walls. 
 And I was free and had no walls. For I was an Indian 
 girl upon my pony, cantering along at a delightful pace, 
 free as the wind. 
 
 And I came to a cross-roads, and lo ! he was riding, 
 too, and we met and exchanged a word. But conven- 
 tional laws prevailed in this my phantasmal world, and 
 though I longed to turn my Indian pony round and 
 canter his way, yet I only smiled and passed him by, and 
 went upon my way, and he upon his. Then 1 heard the 
 great bell ringing again, and saw him once more file, be- 
 hind all those other prisoners, seeking once again his 
 prison-house. 
 
 And I seemed to know how his heart burned to be 
 free, how he beat the wings of his soul against his prison 
 bars, but the work of the world held him fast. And I 
 yearned over him, but could never break through the 
 laws, even of my phantasmal, and tell him so. 
 
 Thus we parted — and I was satisfied. For I know 
 that more would destroy that even tenor of my mind 
 that desired neither depression nor elation — but dead, 
 even calm. 
 
 ELLA STERLING CUMMINS. 
 
trbe Xegenb ot tbe Crosa 
 
 AFTER Adam was banished from Para- 
 dise he lived a Ufe of penitence and 
 s(^|-.„::««a«»^ chastity to atone in part for his past trans- 
 gressions. As he waxed old and felt death 
 approaching, he called Seth and said: "Go, 
 my son, to the terrestrial Paradise and ask 
 the Archangel who keeps the gate to give 
 me a balsam to save me from death. The 
 way you cannot mistake, for my feet 
 scorched the earth as I left Paradise." 
 
 As Seth hastened along he found the 
 vegetation scanty and everywhere the prints 
 of the feet of his parents. As he neared 
 the gate of Paradise, nature revived ; the air 
 'and everywhere the prints was laden with odor of flow- 
 °^ ™Ire"ts.°' "'' ers and the song of birds. En- 
 
 tranced, half bewildered at 
 the changed aspect of everything, he 
 nearly forgot his mission, when suddenly 
 he beheld the flaming sword of the angel 
 who guards the gate. The celestial being 
 read the inmost thoughts of Seth, and the 
 favor his lips refused to utter. 
 
 "The time of redemption has not yet 
 come," the angel said, " but as a token of 
 future pardon, the wood whereon redemp- 
 tion shall be won shall grow from the 
 tomb of thy father. I give you now three 
 seeds taken from the tree whose roots are 
 in Hell, and whose fibres penetrate the 
 body of Cain, as though they were endued 
 with life as he endeavors to clasp them to 
 clamber into Paradise. The branches of 
 
 •*£, 
 
 "he beheld the flaming 
 
 sword of the angel who 
 
 guards the gate." 
 
this tree reached to Heaven and are covered 
 with flowers and fruit." Then the cherub 
 ceased and seemed to be gaining strength 
 for one last command: "When Adam is 
 dead," he continued, "place these three 
 seeds in his mouth and bury him." 
 
 When Seth returned, Adam praised God 
 for what his son told him, and on the third 
 day he died. 
 
 In course of time three trees grew from 
 the seeds brought from Paradise; one a 
 pine, another a cypress and one a cedar- 
 They grew with prodigious force, and it was 
 one of these boughs that Moses performed 
 his miracles with, bringing water out of a 
 rock, and heaUng those whom a serpent 
 had slain. 
 
 After awhile the three trees 
 incorporated themselves into 
 one trunk, and beneath this tree David sat 
 bemoaning his sins. 
 
 In Solomon's time this tree surpassed all 
 the trees of Lebanon, and when the son of 
 David erected his palace, he cut down this 
 tree for the main pillar to support his roof. 
 The tree refused to serve such a purpose, 
 and shot up and pierced the roof. Aston- 
 ished and vexed at the resistence of an in- 
 animate thing, he threw it over Cedron 
 that all might trample on it, as they^ 
 crossed the brook. The Queen of Sheba/ 
 found it here and Solomon had it buried, 
 and dug at its roots the pool of Bethesda, 
 which healed the sick and restored sight to 
 the bUnd. When the time of the crucifix- 
 ion of Christ drew near, the wood rose to 
 
 BENEATH THE TREE DAVID SAT 
 BEMOANING HIS SINS." 
 
 HE CUT DOWN THIS TREE 
 FOR THE MAIN PILLAR." 
 
the surface, and the executioners, seeking a suitable beam, 
 found it, and on it hung the Savior. After the crucifix- 
 ion it was buried on Calvary and was found by Empress 
 Helena, deep in the ground with two others. Then it 
 was carried away by Chosroes, King of Persia, but was 
 recovered by Heraclius, who defeated him in a battle, 
 which, to this day, is commemorated as the Feast of 
 the Exaltation. 
 
 Such is the legend of the cross : a wierd fancy that 
 has followed us down the ages, until to-day it is as an 
 ungrateful friend which we would put from us but may 
 
 not. RUTH WARD KAHN. 
 
 ffaitb 1Renewe^ 
 
 How good it is, when the mist has hung heavy all 
 the day and the dismal drops have splashed down 
 from roof and tree, to see once more the blue hill tops 
 against the grey sky and to have the fog roll away like a 
 dark shadow of sorrow. It is as when, in a foul little 
 shop, smelHng of cheese and old leather, the men sit with 
 their pipes around the stove and tell low tales and laugh. 
 Then suddenly the door opens and there enters a tall 
 grey-eyed girl, and all the men rise and stand abashed, 
 and the place grows light and clean. 
 
 HERBERT WARE. 
 
Ubc perversity ot %ovc 
 
 ONE day Love dropped an arrow from his quiver. 
 A short, stout, little lady picked it up, and with 
 many blushes returned it to its owner. 
 
 " Ah ! Sweetheart ! " said Love, " you shall have your 
 reward," and he shot the arrow at a man who was pass- 
 ing. 
 
 And the man, alas ! was tall and slim. 
 
 ERNEST PEABODY, 
 
 HnswereD 
 
 A GIRL sat by the sea, and the moan of the waters 
 crept into her heart, and filled it with a mighty 
 longing. 
 
 Across the sands came a man, and in the moonlight 
 he was good to look upon. As he drew near the girl, 
 his face was bright; he held out his hand to her, and his 
 eyes were tender and questioning. 
 
 She gave him her hand, and as his lips met hers, she 
 thought, " There can be no more longing, my life is 
 filled." 
 
 Then joy possessed her for a season, but when the 
 glamor of the moonlight had faded, she found her life 
 filled — but with pain ! 
 
 CLAUDIA STUART COLES. 
 
xrbe ITslanb ot TOine 
 
 WITH a throat which felt as if it were baked like the 
 top of an alkali desert, for want of moisture, a 
 shipwrecked man dragged himself ashore on an island. 
 And in the unconscious state which followed his blistered 
 lips whispered, 
 
 ♦' Water, water ! " 
 
 Upon awaking, his ears were ravished by a melody— 
 the inimitable harmony of a ripple-sounding brook. 
 Desperately and painfully he crawled to it. 
 
 How full of green mirrorings the pool 1 
 
 Blinded with joy he plunged his whole head in and 
 drank— as if to drain the fountain of it ; drank, drank, 
 and then recoiled, shuddering. 
 
 The stream was wine — blood colored! 
 
He moaned in disappointment and covered his eyes 
 with his nervous hands, but his life was saved. Swaying 
 he rose to his feet and dived into the forest of ferns and 
 trees, seeking for water — seeking and ever finding the 
 brink of the red wine-river. 
 
 It was night when he came upon a settlement. 
 Sounds of revelry issued from squalid huts, and hazy 
 light escaped through dirty windows and struggled 
 weakly with the darkness. A place was filled with half- 
 animal beings, masquerading as men and women. They 
 were nearly nude, and were reeling in the squirmings of 
 a hideous dance. The faces of these thmgs were dis- 
 tended disgustingly, and were raw-meat hued ; their eyes 
 were bleared and shot with blood ; their lips protruded 
 and were dry and cracked. The air reeked with the 
 fumes of alcohol with which the creatures were satura- 
 ted • And a barbarous, drunken strain it was to which 
 tncy gyrated wildly. 
 
 He who had come accosted the besotted dispenser 
 of liquor 
 
 " Water — give me water ! " 
 
 «♦ Water ? " echoed the soaked demon, and he croaked 
 grinningly, while a shadowy something, like the half- 
 recollection of a name long unused, flitted across his 
 eyes 
 
 " No water here — have some wine ? " 
 
 " No water ? " 
 
 " No, never ! — on the Island of Wine." 
 
 «'The Island — the hell upon earth," groaned the 
 stranger, rushing forth. 
 
 Dawn came, the sun shone hotly, things issued from 
 the huts, overruning the unclean streets. Males, females, 
 offspring, wobbled about — all with eyes inflamed — all 
 with bloated, red visages— all smoking with the fumes of 
 wine. Little and big drank against perpetual thirst. 
 
Wine only was in their wells, springs, streams ; it gushed 
 from rude troughs — spouted from living rocks. No 
 clouds came rain-laden, but lurid mists gathered in the 
 murky air and torrents of wine were poured from them. 
 
 The man fled to the ocean. And he toiled and 
 wrought furiously to construct a crude apparatus in 
 which to distill the salt water. Always he seemed to die 
 for water. 
 
 At last ! His fire burned, the brine bubbled in his 
 still — drop by drop the clear product fell into his cup. 
 He dared not look ; he was frenzied. 
 
 When the receptacle was half filled he snatched it 
 madly. Quivering in every atom of him he raised it to 
 his mouth 
 
 A voice broke on his ear 
 
 " Oh, John, I ought to scold you — you have been 
 drinking again — but here, this is water, dear." 
 
 PHILIP VERRILL MIGHELS. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Ube Xullab^ 
 
 The mystic crooning of the hoary sea, 
 
 Borne on the southwind through the brooding night, 
 Seems like a cradle song of God to me ; 
 
 The old, old song, unchanged through years of years, 
 
 Bidding me slumber on, nor dream of fears, 
 Till dawn shall rise, and night's thin phantoms flee, 
 
 And He once more shall say, " Let there be light I " 
 
 C. F. LESTER. 
 

 4* 
 
 3cm'' 
 
 THE sun was setting behind the rolling waves of the 
 prairies. Its long, level rays blinded Lize Milton as 
 she stood in the doorway of her cabin ; she shaded her 
 eyes with her hand and looked across the yellow plain. 
 Four days before her husband had gone to the Settle- 
 ment to sell a calf. 
 
 " Likely I'll be back termorro' at sundown," he had 
 said, as he tightened a rope on his saddle ; " mebbe the 
 bizniz'l take longer tho', so don't be skeered ef I don't 
 come." 
 
 Lize had waited and watched for three nights. 
 " Well, he ain't a comin' ternight," she muttered, as she 
 turned away from the door ; " I s'pose he'll be here ter- 
 morro'." 
 
 She took the coffee and fried hoe cake from the fire, 
 and ate her supper, then fastened the door and, leaning 
 her husband's gun against the bed, slept until daylight. 
 Every night at sunset she watched. A week later she 
 stood in the doorway shading her eyes, in which there 
 had grown a curious, restless look. Whea the sun had 
 gone she turned away. 
 
 " Well, it ain't ternight, either." 
 
 In the house the hoe cake sputtered in the pan, the 
 coffee filled the air with its aroma. The table stood in 
 the middle of the room with Jem's cup and plate ; his 
 chair stood by it. A few moments after Lize had fastened 
 the bar across the door, she heard a low whining noise 
 outside ; opening the door she saw Jem's dog crouching 
 
by the step. He crawled into the room and lay at her 
 feet. She stepped out into the darkness and called, 
 "Jem, Jem." There was no answer. " What'er you 
 doin' here 'thout Jem ? " But the dog only whined. 
 
 Out on the prairie, a hundred miles from his home, 
 Jem was lying, dead. He had lost his way, his horse was 
 dead, and, without food, without water, he had fallen on 
 the hard, dry earth; as the sun went down, while Lize 
 was standing in the doorway watching for him, he 
 moaned, " I said I'd be home at sundown, Lize — oh, 
 Lize." A few more groans, a few more hot gasping 
 breaths, and the end came. In a short while the prairie 
 dogs were howling around him, and the next day the 
 crows found all that the beasts had left, and soon there 
 were only the bones and rags which had been torn from 
 him before he was cold in death. 
 
 Four weeks later Lize stood by her door and watched 
 the sun go down. The restlessness had left her eyes, but 
 a dull unseeing look had taken its place. Every night she 
 had watched and waited, but no living thing had ap- 
 peared on the desolate plain. 
 
 " He won't come ternight," she muttered, and was 
 turning away, when a man who had been standing behind 
 the brushwood fence stepped out. 
 
 " Could yer give me somethin' to eat ? IVe ben a 
 walkin' all day 'thout food." 
 
 " Yer kin hev Jem's supper, he ain't a comin' ter- 
 night," the woman answered. When he had eaten it, she 
 told him that he might sleep in the outhouse. The next 
 morning after she had given him some milk and boiled 
 corn, she said: 
 
 " I ought ter get the corn in ; Jem would a had it 
 don' ef he'd ben here. But he'll likely come ternight." 
 
 The man oiTered to help her, and they worked 
 together in the little patch of corn all through the long 
 
hot day. Lize prepared the supper, and again stood 
 watching for Jem. When the red sun had disappeared 
 she said: 
 
 " Jem won't be here ternight ; yer kin hev his sup- 
 per." 
 
 The next day was the same, and the next, and as the 
 days and weeks went on the man worked on the clear- 
 ing ; the woman watched and waited for Jem, and, out 
 on the prairie, under the scorching sun, and under the 
 cold moon, some white bones lay bleaching on the yel- 
 low sand. 
 
 KATHRYN JARBOE. 
 
 Hs irt TKaas In tbe Beginning 
 
 A CHILD stands at an open window. Outside a mist 
 hangs in heavy folds upon the earth. Now and 
 again a light breeze tosses it aside, revealing for a moment 
 the dripping branches of the nearest tree. The child 
 sees and smiles. He is thinking of the mist. 
 
 Years pass ; many, many years. Oh! the storms ; 
 the sunshine. Oh ! the strife ; the love ; the hate. 
 
 An old man sits at an open window looking out at the 
 gray mist that hangs in heavy folds upon the earth. In 
 the distance is heard the hum of the hidden world. The 
 old man sighs and turns wearily away. But he is think- 
 ing of the mist. gRNEST peabody, 
 
Ube Complaint of fftfine 
 
 tA Monsieur: 
 
 Monsieur le redacteu^ du (ah, pardon ; que je suis 
 bete ; je veux dire) 
 
 Monsieur :— Permit me, a stranger on your lovely 
 land, to address to you a complaint of the last gravity. 
 
 I am a French maid (cameriste, that is), and I assure 
 you that I know my affaire. I was hire to attend 
 Madame Van Rellem, lady of the first world, at their 
 house, perfectly known of all society on Fifth avenue en 
 ville. Monsieur, the husband of madam, is pretty good, 
 but he commence to carry some stomachs, and he have 
 the air of a man who live sufficiently well in his time. 
 There is one son, a gentle small one, who has advanced 
 the sixteen. He was not at all bad ever ; now he is a 
 httle master— my word of honor. When I was a month 
 at the house, one morning Monsieur Van Rellem knock 
 at my door quite of good hour. He call out—'* Fifine," 
 that is my name—" I want to speak to you ! " 
 
 Mon Dieu, I was well embarassed. I arrange my 
 camisole a little ; I throw a comb at my hair ; 1 open the 
 door. 
 
 " How is there that I can serve Monsieur ? "—I ask 
 with my smile and my look of fright I do so well. Upon 
 my word, he came right in and he commence. 
 
 " See here, Fifine, I want to have a little chat with 
 you. You've noticed my boy ? He's a great boy. Now 
 I want him to speak the French language like a native, so 
 he'll enjoy Paris when he gets there. Now you know a 
 thing or two ; all French women do. I want him to get 
 
up a flirtation with you, and you make him think I'd 
 raise enfer " — that absolutely was his word — " if I knew. 
 See ? That'll make him talk to you every chance he gets, 
 and in six months he'll know French like a native, and 
 it'll make a man of him." " But madame, my mistress ?" 
 — I gasp — " and, he knows no French. The first lessons 
 shall not be amusing for me ! " " Oh, if he takes after 
 his father he'll learn fast enough with such a teacher — 
 and you get a bill for a hundred from me every month, 
 and here's your first in advance " — and behold ! he 
 throw a note for one hundred dollars on the bed, get 
 himself to the door, wink, and — is gone ! 
 
 That is three months a half since, and i am dis- 
 charge! Figure to yourself why? That man Van 
 Rellem send for me and he say : — " See here ! What in 
 thunder have you been doing with that boy of mine ?" 
 
 "That which you have ask me. I have him in- 
 structed in French " " Instructed him ? Well I just 
 
 guess you have. Why he knows a heap more than I do. 
 I'm not going to have a son of mine knowing more 
 French than his father ever did or ever can — now. You 
 can get right out, Miss Fifme." 
 
 Is not that shameful ? Will you not pubHsh me this ? 
 
 With all marks of my profound consideration, I am, 
 dear Monsieur Editeur,your all devoted, 
 
 FIFINE BAISEE. 
 
 P. S. — John, the manservant EngHsh, who was over 
 there, have correct for me the spelling of this, but I have 
 not willed that he the composition should change. 
 
 HARRY SAINT-MADR. 
 
 
XTbe Opttmtst 
 
 JEANNETTE trusted in the men and women all about 
 her, placed her confidence in every one and every- 
 thing, saw good come forth from haunts where only evil 
 reigned, and all within the compass of her existence, to 
 her, was sweet and pure. 
 
 With those rare creatures who sometimes mingle 
 with the world, whom we call optimists, she often sang 
 the song of beauty and of love. 
 She saw 
 
 " More light 
 Than darkness in the world." 
 
 Her eyes were quick 
 
 " To catch the first radiance of the dawn, 
 And slow to note the cloud that threatens storm." 
 
 The fragrance and the beauty of the rose delighted 
 her. The sweet music of the lark's clear song hovered 
 longer near her than the night hawk's cry. Even amid 
 the sorrows and the pain of life, she found a rapture 
 
 " Linked with each despair 
 Well worth the price of anguish." 
 
 She could detect more good than evil in humanity. 
 She claimed that love was always conquering over hate, 
 and that all men grew better as the world grew old. 
 
 WILL M. CLEMENS. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 and Six