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 Copyright ]^^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
The 
 
 Spofford 
 
 Stylus 
 
 1913 
 

 Copyright 1913 
 
 APR 17:1914 
 
 ©CU371420 
 
Be^fta^tfon 
 
 to A. K. Spofford 
 
 His was a triple gift — an ear attuned 
 To subtle harmonies unheard by us 
 Of duller sense: a vision clear to mark 
 And separate the true and false; but more than these, 
 A rarer, sweeter, and more perfect thing 
 And token of a self-effacing sympathy. 
 
 He saw beneath our stumbling lines some gleam of thought; 
 He spurred us on to clothe the poor unshapely thing 
 In surer words, to bring it forth from nothingness 
 To life; or if 'twere some faint note of song 
 He caught afar, to set it, gemlitoe, in the lilt 
 *And swing of verse till all the vibrant air 
 Was sweet with melody. 
 
 For this we thank him, and if aught we do 
 
 Commendable, if ever once our eager feet 
 
 Shall touch e'en but the lower slopes of that fair mount 
 
 Whereon Castilian fountains laugh and play 
 
 Mid purple iris smiling in the morning sun — 
 
 'Twill be for this alone, that one glad time 
 
 Our master-friend showed us the way 
 
 And told us all the splendor of the journey's end. 
 
 —NELLIE M. D. JACK (Mrs. H. C. Lynch), 1909. 
 
Behind The Ranges 
 
 Dark they rise, forbidding, vast. 
 Chasm-grooved, untrod, a wall 
 Brown-black 'gainst the heavens blue: 
 
 Mounts of Sujar, yet unpassed. 
 
 Range of Sujar, men have said 
 God-placed, barriers to keep 
 Sane-bound thoughts, a mind at rest. 
 
 "Cross not Sujar, or be dead." 
 
 What this whisper in my dream, 
 
 Pride-stirred, harrying, that cries: 
 "Law-held! Rise, and seek the goal — 
 
 Over Sujar, look! a gleam!" 
 
 "Men will scorn thee, women mock, 
 Dream-fool," pipeth, now astir. 
 World-claims, "Duty points thee back — 
 
 Flee from Sujar, tend thy flock." 
 
 Shines the sun along the peaks — 
 
 Morn-gleam on an unknown world. 
 Witch-talk, charming to the search. 
 
 That of Sujar's wonders speaks. 
 
 When was prize, unsought-for, won, 
 
 Weak-soul, grovelling, afraid? 
 
 Dream-girt, push to scale the heights! 
 Lands of Sujar, hail! I come. 
 
 —ALTON ROSS HODGKINS, 1911. 
 
The Usurpation of A Throne 
 
 Did you ever hear of little Queen Summer? She was a mer- 
 ry little quieen. Her eyes were as blue and as bright as the sky, 
 and her hair was spun from sunbeams. Her cheeks were of 
 roses, and dimples played among the petals. Cherries were her 
 lips, ripe, sweet, and tempting. Her gown was of wondrous de- 
 sign woven from the purest sunshine by an art which only fairies 
 know. She was a very vain little creature. The lakes were her 
 mirrors, and she loved to peep into their depths and laugh at the 
 flattering tales they told. To scatter flowers was her chief de- 
 light. She strewed the fields with daisies and buttercups and 
 joined in the gleeful mirth of the children who gathered them. 
 She scattered violets to lighten the sad hearts of the sorrowing, 
 and through them whispered a message of tender sympathy. In 
 the path of the wayward, she dropped a pure white lily to tell of 
 purity unknown to them. Of the woodlands, she made leafy 
 bowers carpeted with moss and adorned with ferns and flowers, 
 where the weary might find sweet rest from the noise and toil of 
 the world. 
 
 Did she have any maids? Oh yes, maids innumerable. They 
 were clad all in green, and their homes were in the tree-tops. 
 They fluttered and danced and were so happy and free, and little 
 Queen Summer always joined in their glee. 
 
 Usually the little Queen laughed all day long, but occasional- 
 ly she showed a sudden burst of temper. Then her sunny face 
 would grow dark with anger, flames would shoot from her blue 
 eyes, followed by ominous threats and then a passionate burst 
 of tears. But soon through the tears would gleam the radiance of 
 her smiles and happiness would be restored to hex kingdom. 
 
 The birds sang to her all day long, pouring forth in their mel- 
 ody all the love and admiration which welled up in their little 
 breasts for their Queen. The little brooks tumbled and babbled 
 and shouted her praise. And little Queen Summer was happy, so 
 happy! For six long months with a care-free heart and a care- 
 less hand, she held her sovereign sway all over the land. 
 
 But one morning when she awoke, her flowers were all dead, 
 
there seemed to be a strange chill in the air, and her maids were 
 all blushing and whispering together. Then the little Queen was 
 very sad and cried, "Oh maidens, tell me what wicked elf has 
 worked this spell!" 
 
 Then the blushing maids told of the appearance of a strange 
 knight on the evening before. He was borne on a snowy steed 
 and his name was Sir Frost. Oh, he was haughty and daring and 
 bold. He had ridden all over the land, withering the flowers with 
 a look of scorn, chilling the brooks with his finger-tips and the 
 cheek of each maid he had touched with his icy lips. And each 
 maiden blushing deeper, went fluttering down, and in Mother 
 Earths gown, hid her face in shame. 
 
 Sir Frost came again and again after that and his white steed 
 made sad havoc over the land. The rumors went flitting about of 
 another Queen in a faraway country who was envious of little 
 Queen Summer, her possessions and her happiness, and who had 
 sent Sir Frost as a spy. So the little Queen trembled with fear, 
 the roses faded away, her eyes became less joyous and her 
 smiles less bright. She shivered and moaned and wept and grew 
 paler each day. The little birds sang their brightest songs to 
 cheer her but she heeded them not, and sadly they flew away, 
 away to the South. The little brooks murmured gently, but in 
 vain. Nothing could bring their little Queen back to her bright 
 sunny self again. 
 
 One day, unannounced, Queen Winter swept in. She was tall 
 and fair and her trailing robes were of glistening whiteness. Daz- 
 zled by the splendor, little Queen Summer had crept out of sight. 
 The haughty grey-eyed Queen surveyed her new domains with a 
 critical eye. Then she called her maids. They came by the 
 score. Gay fairies they were in spotless white. They danced and 
 they whirled and they fluttered about. They worked all day, and 
 they danced all night, but when morning came, they had scam- 
 pered away. 
 
 The whole realm was transformed. Calm and silent, in an 
 endless stretch of marvelous whiteness, it lay. Hills and dales 
 were wrapped in the same glistening splendor. By a touch from 
 a magical wand, the lakes had been changed into crystal, clear 
 and sparkling. The trees stood tall and proud for each twig bore 
 
a jewel. Over all, silence reigned, calm, serene, — an almost 
 breahless hush as if the whole earth were spellbound with awe 
 and adoration. Suddenly from behind the hills, there flashed a 
 million sunbeams. Instantly from plain and hill and lake, from 
 every bush and tree and twig, myriads of diamonds reflected the 
 glory, till the whole realm was magnificent in its dazzling splen- 
 dor. Queen Winter was on the throne. 
 
 —EVA MILDRED SCHERMERHORN, 1910. 
 
 Tennyson the Poet of his Century 
 
 Since the dawn of time, every age, every period in the 
 world's history has had its prophet and its bard to sing the 
 achievements of the race with which he dwells, and to open a 
 vista into the broader and more complete life that is to follow. 
 Just as Homer in his great national epics depicted the varied life 
 of the Greeks, just as Spenser reflected the changes taing place 
 in the Elizabethan era and Milton gave voice to the aims and 
 ideals of the Puritans, just as Pope mirrored the narrowness and 
 frivolity of the age of Queen Anne, so did Alfred Tiennyson ex- 
 press and harmonize the diverse and conflicting elements of the 
 Victorian era. Better than all others did he voice its hopes and 
 aspirations, its doubts and spiritual struggles. 
 
 The period in which Tennyson lived was preeminently a time 
 of progress and change, politically, socially and religiously. The 
 spirit of nationality was developing as it had never developed be- 
 fore. The rapid expansion of commerce, as Tennyson himself ex- 
 pressed it was "widening the thoughts of men with the process of 
 the suns." Democracy was steadily gaining ground in spite of all 
 opposition; Science was advancing by leaps and bounds; discov- 
 eries and inventions were being multiplied a hundred fold. But, 
 hand in hand with this great material progress, there was a sort 
 of religious reaction. The study of psychology increased in im- 
 
portance and men became speculative and analytic. As science 
 explained many things which had previously been regarded as in- 
 explicable and people began to think that everything in the uni- 
 verse could be explained on a sicentific basis, a period of spiritual 
 doubt and skepticism set in. 
 
 All of these diverse elements were united in the works of 
 Tennyson. His was the artist's faculty of blending minor details 
 into one harmonious whole, while at the same time he was ever 
 faithful in the portrayal of detail. Wonderfully accurate in his 
 observation of nature, he has given to the thoughts, manners, and 
 emotions of his race a peculiarly delicate and charming setting. 
 Fortunately, his lyric gift of song, his deep thought and tender- 
 ness were just what the age at that time demanded. Had the 
 period been dramatic rather than introspective, his works could 
 hardly have been so highly appreciated, even though such poems 
 as "Maud" contain fine dramatic touches. 
 
 When we consider Tennyson's political views as expressed in 
 his works, we find him rather conservative. Though he wished 
 many changes in the state to be brought about, he was himself no 
 ardent reformer, but rather a counsellor of moderation. He had 
 no sympathy with anything which seemed to him like revolution, 
 as is shown by the scornful way in which he characterized the 
 French Revolution, which was of such inestimable value in the 
 progress of the race toward freedom as the "red fool-fury of the 
 Seine." His political ideal, as expressed in his own words, was to 
 see "freedom slowly broaden down from precedent to precedent." 
 He seemed to hope for a gradual but steady development toward 
 the goal of universal union, toward the time when there shall be, 
 as he says in "Locksley Hall," a "Parliament of Man, a Federation 
 of the World." 
 
 Tennyson was also deeply impressed by the social needs of 
 the time and the reforms which were being undertaken a'ong such 
 lines, though he was far from being what one could call a social 
 reformer. That he took heed of the pitiful and burdened condi- 
 tion of the poor, and looked forward to the time when injustice 
 against them should cease is shown in several of his poems, such 
 as "Godiva," which begins: 
 
 9 
 
"Not only we, the latest seed of time, 
 
 New men, that in the flying of the wheel. 
 
 Cry down the past, not only we that prate 
 
 Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well 
 
 And loathed to see them overtaxed." 
 
 As regards the position and progress of woman in the world, 
 Tennyson was, also, much concerned. Indeed in his poem "The 
 Princess," he has carefully set forth his ideas as to woman's true 
 sphere in life; that she should not withdraw too much from the 
 world, but should work, side by side, with man, supplementing his 
 activities for the good of both. 
 
 Still other social conditions were treated by Tennyson. The 
 immense expansion of commerce seemed to him the cause of much 
 evil and economic selfishness, of much oppression by the rich and 
 loss of patriotism through personal greed. As a cure for much of 
 this evil, he advocated, fallaciously as it seems to us, war. In 
 "Maud" he tells how even though it works countless hardships, 
 the fighting of a nation for a common cause draws people from 
 their private interests and fosters patriotism in them. In a way, 
 therefore, although voicing the changes that were taking place at 
 this time Tennyson clung to some of the older institutions, which 
 he desired to project into the future. He still held that the state 
 should protect its children like a father, and still clung firmly to 
 thi9 imperial conception. 
 
 In his religious views, as well as his political and social views, 
 Tennyson has mirrored the ideas of his century. He has expressed 
 the doubts and spiritual questionings of his generation as has no 
 other poet. The criticism has been made of him that he confused 
 religion with skepticism, but if so it was merely an outcome of the 
 religious confusion of the times, and the swift progress of reli- 
 gious thought through the previously unexplored fields which 
 science had opened up. Though he loved the art, the beauty, and 
 the sacred associations of the church, he did not believe that the 
 religious development was at an end, but looked forward to the 
 time when all forms and creeds should be united in one ideal 
 truth. He saw that igenuine faith could be attained only by sur- 
 
 10 
 
mounting many barriers of doubt, rather than by willingly refus- 
 ing to recognize them, as is shown by his couplet: 
 
 "There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
 Believe me, than in half the creeds." 
 
 His poetry from youth to old age shows the same steady reli- 
 gious development. In his early life he wrote such poems as "The 
 Two Voices." Later on when his soul was shaken by the death of 
 his dear friend, Arthur Hallam, he struggled long between doubt 
 and faith, but came out triumphant in his "In Memoriam," one of 
 the most beautiful poems ever written. Finally, almost at the 
 end of his life's journey, he composed his "Crossing the Bar,'' in 
 which he at last expressed complete faith and trust in God. 
 
 But in no way probably does Tennyson better represent his 
 century than in his scientific spirit, and his appreciation of the 
 wonderful scientific progress going on all around him. Unlike most 
 poets before his time, he did not ignore nor scorn that which was 
 ordinarily called prosaic, but read the great truths underlying it, 
 and made them significant. Believing that science and poetry 
 should be united, he changed the old poetic order, and brought it 
 in harmony with knowledge and truth. The idea of evolution was 
 ever prominent in his mind, and in many of his poems he has giv- 
 en it concrete expression. In "Locksley Hall" the great Revolu- 
 tionary changes taking place are well expressed. In many other 
 poems the immensity and boundlessness of the universe are 
 shown. But throughout all, Tennyson stands as the faithful 
 spokesman of the science of his century, while looking forward 
 through the ages with the prophetic eye to "one far off divine 
 event toward which the whole creation moves." 
 
 —JUNE ATKINSON, 1911. 
 
 11 
 
Vorubcr 
 
 After the roar of the battle. 
 
 The silence and the slain; 
 After the ashes of friendship, 
 
 The long, long night of pain." 
 Woefully, wearily, brother, 
 
 Winds the road that thou must tread, 
 After the ashes of friendship, 
 
 Of the requiem of the dead. 
 
 HELEN M. WHITEHOUSE, 1910. 
 
 The Missing Sheet 
 
 Franklin Monroe — poet, essayist and general literary jobber 
 sat before his desk in the dusk of an autumn afternoon, busily 
 writing. Before him lay a confused heap of closely-written man- 
 uscript, — the result of many months of untiring labor. Already 
 in his mind's eye, he could visualize the appearance of the great 
 book, his chef d'oeuvre. Already he could picture its reception 
 by the astonished literary world and could see himself quickly 
 famous — exploited by the papers, attacked by the critics and 
 hailed as a genius by the world in general. 
 
 Munroe was staking much on his book, for on that pi'e of 
 manuscript rested the fate of a career. Monroe was a young man, 
 approaching thirty, a graduate of one of New England's best col- 
 leges. As a Freshman he had been possessed with an uncontrol- 
 lable desire to become a writer, a desire which the ripening 
 years of his development only served to intensify. By the time 
 of his graduation he had placed his destinies in the hands of the 
 Muse of Scribbling and determined to follow her lead to fame. 
 
 But the anticipated success failed to come. He produced 
 poems, essays and stories unceasingly, only to have them re- 
 turned just as unceasingly until he grew to avoid the innocent 
 
 12 
 
postman as one would the plague. Nearly discouraged and long 
 out of funds, he finally resolved on a last great effort which 
 should decide his fate for all time. He determined to write a 
 novel — if it succeeded he would continue in the profession he had 
 chosen; if it failed he would bid farewell to every muse and try 
 his hand at street sweeping or some other remunerative employ- 
 ment. 
 
 Thus he worked week after week, month after month, each 
 day seeing his work draw nearer to completion until this autumn 
 afternoon there remained only a few more pages to write. Mon- 
 roe's soul was in rapture; the gathering clouds of despair again 
 gave way to the rosy hues of hope. An outline of the story had 
 been submitted to the publishers who gave an encouraging report 
 of the work: success seemed certain: his fame was established! 
 Carefully, skillfully, he portrayed the last scenes, ending finally 
 with a grand burst of eloquence. Then, exhausted and with 
 throbbing temples, he threw down his pen and fell heavily upon 
 the couch, resolving to begin his corrections and final revision in 
 the morning. So he went to sleep. 
 
 The next morning at sunrise the young author was again at 
 his desk — carefully revising his work, substituting here a word, 
 there a sentence, rephrasing, polishing, elaborating. For days the 
 work went on at intervals. One afternoon the author recahed a 
 place where the words stopped abruptly; a sheet was missing — 
 two pages of the climax of the story could not be found. Think- 
 ing the paper to be misplaced, Monroe hastily looked through the 
 entire pile; not a trace of the paper was visible. A thorough 
 search of desk, floor and furniture brought no better results — the 
 sheet was gone. Now thoroughly vexed, Monroe sat down to con- 
 struct another climax, or rather to rewrite the first from memory. 
 To his intense surprise and dismay, he could not recall a single 
 word of the missing pages. He hastily read over the preceding 
 and succeeding lines for the connection, but all to no avail; his 
 mind was absolutely blank. 
 
 For the first time Monroe began to foresee failure — failure all 
 the more bitter because success had seemed so near. He had 
 worked especially hard upon those missing lines; they had been 
 transferred to the paper only after days of study and nerve-rack- 
 
 13 
 
ing concentration. And now they were gone, wiped out of ex- 
 istence in a moment. Without them the work was absolutely 
 valueless; no other climax would suffice; the entire plot had been 
 woven about those two pages. 
 
 Still loath to acknowledge himself utterly defeated, the des- 
 perate man once more began a painstaking search. He questioned 
 the inmates of the house; not one of them could enlighten him; 
 he talked with the Janitor, who emphatically denied all knowl- 
 edge of the manuscript. It was lost, and apparently beyond find- 
 ing. Now Monroe tried to recall what enemy could have stolen 
 the sheet; it was then that he realized what a multitude of 
 friends he had; not an enemy could be conjured up. There was 
 no cat or dog, which might possible have destroyed the paper, in 
 the house. 
 
 The days rapidly succeeded each other — days of hopeless 
 search always ending in despair. Monroe began to grow nervous 
 and ill under the strain. His friends found him irritable and far 
 different from their former genial companion. 
 
 About two weeks after the loss of the manuscript, Monroe 
 received a letter from his publishers which served to plunge him 
 into deeper gloom and despair. It read: 
 
 Mr. Franklin Monroe, 
 Dear Sir: 
 
 We regret to tell you that we cannot consist- 
 ently hold our presses much longer, and unless the man- 
 uscript of your book is forthcoming within a week, we 
 shall find ourselves obliged to refuse its publication. 
 Very truly yours, 
 The Company, Publishers. 
 
 The week of grace sped swiftly away until only twenty-four 
 hours of the time allotted to him by his publishers, remained. 
 The night before that final day Monroe went to bed in a state of 
 mind not far removed from insanity. Nothing but a miracle could 
 save him now. Defeat did not come to him easily for he be- 
 longed to that type of man who hates to acknowledge himself 
 
 14 
 
beaten. Accordingly he tossed about uneasily, trying to think out 
 some new plan whereby he might yet save his book, but no inspi- 
 ration came. After about an hour of this restless tossing, he fell 
 into a troubled sleep. 
 
 Suddenly Monroe seemed to be walking along a street, when, 
 out of the darkness that enveloped him, there appeared a young 
 girl, with clear blue eyes and sunny hair. Who was she? Some- 
 thing in her appearance seemed vaguely familiar, as, tripping 
 along toward him, she hummed a gay song, yet Monroe could not 
 recall where he had seen her before. She advanced steadily, but 
 lightly, until she stood in front of him, then, raising her eyes, she 
 looked directly into his face with one of the most winning smiles 
 that he had ever seen. Monroe, without any perceptible thought 
 on his part, raised his hat as he passed on. Ah! suddenly he 
 knew. Like a flash it dawned on his partially benumbed senses 
 just where he had seen this girl before. This was the very first 
 scene of his new novel — the book that must now be lost. The 
 scene had been written with great care and thought, so that when 
 once recalled it seemed perfectly natural. 
 
 After this auspicious beginning the story continued rapidly 
 and without a break. Scene after scene, character after charac- 
 ter, all appeared in their proper order. Monroe, as the hero, saw 
 himself rapidly transported from place to place. One moment he 
 was grinding away in a dingy New York office; the next, he was 
 strolling along the shores of a mountain lake. Now he was chas- 
 ing some phantom across the country; now he was making polit- 
 ical speeches in some out-of-the-way rural hamlet. The climax 
 was approaching, but the scenes continued without hesitation. 
 Slowly, naturally, simply, the crowning scenes worked them- 
 selves out into a climax so grand and thrilling that Monroe found 
 himself almost breathless at the dramatic power of the action. A 
 moment more, and the scenes had faded away in confusion but 
 the impression remained. 
 
 The sun was shining brightly into the room when Monroe at 
 last awoke. Instantly his mind reverted to the dream which was 
 still stamped indelibly on his brain. He was impatient with him- 
 self for his failure to work out the missing part before. Arising 
 quickly, he seized pen and paper and began to write. He wrote 
 
 15 
 
steadily for more than an hour; at the end of that time the book 
 once more stood complete, with a denouement far exceeding in 
 cleverness the first, which now seemed to be returning faintly to 
 the author's mind. 
 
 The sun never seemed so bright as when, several hours later, 
 Franklin Monroe mailed the manuscript of his masterpiece to the 
 waiting publishers. Never did the birds sing so gaily as on that 
 morning, a few weeks later, when he received the first payment 
 upon his novel, with promises of more to come. Now he ven- 
 tured to indulge in a few day dreams. He saw himself famous the 
 world over for his wonderful books; he saw the happy, comfort- 
 able home that was soon to be his. He saw all these things and 
 many more, and was happy. 
 
 In a far corner of the desk almost hidden by rubbish and 
 dust, Monroe saw a protruding strip of white paper. Absently, 
 almost unconsciously, he reached and pulled it out. It appeared 
 to be covered with closely written lines. Monroe looked at it at 
 first curiously, then with the greatest interest. Folding it care- 
 fully, he laid it away in a pigeon-hole of the desk. It was the 
 Missing Sheet. 
 
 —ALBERT A. RAND, 1912. 
 
 Science vs. Religion 
 
 No more serious question confronts the human race in mass 
 or individually than that of religion. History insists that the ele- 
 vation of man's theistic conception from a period of ghost adora- 
 tion to the present Christian monotheism and the rise of his 
 standard of civilization have gone hand in hand. And so difficult 
 has been the forming of this "vastest of all conceptions" that we 
 may say seriously and reverently: "An honest God's the noblest 
 work of Man." 
 
 16 
 
But man has not yet succeeded in obtaining a universally sat- 
 isfactory idea of God. To-day every thinking person is obliged to 
 malie his own estimate of Life, the final Cause and the ultimate 
 result. And one of the saddest things in the long struggle of man 
 to understand the Infinite is the conflict between theologians and 
 scientists. Every great scientific principle has been fought by 
 theology as though its survival meant the overthrow of Chris- 
 tianity. The condition of modern thought has been such that it 
 has been impossible for the youth of today to escape grave ques- 
 tionings because of this apparent inconsistency. The develop- 
 ment of science, which has changed man's views of the material 
 universe during the last century more than in the twenty-five cen- 
 turies preceding, make such questions natural and the revision 
 of his conception necessary. Has reason disproved the existence 
 of the God of the Christians? Is the church an enemy to truth? 
 Must Christianity succumb to the vigor of modern thought? These 
 are serious questions that determine man's philosophy of life and 
 they must be answered fully and honestly. 
 
 Altho science is entirely outside the realm of metaphysics 
 and the scientist, as such, deals with forces as blind as the x of 
 an algebraic equation, seeking not the why of a force, but the 
 how; not the cause, but the method of procedure, there seems to 
 be something about his mind which brings him into conflict with 
 modern theology. There was a time when the very fact that the 
 Bible did not explain a newly discovered scientific principle was 
 sufficient to convince men that to believe in the theory was atheis- 
 tic. But that day is past, and without loss of faith in God's Mes- 
 sage we have learned that it is a book of ethics and not of science. 
 
 Today one principle is responsible for all the difficulty and it 
 is so unchristian that if it were stated in its bare form it would 
 be rejected on every hand. It is what Carlyle called the concep- 
 tion of the "Absentee God." It has arisen in two ways: first in 
 the attempt of men to reconcile the evil of the world with an ex- 
 ceedingly anthropomorphic conception of Deity, and, secondly in 
 the separating of the forces which cause natural phenomena from 
 the idea of God and leaving only the unexplainable or the miracu- 
 lous. Chiefly thru the work of Augustine the idea of God apart 
 from the material world, and knowable by the interruption of 
 
 17 
 
some natural law has permeated the Christian church. The idea 
 of Epikuros that the Gods could not connect themselves with the 
 paltry affairs of men but lived a blessed life in a far-off Emperean, 
 coupled with the pathetic yet influential philosophy of Plato, who 
 was so overwhelmed with the wickedness of men that the mate- 
 rial world seemed to him almost completely vile, swept on into 
 the Gnostic thought which overwhelmed that great Roman fifteen 
 centuries ago. And this conception, so well adapted to the Latin 
 culture and political genius of the Dark Ages became so deeply in- 
 wrought into the Latin church that it still dominates both Catho- 
 lic and Protestant faith. "This doctrine," to quote Fiske, 'is 
 based on the idea of a Being actuated by human passions and pur- 
 poses, localizable in space, and utterly remote from that inert 
 machine, the universe, upon which he acts only intermittently 
 thru the suspension of what are called natural laws." 
 
 So long as this conception prevails science is continually re- 
 moving God farther from the universe by explaining these "ap- 
 pearances of Deity" in terms of natural laws. But if we return to 
 the higher and earlier Athanasian doctrine of God, the Author of 
 natural law, permeating the universe and eternally creative, as 
 modern science is helping us to do, we have abolished entirely the 
 conflict between science and re.igion. With a conception of God 
 apart from His creation and a force in nature apart from Him, 
 we have a beginning of Polytheism if not of atheism; but with a 
 conception of one Power, one God permeating the material uni- 
 verse, we have a true Monotheism in which the terms Force and 
 God can never conflict and in which science can play its proper 
 part. 
 
 Evoiution alone, by its message from Geology, Astronomy 
 and Biology not only proves the existence of a Purposeful Moral 
 Being but it points to a future of hope and promise. It goes far- 
 ther than the creation of man and tells us that the natural selec- 
 tion, which left the physical realm at the advent of civilization, 
 still lives in the moral realms and the best will ever survive. It 
 teils us that love of home, temperance, brotherhood, a pure soci- 
 ety and every other Christian principle are factors in determining 
 the endurance of a nation; that love as exemplified in the life of 
 Jesus Christ will ultimately raise us from the animal by the same 
 
 18 
 
process of sacrifice which has brought us to our present state. It 
 explains the apparent cruelty of the world and pictures to us a 
 God working by His infinite wisdom the salvation of the race, un- 
 knowable in states of consciousness, but knowable in the order of 
 His phenomenal manifestations; knowable in a symbolic way as 
 the Power which is disclosed in every throb of the mighty rhyth- 
 mic life of the universe; knowable as the eternal Source of a Mor- 
 al Law which is implicated with every act of our lives and in 
 obedienc'e to which lies our only guarantee of that happiness 
 which is incorruptible. 
 
 To him who fears the conflict of science and religion every 
 tendency of the age says, "Wait!" The scientist who complains 
 that the churchman will not listen to reason and the churchman 
 who complains that the scientist is unresponsive to the needs of 
 a Christian brotherhood are beginning to understand each other. 
 As we have learned that the Bible is a moral Guide and not a 
 book of science, so are we approaching the higher conception of 
 God as the "one" ruling force of the universe. Another generation 
 of free thought should see the end of this pathetic conflict and 
 Science and Religion will join hands to secure the moral evolution 
 of the race. 
 
 —CLAIR ELSMERB TURNER, 1912. 
 
 To'bet and Leila 
 
 Arabia, thy parched sands, had they 
 Not been accursed and doomed to give no life 
 Or issue yield, the blood that flowed in streams — 
 Enriching not thy veins — would spring again^ 
 Not in the shape of grass to feed or reed 
 To sing, but in the shape of crimson tongues 
 That would denounce the deeds of men when they 
 For love of self, call right what suits their ends. 
 
 19 
 
Or had thy lonely doons the pow'r to speak, 
 
 What sweet, heart soothing tales our ears would hear. 
 
 Of simple love — the God created love — 
 
 That stirred the hearts of hardy desert sons, 
 
 And dainty maids — wild flow'rs from nature's heart. 
 
 So fresh, unsoiled by human cultured touch 
 
 Or thought — sweet tales that ended happily! 
 
 And what heart rending tales of love that flared 
 
 And blazed like to thy fearful sun, and like 
 
 It still with its consuming heat that stirs 
 
 No life but kills what life there is, hath choked 
 
 The struggling hopes! Of such a fate I speak: 
 
 Once upon a time (as Arabs would 
 A tale begin), a struggling caravan 
 Its weary way was picking thru the sand. 
 Which heaved, and, shifting, piled in heaps and rolled 
 With deadly sweep to pile anew and roll; 
 Like to a peaceful sea when angry winds 
 Would lash her back, her thousand heads would raise 
 In rage, and stretch ten thousand arms and charge. 
 Behind, no trace was left — so wipes the hand 
 Of fate fond hopes! In front, all former trace 
 Of man and beast was gone; yet on, and on 
 The weary caravan pursued its way 
 Led by the setting sun. 
 
 "Howay! Howay!" 
 The leader cried and stopped, and every man 
 Around him pressed to find him gazing at 
 A form — a man — half buried in the sand. 
 "Not dead, he lives!" And eager anxious men 
 For water rushed. The purple lips were seen 
 To move, the eyes were opened wide wherein 
 The flame, the dying flame of life, was seen 
 To waver 'neath the chilling breath of death. 
 A sigh, a mournful groan escaped his lips. 
 Then words — ^the soul was starting on its flight 
 From that mean cage in words: "If Leila will 
 Salute, my bones, tho hid beneath a pile 
 
 20 
 
Of stones, the greeting will return, or from 
 My tomb a voice will surely cry Salaam!" 
 He spoke and died. 
 
 "Know ye the man?" one asked. 
 "Who knows him not? Lives there the man who hath 
 Not heard of Leila's Troubadour? Alas! 
 Who after thee shall sing of love and give 
 His passion form and clothe it now, in bright, 
 Alluring silks and then in gruesome shrouds; 
 Or march it like a bride with joyful, hopeful song, 
 Or lead it to its grave with moan and wail? 
 There lies a bard, a lover true! Alas, 
 For song, alas, for unrequited love! 
 Enough, and let the man who knew no rest 
 To rest be wedded now, and may Allah 
 Be gracious to his soul." 
 
 On sea and sand 
 Alike, the dead find grave where'er they hap 
 To die. A hole was dug and rocks were piled 
 To mark the lonely grave. 
 
 Long years rolled by. 
 A lady fair on camel back was led 
 By horseman bold; hard by the pile they passed. 
 "There sleeps a liar false," the husband sneered, 
 " 'Tis he who sang my gracious wife to fame." 
 "And why a liar he?" "Salute that grave 
 And prove that he who said: 'If Leila will 
 Salute, my bones, tho hid beneath a pile 
 Of stones, the greeting will return, or from 
 My tomb a voice will surely cry Salaam!' 
 Is true. Now, by Allah, thou shalt salute," 
 Then Leila: "Peace, may peace with thee abide!" 
 
 21 
 
And lo! a rustling noise, and from a hole 
 An owl appeared and, screaming, flopped its wings 
 And soared. The frightened camel reared and threw 
 Its load. 
 
 Thus Leila met her end, and thus 
 The two, whom life would hold apart, 
 One gravie in peace received with open arms. 
 
 —IRVING HILL BLAKE, 1911. 
 
 A White Rose 
 
 "Yes, she was always a strange child, from the moment she 
 was brought home to Aunt Lizzie — a poor, motherless little mite. 
 I never shall forget the expression on her baby face when, in her 
 father's arms, she watched them bear to the cemetery the little 
 white casket, in which all hidden in flowers, lay Rose's child- 
 mother — Lewis Arey's child-wife. 
 
 "You never saw Lewis Arey's wife, did you? Then you missed 
 seeing the strangest mixture of dependence and independence; of 
 love and hatred; of good and evil; that ever blessed or blighted a 
 man's life. Her name was Fragoletta. To a stranger I know it 
 must seem incongruous that a child brought up in such surround- 
 ings should be given such an odd, fanciful name. But to those 
 who knew her it was the only possible name for her. She was all 
 music, passion, jealousy — a character as unsuited to New Eng- 
 land as her name to her surroundings. Poor, passionate little 
 girl! She should have lived in Italy where all the intensity of 
 her nature could have found vent, but instead she lived in New 
 England, within sight of the Atlantic, in a climate against which 
 her very nature rebelled and which she understood as imperfect- 
 ly as Lewis Arey understood her. 
 
 "They were married when Fragoletta was only seventeen and 
 soon after went to the city where Lewis' work called him. 
 
 22 
 
strangely enough she was contented in the city, loved all its noise 
 and din and confusion and, indeed, she would have been satisfied 
 anywhere with him as long as she knew that she held his undi- 
 vided attention. 
 
 "For two happy years there was nothing to stir up the fire 
 that was always smouldering in her nature. And it was not un- 
 til the baby Rose was several months old that the flames burst 
 forth. Then a veritable demon of jealousy put into her heart the 
 thought that her baby was sharing the care and affection which 
 had hitherto been for her alone. All the mother-love seemed to 
 be turned to hatred. 
 
 "Concealment of any feeling, good or evil, was not a trait of 
 her nature, and the fire blazed forth in good earnest. Lewis was 
 speechless. Here was a phase of character that he, a calm, sensible 
 New Englander, could not understand; and yet he was patient, 
 uncomplaining, never blaming the unreasonable consuming jeal- 
 ousy which seemed to have taken complete possession of Frago- 
 letta. 
 
 "For nearly three years matters went on in about the same 
 way. Rose became a strangely fascinating child. Baby though 
 she was, she realized that, for some reason which her tiny brain 
 could not fathom, her mother disliked her. It would have moved 
 a harder-hearted person than I, to see the many little ways by 
 which she tried to win her mother's affection, and if she succeed- 
 ed in winning even a glance, she was a different child for the rest 
 of the day. 
 
 "Fragoletta was not unkind as far as caring for the child's 
 wants, but there was never a motherly caress for the little one 
 who inherited from her such a wealth of affection to lavish upon 
 someone — never anything but a cold indifference which contrast- 
 led strangely with her nature, and which I know she must have 
 forced herself .to assume so that she might not be brutally unkind 
 to the child. 
 
 "At last the unreasoning, ungovernable passion began to tell 
 on the slender frame so badly suited to harbor it. From utter 
 weakness the bitter feeling against her husband died away, 
 though to her dying day I believe she never forgave her baby. 
 Late in September word came to Aunt Lizzie that her daughter 
 
 23 
 
was dead. Aunt Lizzie was broken-liearted, though she had ex- 
 pected the sad news for days and I think the hardest part of it all 
 for her was that she had a feeling of relief for the haby Rose's 
 sake. 
 
 "I remember what a beautiful Friday is was when they 
 brought her home for the last time. After the simple funeral ser- 
 vice the little procession moved slowly toward the cemetery. I 
 was so glad that the cemetery was near the sea, for it seemed 
 to me that the angry dash of the waves in a storm was the only 
 thing in nature, here, that Fragoletta ever understood or enjoyed. 
 The many friends, with unusual thoughtfulness refrained from 
 following the mourners to the cemetery, leaving us alone to look 
 for the last time upon the little face, which, beautiful though it 
 was, had a rebellious expression even in death. Liswis lifted baby 
 Rose, who slowly, hesitatingly stretched out her tiny hand and 
 placed it on her mother's cold face. Then as if astonished and 
 delighted that her hand was not pushed away, with a babyish coo 
 of delight she bent down from her father's arms and kissed the 
 white face among the roses. And the child looked like a rose her- 
 self; not a great, blooming blush rosie which so many pretty 
 children remind one of; but a white, white rose like those in her 
 mother's casket. It may be only a fancy, but it's a fancy I like to 
 believe true, that by that baby's kiss, peace was made between 
 the spirit of the dead mother and the child, whom her passionate, 
 impulsive nature had caused her to wrong, 
 
 "Well, is was all over, and we went back to Aunt Lizzie's — 
 Lewis, baby Rose and I, Aunt Lizzie begged me to stay with her 
 for I had loved and understood Fragoletta. Lewis' work called 
 him back to the city and I stayed and cared for the child — and 
 may the good Lord help me never to care for any human being as 
 I did for that blessed baby. 
 
 "Though she was kind and afEiectionate to all, anyone could 
 see that it was Aunt Lizzie to whom she gave the best love of her 
 baby heart — the purest love on earth. 
 
 "I told you she was a strange child. Well I do not care to 
 conceal it— she was not like other children. When she was six 
 years old she went to school and Sunday School and loved them 
 both. But her Sunday School teacher was at a loss to know how 
 
 24 
 
to manage her, for Rose utterly refused to say text or prayer for 
 anyone except Aunt Lizzie; and while the other children were 
 obediently bowing their heads and folding their hands, she sat 
 with neck firm and straight and stared fixedly out the window. 
 Yet I have seen her kneel among the daisies and buttercups and 
 fold her hands and repeat the Lord's Prayer, and I like to think 
 that, hecause of her misfortune if one can call it so, she was 
 nearer the Father than the rest of us — that she heard His voice 
 and worshipped Him in the flowers. 
 
 "At school she fortunately had a teacher who came as near 
 understanding her as anyone save Aunt Lizzie. Consequently the 
 book she gave her to study was the great book of Nature and Rose 
 sat by the open window, her desk piled with flowers instead of 
 books and listened to the songs of the birds and the buzz of bum- 
 ble bees and, I doubt not, sounds which our dull ears can never 
 catch. 
 
 "After we brought ourselves to acknowledge — I won't pretend 
 to say it wasn't hard at first — that she was lacking in what the 
 world calls Intelligence, we decided to keep her out of school. Aunt 
 Lizzie gave herself up to her entirely and Rose came to lean upon 
 "Grandma" more and more and seemed almost to be frightened 
 when she left her, 
 
 "The summer that she was seven years old we began to notice 
 that Rose was thin and pale and that she had a troublesome little 
 cough, and that she rarely left Aunt Lizzie's side, even to play 
 among her beloved flowers. But we scorned to admit to one an- 
 other that anything was wrong, and tried to make ourselves be- 
 lieve that nothing serious ailed the child. Lewis who came to 
 see her as often as his work would allow, was the first to speak of 
 it. A doctor was called, who told us it was only a question of a 
 short time — that we could do nothing. 
 
 "So we watched her grow paler and paler, until late in Novem- 
 ber the crisis came. She aroused us one morning with a fright- 
 ened cry: She had dreamed that Grandma had left her in a dark 
 cold place, all alone. We quieted her fears, but our own fears 
 could not be stilled for we knew only too well that our white Rose 
 would soon be where Grandma could not help her. All that day 
 she lay in the grasp of that awful fever, her face always so white 
 
 25 
 
and colorless, stained with her very life blood it seemed to me. 
 Yet she did not complain of much pain until night. Then the 
 struggle for breath began. It wrung my heart — those pleading, 
 wondering eyes — and that one cry, the only complaint she ever 
 made — 'Grandma, will it ever go away? Will it?' At last the 
 awful suffering did go away, and with one last call: 'Grandma, 
 don't leave me, don't!' the suffering faded out of the soft brown 
 eyes, the color left the crimson cheeks and only the beautiful 
 white waxen rose was left. 
 
 "We buried her on a dull November day. All that night I 
 couldn't sleep, for it seemed to me that the child, as in the last few 
 weeks of her life needed and called for Aunt Lizzie. For nearly 
 a week I fought against my feelings, thinking I was nervous and 
 low spirited. Then one morning Aunt Lizzie came down to 
 breakfast with a severe cold. It grew worse so suddenly that we 
 called in the doctor. After leaving some medicine he went out, 
 beckoning me to follow, but there was no need to tell me there 
 was danger, but he hoped for the best, for I knew too well that 
 Aunt Lizzie was beyond our help. She lived just four days and 
 we buried her two weeks from the day of Rose's death. 
 
 "No, I am not superstitious but I do believe that even in God's 
 great flower-garden above, our white Rose failed to find anyone 
 who really understood her nature; so she called Aunt Lizzie, and 
 the call of love was so strong that Aunt Lizzie heard it and fol- 
 lowed." 
 
 —GEORGIA TOWNLY HAMILTON, 1910. 
 
 26 
 
John R. Mott 
 
 (First Prize, Junior Exhibition, June 1913) 
 
 The most unique and striking personality in the field of ag- 
 gressive Christian service, is that "imperialist of Christianity," 
 John R. Mott. He has been called the "new crusader," the "field 
 marshal of beligerent Christendom." Others have called him 
 "the foremost Christian statesman of our age." To those who 
 are acquainted with Mott, these terms serve only to suggest the 
 power and domination of his character. 
 
 In considering the life of any man, we naturally ask first, 
 what has he accomplished? Has he done anything to make the 
 world better? Mott is secretary of the International Committee 
 of the Young Men's Christian Association which is binding to- 
 gether the Associations of all lands. This Committee is planning 
 and directing the work of the Associations in all the civilized 
 countries of the globe. These Associations are not only teaching 
 young men the elements of Christian character, but are making 
 young men practice these teachings. 
 
 Mott developed the Student Volunteer Movement which aims 
 to interest the students of all lands in diffusing the teachings of 
 Christ thruout the world. Thru the influence of this movement, 
 some of the colleges and universities of the United States and 
 England are sending to the foreign field the pick of their ath- 
 letes and scholars. 
 
 Mott devised the World Student Christian Federation which 
 now has societies in practically every institution of higher educa- 
 tion on earth. He says that the purpose of this Federation is to 
 unite the Student Christian Movements thruout the world, and to 
 promote mutual relation between them. 
 
 Under Mott's leadership, the World Missionary Movement 
 has developed into a stupendous campaign, second to none in all 
 history. At the gathering of this Movement in Edinburgh in 1910, 
 there were thirteen thousand men representing every country in 
 the world, and almost every shade of doctrine and Church gov- 
 ernment known to man. 
 
 27 
 
The life aim of John R. Mott is the Christian conquest of the 
 world in this generation. Never was there greater need of spirit- 
 ual leadership than in this age of unprecedented material growth 
 when men are thinking more about conserving and developing 
 natural resources than of conserving human energy and of de- 
 veloping human character. 
 
 Mott stands for a new and aggressive type of Christian man- 
 hood. He is stamped with all the physicial and intellectual char- 
 acteristics of a world conqueror. He is a superlative optimist. 
 He believes that the world can be conquered in a generation if 
 Christians will put their brains, and time, and prayers into the 
 task. He emphasizes the great intellectual, moral and spiritual 
 essentials as revealed by Christ. He has a world-wide conception 
 of Christianity, and speaks in terms of continents, and thinks in 
 units of races. He recognizes thie good and uplifting in the non- 
 Christian religions, and offers ours not as a contradiction to those 
 but as their fulfillment and crown. 
 
 We can only inadequately estimate the dominating influence 
 of John R. Mott in molding the character of the races. He is set- 
 ting a standard for the nations. The only standard that is eter- 
 nal and universal and has stood the test of nineteen centuries — 
 the standard that underlies the very process of civilization, and 
 makes possible political liberty. Whole communities and nations 
 are taking their initiative from the suggestions of this man. He 
 is leading the united sections of the Church in the Christianiza- 
 tion of the globe. He is seizing the student mind of the nations 
 in its last impressionable stage, and is settng to work on the 
 gigantic task of Christianizing the world. He has influenced 
 more young men than any other living man; is the most widely 
 known figure in the student life of five continents; and is today 
 the leading dynamic in aggressive Christianity. 
 
 Mott's convincing and dominating power as a speaker can on- 
 ly be appreciated by those who have heard him. I have seen him 
 electrify an audience made up of distinguished men, and convince 
 them of things they did not wish to believe and yet he never 
 raised his voice, hardly made a gesture. He stands before stu- 
 dents in his calm, dignified, yet powerful manner; and challenges, 
 dares, and dazzles them by setting a task before them that will 
 
 28 
 
drain their every energy, and consume their last ounce of force. 
 
 When I heard Mott give the closing address at Northfield last 
 June; when I heard him give the final words of advice — yes, the 
 final command to the students of three nations, I thought of the 
 great leaders in human history who have mastered men and dom- 
 inated situations: who have determined the courses of nations 
 and of races. When he told us that the most critical battlefield 
 of this age is the colleges and universities of the nations, I 
 thought of the mighty military commanders of the past, 1 thought 
 of the Great Napoleon and his dream of an empire of all Europe. 
 But I remembered that Mott is building an empire of the world — 
 an empire based not upon the authority of a single man, but 
 founded upon the example, the teachings and the piersonality of 
 the noblest ethical teacher of men. 
 
 The most serious charge against college students today is 
 that they have nourished their brains at the expense of their 
 hearts — that they have lost human sympathy. John R. Mott is do- 
 ing more than any other individual to bring about a contradiction 
 to this charge. He stands a living challenge to the students of 
 every land to forget all selfish interests, and to seek the truest 
 and noblest joys of life in love, and service to mankind. 
 
 —ROY PACKARD, 1914. 
 
 Ayr and Alloway 
 
 Ayr is an important watering place as well as a city of con- 
 siderable size. My companion, Duncan Camieron, wished me to 
 see, first of all, the beaches. So as soon as we alighted from the 
 train, we turned our steps toward the blue glimpses which were 
 to be had at the end of the smooth well-ordered streets; and very 
 soon were glorying in the magnificent vieAvs seaward. Many 
 wealthy residents of Ayr and Glasgow have their summer homes 
 along this shore, so that it has become the best part of the city. 
 
 29 
 
A wide white beach zigzags for miles on either hand; behind us 
 are stately brick houses, green lawns, and shady avenues; before 
 us a blue-green, gently-rolling sea stretches to the misty, precip- 
 itous peaks of Arran which rise bold and broken to the north- 
 west. 
 
 We loitered along the sandy beaches; threw flat pebbles into 
 the lazy sea; and sunned ourselves for an hour or two upon the 
 rocks, with the hazy crags of Goat Fell and Ailsa Craig dreaming 
 in the distance, — I watching the children build their frail castles 
 of sand, and Duncan talking. He is something of a philosopher 
 and very much of a poet; so you may be sure I enjoyed listening 
 to him as he told me of the Land o' Bobbie Burns, its history and 
 traditions. 
 
 When we again moved ourselves, we skirted the shore till we 
 came to the outlet of the Ayr River. There, following the advice 
 of my guide, I closed my eyes to the dark, blackened quays and 
 massive stone work of the piers; and tried not to think where I 
 was until we approached an old bridge. It was the "Auld Brig of 
 Ayr." There Duncan told me the story of the "Twa Brigs," 
 which, I am ashamed to say I had forgotten. According to Burns, 
 the old bridge is so narrow that two wheelbarrows tremble when 
 they pass upon it. It happened that a new bridge was built near 
 by; and one night the '"New Brig" got fresh and was heard to say 
 very spiteful things to the "Auld Brig." In answer, the "Auld 
 Brig' replied: "I'll be a brig when you're a shapeless cairn!" 
 And sure enough, the Auld Brig has outlived the new; for of the 
 latter, not a trace now remains. But by what mercenary zeal and 
 painstaking care, by the use of what mechanical preservatives, 
 only the workmen of Ayr can tell. It is enough, however, that 
 Burns' facetious prophecy is fulfilled, even if the old structure is 
 superannuated; and altho numerous new bridges now span the 
 river, it may be that the grim spirit of the "Auld Brig," thru the 
 efficacy of the poet's fame, may see them all crumble and decay. 
 
 Continuing up the river we left thie region of paved streets 
 and walled channels, and rambled out into the country of the 
 "green crib" and "rich hawthorne blossom." I had no difficulty, 
 now, in convincing myself that this was the Ayr River. Duncan 
 repeated to me that loving burst of the poet's soul, "To Mary in 
 
 30 
 
Heaven;" while I watched the stream, "gurgling, kiss its pebbled 
 shore," and heard the birds "sing love on every spray." Every 
 thing in the gentle Scotch landscape seemed too sweet and dream- 
 like for reality. The sloping meadows, clustering trees, and purl- 
 ing waters in the stony river bed, took me back in fancy to the 
 day when Robert and Mary plighted their troth at a ford a few 
 miles higher up. That the supreme romance of Burns' life cen- 
 tered around this stream is attested by the frequent mention of 
 its name in his best lyrics and by his touching farewell to its 
 "bonny banks." Few are so devoid of human sympathy as to 
 read thesie lines without a little thrill of pity for the author. Very 
 feelingly, Duncan recited them; while I gazed at the flowered 
 banks, and tried to imagine the poet wandering, care-presaed, 
 tearful, and alone, as the gloomy night of trouble gathered around 
 him, and, with wounded heart, he contemplated leaving his native 
 land forever. 
 
 It seemed like the rude breaking of a beautiful, wistful 
 dream, when Duncan suggested that unless we return to town 
 soon, we would not have time to go out to ALoway. So we re- 
 traced our steps to the Burns statue which stands in a prominent 
 place near the station; noted the "Old Plough Inn," — and two or 
 three other resorts (hallowed spots) where the poet and his dis- 
 solute companions used to drink dull care away and took a team 
 for the Burns monument. 
 
 The ride to Alloway is delightful, for the tramway passes 
 thru pleasant, shady suburbs and del.cious farming country. But 
 disappointment awaits one at the birthplace of the poist. Tea-gar- 
 dens, museums, high fences, and paved streets, give an air of ar- 
 tificiality and strainedness to the whole scene about the little 
 thatched cottage; and, altho the building itself remains essential- 
 ly as it was when Bobbie first opened his big, bright eyes to the 
 wicked world; yet the naive setting which I had anticipated was 
 as remote from the real one as the macadam highway near by 
 was from the woodsy lane in which the baby Robert whiled away 
 his early years. 
 
 A six pence admitted us to the museum. Here we found 
 many original manuscripts of the author; and among other relics, 
 his Bible which was recently purchased from private parties for 
 
 31 
 
1700 pounds sterling. Other more or less genuine remains of the 
 poet were exhibited in glass cases. Not the least interesting was 
 an old guinea note, on the back of which he had written these 
 lines: 
 
 "I know thy power, thou pasted leaf, 
 Full so sae all o'er woe an' grief. 
 For lack o' thee I lose my lass, 
 For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass, 
 I see the children of affliction 
 Unaided, thru my crust . . ." 
 
 The other lines are not legible. Poor Bobby, if he had 
 scrimped his glass a little more, he might never have had oc- 
 casion to write these verses. 
 
 The cottage itself is long, low-roofed, and thatched with 
 straw. The heavy stone walls gleam with whitewash, broken 
 here and there by low doors and tiny, twelve-paned windows. It 
 is a combination of house and barn; for one of its three little 
 rooms was occupied by the four-footed members of the family. 
 Many more relics of the poet's family are shown here, more or 
 less genuine. We purchased a few souvenirs, remarked the fresh 
 thatch on the roof and guessed how many times it had been 
 changed since Burns was born, then strolled down the road half a 
 mi.e to 'Alloway s Auld haunted Kirk." 
 
 This is the bit of country which furnishes the background for 
 Burns' masterpiece. On the rght of the road, surrounded by the 
 white monuments of a small kirkyard, stands the building made 
 famous by "Tam o' Shanter." The ruin looks much as it did in 
 the poet's time except where vandal tourists have carried off 
 parts of its walls and roof. Ivy veils the rear, and a font of solid 
 stone is built into the wall on one side. The church cannot be en- 
 tered, as the open doors now have bars of iron across them; but 
 we looked into the g oomy, spooky interior and ceased to marvel 
 that it was the reputed resort of the evil ones in days gone by. 
 
 Nearly in front, facing the road, is a marble slab bearing the 
 name of Wi liam Burns, the father of Robert; also that poetic es- 
 timate of the good man s character which concludes with the su- 
 
 32 
 
perlative declaration that "E'en his failings leaned to virtue's 
 side." 
 
 We paused in the road and looked back at this gray pile of 
 stone. It is almost shapeless now. No slender pillars nor flying- 
 buttresses give it grace; no gothic facade nor fretted vault ever 
 embellished its rude masonry; symmetry, stateliness, architec- 
 tural adornment, it never knew. Even its once simple beauty is 
 gone. Yet the names of Burns and the fictitious "Tam o' Shanter" 
 have elevated this ancient, tiny kirk to rank with abbey and 
 cathedral. We wonder and pass on. 
 
 A few steps further on we enter a large tea-garden which sur- 
 rounds the Burns monument on the bank of the River Doon. In 
 company with scores of other tourists, we ramble about the 
 gravelled paths; and, in spite of numerous notices to the effect 
 that we must refrain from touching any of the shrubs and flow- 
 ers, at opportune moments wie snatched sprigs of cedar and haw- 
 thorne. In the base of the monument, we found other souvenirs — 
 these with fabulous prices attached to them. Here, also, were 
 other relics of Burns viewed thru a protecting medium of glass. 
 Behind these rests a large sculptured piece representing the per- 
 sons of Tam o' Shanter and his friend, Souter Johnnie. It is evi- 
 dent, from their positions and general bearing, that the sculptor 
 caught them at a moment when they were "o'er all the ills of life 
 victorious." 
 
 We paused only a few moments here. The air was stuffy, the 
 crowd obnoxious, and I really believe we were getting sick of 
 relics. After all, there is not much comfort in gazing at the possi- 
 ble remains of a genius. Far better, it seemed to me, to wander 
 down along the banks of the rippling Doon from which Burns re- 
 ceived a part of his inspiration; to look up at the blue sky from, 
 perhaps, the very spot from which he viewed it; to linger on the 
 old "Brig o' Doon," and leaning over its stone wall, to watch the 
 fitful play of light and shadow on the Mmpid surface beneath. 
 Such moments are rich in sentiment. After the artificiality and 
 sordid commercialism of the tea-gardens and museums, they 
 seemed a blessed respite. So I gratefully applauded Duncan 
 when he suggested that the Spirit of Genius must hate monu- 
 
 33 
 
ments and parks, and love to dwell among the leafy braes of Bon- 
 ny Doon or in the mystic, sombre shadows of some old piled 
 cairn like Alloway Kirk. 
 
 The "Brig o' Doon" is a one-span, arched structure of mossy 
 gray and brown stone. Thanks to the friends of the poet, it has 
 not been allowed to disintegrate. Indeed, it looks good for a cou- 
 ple of centuries more. A few rods above it is an old mill which 
 makes a very pretty picture with the over-hanging trees and the 
 silvery ripples of the stream in the foreground. An attractive- 
 looking farmhouse, between the bridge and the mill caught my 
 companion's eye. "I m hungry," he exclaimed. 
 
 It was a prosaic remark in a place made sacred by romance, 
 but somehow a responsive chord was struck in my own gastro- 
 nomical soul. 
 
 "So am I," I declared." 
 
 "Let those tea-houses go fish!" was his profane exclamation, 
 "we'll go up to the farmhouse and get something good." 
 
 So, a few moments later found us seated on the grass in the 
 fluttering shade of the oak trees, before the vine-covered farm- 
 house on the bank of Burns' beloved Doon, thinking poetic 
 thoughts and gratifying our gastatory nerves with the exquisitely 
 delicious sensations of English strawberries and the most ambro- 
 sial cream. I am ashamed to say it, but we ate two boxes of ber- 
 ries apiece; and each berry was as big around as a half-dollar. 
 Such are English strawberries. 
 
 A couple of dreamy hours under the trees below the old mill 
 where the river turns to disappear beneath the massive arch of 
 the old Brig, then we bent our footsteps homeward. Throngs of 
 sight-seers blocked our way wherever we turned, the trains were 
 packed, and automobiles shrilly tooting desecrated the associa- 
 tions of the past. "To bad, too bad," groaned Duncan. I thought 
 I understood his feelings. 
 
 —WALTER GRAHAM, 1911. 
 
 34 
 
The Soldier of Gettysburg 
 
 His hair is white, and his head bends low; 
 His step, once firm, is now feeble and slow; 
 But today he's a hero, brave and true, 
 And the story he tells is to us ever new; 
 For hie was a soldier at Gettysburg. 
 
 How we thrill to hear of the victory won 
 In that terrible fray, when the summer sun 
 Looked down for three days on a crimson field. 
 And shone on a host that could die, but not yield — 
 Among them the soldier of Gettysburg. 
 
 Hie speaks of the fight and his voice rings clear. 
 And his eye grows bright, and we seem to hear 
 The bugle's note, and the cannon's roar. 
 As in fancy we peer thru the smoke-clouds which lower 
 About him, the soldier of Gettysburg. 
 
 At his place of danger he manned his gun 
 On that last red day till the fight was done, 
 And stood by tne piece while its fiery breath 
 Sent answer back to the thunder of death, 
 
 As it rolled 'round the soldier of Gettysburg. 
 
 He saw the vet'rans that Pickett led, — 
 Their gallant charge — the dying and dead 
 Thick strewn 'neath the wall where their triple array 
 Broke like the wave — to be hurled back like spray 
 From the flag of the soldier of Gettysburg. 
 
 He saw War's glory — a spectre grim, 
 Red, reeking with slaughter, it was to him — 
 As he stayed at his post thru shot and shell 
 To do his duty. He did it well. 
 
 This faithful soldier of Gettysburg. 
 
 35 
 
On the field of his valor the grass and flowers 
 Have covered the dead; and the trying hours 
 Of those dark days have passed with their pain; 
 Yet in mem'ry he lives them over again. 
 This aged soldier of Gettysburg. 
 
 He camps today with his one-time foe — 
 Now friend — 'mid the scenes of long ago. 
 In spirit his comrades return from the Past; 
 An army they were, of them all, he is last; 
 This lonely soldier of Gettysburg. 
 
 His hair is white, and his step is slow. 
 But his heart is brave and true, we know; 
 For he gave his life, at his country's call. 
 To the cause of Freedom. He offered all — 
 This patriot soldier of Gettysburg. 
 
 Aye, call him brave who death hath faced 
 With a fearless heart and a trust well-placed. 
 Aye, call him true whose final thought 
 Clings to the fiag for which he fought — 
 
 This grand old soldier of Gettysburg. 
 
 —HAROLD MORRISON SMITH, 1914. 
 
 John Warren, M. D. 
 
 "Ah-h-h!" The doctor settled back In the morris-chair and 
 elevated his feet to the mantle with a long breath of satisfaction. 
 Contentment emanated from every corner of the little room: from 
 the blazing fire, the soft hangings, the quiet furniture, the cheer- 
 ful plants, and the bright face of his wife as she seated herself 
 
 36 
 
with her crocheting'. Even the driving nor'east snowstorm out- 
 side, as it beat and tugged at the windows and whistled down the 
 chimney but increased the sensation of cheerfulness and comfort. 
 
 "Let her howl ! " said the doctor as he unfolded his paper. 
 "We don't care so long as that doorbell don't ring. May no baby 
 see fit to be taken with the colic or any other untoward thing to- 
 night. But if he does, Heaven help his little soul! — I won't." 
 
 He placidly scanned the front sheet; then turned to the sport- 
 ing page and ran over the headlines. Finding a vivid description 
 of a nice, bloody prize-fight, he read it aloud — chiefly because his 
 wife hated such things and he knew she hated them. As a girl 
 she had been one of those people that squirm all over at the mere 
 suggestion of anything unpleasant, while the sight of blood would 
 cause instant loss of consciousness. Thirty years of the doctor, 
 however, had quite cured her of such foolish habits. 
 
 "Ain't they horrid men, Maisie," he drawled, when he had 
 finished, "What do you s'pose they want to go pounding each 
 other up like that for?" 
 
 His wife made no reply. He half paused in his turning of the 
 leaves and looked at her. 
 
 '"What do you think about it?" he persisted placidly. 
 
 "Oh, I don't like it, and you know I don't," she snapped. "'I 
 don't see what you want to read such things to me for." 
 
 He grinned cheerily as he continued to turn the sheets. 
 
 "Oh, ah, here's someone gone and murdered somebody! Let's 
 see how he did it." 
 
 His wife looked despairingly at his feet — ^the upper part of 
 his body being carefully surrounded by a barricade of chairback 
 and newspaper — but they were rigid and relentless. 
 
 He had reached the point where one of the witnesses had 
 found a half burned bit of flesh, with some long hairs clotted with 
 blood, adhering to it, stuffed among some old newspapers in a 
 stove. The door-bell rang. 
 
 "Blast it!" he growled, bringing his feet suddenly to the floor 
 and looking round the room with an injured air. 
 
 "Who in time can be out on a night like this?" 
 
 37 
 
He threw down the paper and tramped to the door. A gust 
 of wind, laden with sleet and snow, nearly knocked him off his 
 feet. In the dim haze of the electric light he perceived a small, 
 dark object planted squarely in front of the doorway. 
 
 "Please, doctor, baby's awful sick and Mamma says would 
 you come right down?" 
 
 "Well, come in out of this storm and we'll see.' The child 
 stepped in and the door was closied. 
 
 "'Now let's see, my little man," as the doctor brushed the 
 snow off his dressing jacket and scanned the muffled figure, 
 "Your name is Clinton?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, Joey Clinton." 
 
 "Well now, Joey, you step right in here," opening the office 
 door, "and tell me what's the matter with baby." 
 
 "I dunno," with a self-conscious hitch. 
 
 "How long has he been sick?" 
 
 "Oh, 'bout two or three days." 
 
 "And you don't have any idea what the trouble is? How does 
 he act?" 
 
 "Well he squalled awful all yesterday and this morning. But 
 to-night he ain't said nothing; just moaned a bit when Mamma 
 went to put Millie and Mertie to bed; and she got scared and sent 
 me right up for you." 
 
 The doctor, who by this time had finished inspecting his med- 
 icine case, decided that further questioning was useless. He 
 closed the bag with a snap, and returned to the living room. 
 Without a word he crossed over to the large closet on the 
 other side of the room; kicked off his slippers; pitched them into 
 the closet with a resonant bang; snatched up a pair of boots and 
 sitting, down in a nearby chair began putting them on with vicious 
 jerks. 
 
 "You aren't going out tonight, are you, John?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Oh, I do hope it isn't far." 
 
 "Clinton's." 
 
 38 
 
"What, down over the bank? Must you go, John?" 
 For answer he drew off his dressing-jacket and began search- 
 ing the closet for a coat. She got up and taking his heavy great- 
 coat held it in front of the fire a moment. He allowed her to help 
 him into it and then, as he stood on the rug absently looking over 
 the collection of dirty and clean handkerchiefs, nails, keys, hypo- 
 dermic case, and so forth which he pulled from the pockets, he 
 broke out: "Remember the night ten years ago when this little 
 Joey was born and the Thrasher woman up at the Point was so 
 sick? It was a fierce night and I spent most of it on the road he- 
 tween the two houses. Stay half an hour with one and then off 
 and spend half an hour with the other. Didn't know but they'd 
 both die, and it seemed before I got through with it, that I'd drop, 
 myself. Never got paid for that time yet," 
 
 He cast the two soiled handkerchiefs at the table, pulled his 
 cap down over his ears, and went into the office, putting on his 
 gloves. His wife followed him and as he picked up his bag she 
 asked: "How long will you be gone?" 
 
 "Can't tell. Don't wait up for me. I'll let myself in. Come, 
 my little man." 
 
 She held him back a moment to see that his collar was prop- 
 erly buttoned up. 
 
 "There, there," with a half-sheepish smile, he broke away 
 from her embrace. "Don't come to the door-; you'll get your death 
 of cold." 
 
 He went out into the storm and the child followed him. It 
 was a fearful night; a driving north-east wind, laden with sleet 
 and snow — so thick and fierce it almost stifled one. There were 
 moments when they reached the bank, a rather low cliff close to 
 the water's edge, in which it seemed that they could not keep 
 their footing but must be beaten down and buried under the fierce 
 hoard of steel-armed snow-flakes. A light from a tiny cottage sud- 
 denly blinking at them through the storm, told them that they 
 had reached their destination. They entered without knocking. 
 The outer room was deserted, the light having been set in the 
 window to show the expected comers the way. At the sound made 
 
 39 
 
by their entrance, however, a woman came from the inner room. 
 
 "Oh, doctor, I'm so glad you've come. I don't know what to 
 make of baby." 
 
 "Well, Sarah, what seems to be the trouble?" 
 
 "I don't know. There, Joey, help doctor brush the snow off 
 his clothes. It's a fearful night out, sir." 
 
 Then followed some questions and answers as to the child's 
 condition and the two went into the inner room. Beside the one 
 big bed where the sick child lay in company with the two others, 
 and whereunto Joey was hastily preparing to betake himself, the 
 only other furniture was an old-fashioned bureau and two wooden 
 chairs. On one of the chairs which was drawn up near the bed, a 
 small lamp had been placed. It gave forth a dim, feeble light and, 
 instead of dispelling the darkness, seemed rather to call the shad- 
 ows to gather more closely around. 
 
 "Where's Harry?" asked the doctor, as he placed the other 
 chair by the bed and sat down. 
 
 "Gone with Frank to Cape Cod, fishing. They left two days 
 ago." 
 
 But the doctor did not hear her answer. He had bent over 
 the bed and the struggle had begun, the long struggle which was 
 to last through all the weary night and end in the defeat (shall 
 we call it?) which the crowding shadows and the wailing wind 
 predicted. 
 
 At last he signed to the anxious woman that it was all over. 
 She drew near the bed, caught up the little cold body and sank 
 sobbing on the chair from which the doctor had just risen. Kiss- 
 ing it again and again, she pressed it to her breast and rocked 
 herself back and forth in her grief. A sharper gust of wind, 
 sweeping in from the harbor, shook the little house till it rocked 
 on its slight foundation, and then, as if becoming aware of the 
 human sorrow, it drew back and died away in a pitying wail. The 
 doctor stood gazing compassionately at the weeping woman for a 
 moment and then, with a passing glance at the unconscious sleep- 
 ers in the bed, he stole softly from the room and left the house. 
 
 Outside, dawn had broken. The storm had abated in some 
 
 40 
 
measure but the frowning sky still hurled dense clouds of snow- 
 flakes into the gray, seething water. The wind, which had veered 
 about to the north'ard, had not fallen off a notch, and seemed to 
 carry with it a penetrating chill it had not possessed the night be- 
 fore. From the harbor came the fitful, dismal hooting of the fog 
 horn and from the darkness at the foot of the cliff, low creaks and 
 groans as the angry waters crushed thin ice cakes against the 
 rocks. 
 
 — ISABBLLE MONTGOMERY KINCAID, '11. 
 
 The Spirit of Unrest 
 
 It was a beautiful, green-and-gold afternoon, shadowy and 
 sweet, and musical with the songs of birds. Along the dusty 
 highway, a boy was hastening. For some time he hurried along, 
 looking neither to the right nor the left. Presently, leaving the 
 main road, he struck out across the fields and pastures, and head- 
 ed straight for the woods. When he rea.ched the edge of the for- 
 est, he paused a moment, in order that the spirit of the place 
 might more fully possess him. Then, pushing through the bushes 
 at the edge of the forest, he made his way into the deep, high 
 woods, where all was cool and still. Throwing himself down up- 
 on a carpet of pine needles, he looked about him. On all sides 
 stretched the long, dim aisles of the forest, filled with soft, green 
 twilight. The air was still with a hush that was broken only by 
 the soft dropping of pine cones and the rustling of branches. The 
 boy listened intently, hoping to catch the notes of some woodland 
 singer. Suddenly, deep down in the woods, a hermit-thrush be- 
 gan to sing. It was a deep note with a thrill in it, like a bell, 
 slow and solemn. It spoke of solitude and of mystery, and it stir- 
 red the heart of the listener with vague, restless longings. There 
 was a moment's pause, and then again that strange, mysteriotis 
 
 41 
 
song rang through the quiet forest. The boy listened with quick- 
 ened breath. Presently, springing up, he started in the direction 
 of the sound, hoping to get a glimpse of the mysterious singer. 
 But always the song sounded far ahead of him, and never did he 
 seem any nearer to the shy musician. Finally, the notes ceased 
 altogether, and abandoning all hope of seeing the singer, the boy 
 turned and made his way out of the woods. Just as he was 
 crossing the boundary line of the forest, there sounded once 
 again, faint and far, from the heart of the foriest temple, the her- 
 mits' evening hymn. The wild, haunting sweetness of the notes 
 followed the boy and left in his heart a strange unrest. 
 
 What was it about the twilight song of the thrush that 
 aroused these restless longings; and what was the nature of the 
 unrest that stirred in the heart of the listener? Probably every- 
 one in the world has, at some time in his life experienced these 
 restless moments. Perhaps the unrest is aroused by the sound of 
 a faraway train whistle, or the tolling of a distant bell. Or it may 
 be that it is awakened by the surging of the ever-restless sea or 
 the song of the wind. Did you ever, after a hard day's work, 
 walk home in the winter twilight when the wind was blowing 
 hard? Prom above, comes the dull roar of the wind, as it sweeps 
 through the great, empty vault. It barely touches the treetops, 
 making them bend and sway, and then it sweeps onward on its 
 journey around the world. As you listen to the wind's subdued 
 roar, there springs to your lips that beautiful verse: "The wind 
 bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but 
 canst not tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth. So is ev- 
 ery one that is born of the Spirit," and there stirs in your heart a 
 vague unrest to match the restlessness of the warring winds. 
 
 What, then, is the meaning of this unrest? Or is it a vague, 
 unmeaning thing that lights unconsciously upon the individual, 
 just as the autumn leaves, shaken from the wind-stirred branch- 
 es skimming; dipping, and tilting as they fall, slowly settle down 
 upon the earth, only the next instant to be blown away by a gust 
 of wind to another spot? Is this unrest such a brief, accidental 
 thing? Let us examine its nature for a moment. In the first 
 place, we have seen that the restlessness is always called forth 
 
 42 
 
by something pos&essing beauty, truth, power, or mystery; and 
 the unrest of the human heart is always in the shape of a yearn- 
 ing or longing. What, then, is this unrest but a longing of the hu- 
 man soul for the good, the true, and the beautiful? But goodness, 
 truth, beauty, and power ane all attributes of the Divine Power. 
 They are merely expressions of the Divine in the life all around 
 us. Then the restlessness of the human heart is fraught with 
 deep meaning. It represents the aspiration for a higher and no- 
 bler life. It is the reaching out of the human soul toward the Di- 
 vine. 
 
 But even now we might ask: What is the value of this un- 
 rest? Doesn't it merely lure us on toward a Will-o'-the-Wisp we 
 can never reach? Doesn't it fill the human soul with a longing 
 for unattainable heights? No; this unrest has a definite value. 
 We have learned in our study of chemistry that before a splinter 
 of wood can be made to burn, it must be raised to a certain tem- 
 perature. In the same way, the human soul must be raised to the 
 kindling temperature before it can be lighted with the divine 
 spark. The intense, uneasy longings that keep the soul in a per- 
 fect fever of unrest are a means of preparing the way for future 
 progress. They arouse the individual out of contentment and 
 ease and spur him on to greater achievement. 
 
 Since, then, in the case of the individual, unrest is one of the 
 conditions of progress, wie cannot but gain new hope when we 
 consider the restlessness of large classes of society. The discon- 
 tent of labor, the restlessness of women and the various forms of 
 the social unrest, are commonly looked upon as unfavorable 
 symptoms; but viewed from the standpoint of the meaning of 
 unrest, they are full of promise. They are merely the result of an 
 awakening of ambition, a longing for a higher standard of living. 
 
 But all these various forms of unrest — the unrest of the indi- 
 vidual, the discontent of labor, and the restlessness of women — 
 are but partial phases of the unrest of all human life. In the 
 gradual uplift of mankind, the spirit of unrest has played an im- 
 portant part. Not only is it the invariable accompaniment of 
 progress, but no progress is possible without it. It works upon 
 the souls of men like the strange, unresting impulse that prompts 
 
 43 
 
the unfolding of the rose. If you watch the blossoming of a rose, 
 you will see the petals slowly unfurl, as though in answer to some 
 mysterious voice that is calling, calling. In the same way, the 
 spirit of unrest is summoning the human soul to growth and de- 
 velopment. The present achievements of mankind are like a tri- 
 umphant burst of music that ends on a high note, with imperfect 
 close, hinting passionately at triumphs still loftier. And these 
 loftier triumphs can surely be attained if we will always be on 
 guard against ease and contentment, and, like the opening rose- 
 bud, keep our hearts ever responsive to the call of the spirit of 
 unrest. 
 
 — F. MARION LOUGEE, 1914. 
 
 Twilight 
 
 Twilight, and close of day, 
 Adown the quiet vale; 
 
 The daylight steals away 
 
 And e'en the shadows fail. 
 
 Afar the sun rays lighten 
 
 The western reach of sky; 
 
 And here the rose tints brighten 
 The flow'rets as they lie. 
 
 Twilight, and darkness deepens. 
 And gloom overdraws the sky. 
 
 And gently, gently creeping, 
 The night itself draws nigh. 
 
 44 
 
The night, a span of blackness, 
 And then, perforce, the dawn. 
 
 For the God who is God of the darkness 
 Is the God alike of the morn. 
 
 Twilight, and close of life, 
 
 Adown the vale of peace; 
 Naught of sadness or of strife; 
 
 Of bitterness surcease. 
 
 Afar the world of men 
 
 Is flooded still with light; 
 But here without their ken 
 
 Is hov'ring close the night. 
 
 Twilight, and darkness deepens, 
 
 And misty grows the eye. 
 And gently, gently creeping, 
 
 The night of death draws nigh. 
 
 The grave, a span of blackness. 
 And then, perforce, the dawn, 
 
 For the God who is God of the darkness 
 Is God alike of the morn. 
 
 — BLYNN EDWIN DAVIS, 1913. 
 
 The Tainted Sword 
 
 The sunlight, streaming in thru the windows of the little 
 house, showed an interior almost bare of furniture. The house 
 contained a single occupant, an old man, whose hair was white as 
 milk. 
 
 45 
 
From boyhood, John Watkins, had held himself aloof from 
 his mates. Only one comrade had ever broken into the se- 
 cret life — Paul Selkirk. A half century had passed since the Civil 
 War had wrought its havoc country-wide. Quite natural — just 
 one of its tricks — that John should enlist with the North and Paul 
 with the South. Quite natural that friends, as well as brothers, 
 should take opposite sides and kill and maim each other. The 
 deaths of John's father and mother; the deaths of Paul and his 
 two older brothers (all the sons of a woman who had sacrificed 
 her husband in the Mexican War) — these things were not espe- 
 cially unusual in a border state like Kentucky. After the war, 
 young Watkins (since his home had been burned) had purchased 
 a little land, built his hideous little red house thereon, and had be- 
 come as much of a recluse as it is possible to become in a fairly 
 thickly settled country village. Inasmuch as the sympathies of 
 the inhabitants of Scarborough had inclined somewhat towards 
 the South, he gradually came to be spoken of, not as "Captain 
 Watkins," but as "Long John" Watkins. Many whispers had gone 
 round lately that Long John wasn't "quite right in his head." No 
 one cared — except, it may be, thru fear. Not strange that an old 
 man, tho a half century had dragged by, should still hold himself 
 aloof from his mates! Especially if, in imagination; he contin- 
 uously saw and heard and lived again a battle — the battle of bat- 
 tles to him — and saw thru the mist a new-made mound, with a 
 pine slab for a headstone, saw this mound among the hundreds, 
 while the setting sun shone blood-red thru the autumn branches 
 and its light danced along his sword. 
 
 On this particular autumn morning, these thoughts were 
 again in sway. 
 
 Inside the house there hung upon two wooden pegs a sword. 
 The sunlight flashed along the blade, and the old man watched 
 the beams play upon the steel, as they found their way in thru 
 the restless leaves of a poplar standing just outside the window. 
 Long John, again, was thinking strange things. The sword was 
 red to him, red with blood drops! Strange, absurd thought, 
 this! Still, he could not seem to rid himself of it. It grew on 
 him. 
 
 46 
 
As thoughts of that great war of the Rebellion were accus- 
 tomed to chase one another thru his brain, always the mind dwelt 
 longer on one battle than on all others combined. Fighting and 
 hardships and privations and more fighting! And, at last, Five 
 Forks! — that was the order. Five Forks! There, had he led the 
 charge ! 
 
 The charge! The mad charge! Up the hill! A hundred 
 yards — half-way! Three men for one, now, and they had them! 
 Three for one ! Three for one is not a bad exchange, if three raw 
 recruits can bring down one Southern sharp-shooting dog! Up! 
 Up! Up! How they fall! What marksmen — the rebels! Up!. 
 Up! Still! They falter? What matter? Only a handful! The 
 bayonets! The bayonet will stop the dogs of hell! The 
 seasoned troops! Confusion of sounds, of sense! The smoke, the 
 din, the half-seen sights! The bayonet, the good bayonet! Falter 
 they? Falter? Now? At them — like men! Every man for him- 
 self — . On, on! Trampling the dead and dying beneath their 
 feet, cursing and cheering by turns! Confusion, smoke, a hard 
 man to kill! — a lucky stroke! The routing of the rebels! Victo- 
 ry! Who cares how dear? That last rebel — how he fought! (Up 
 to that time he had not known Paul's regiment, — only that he had 
 joined the hated ranks) . Then, thru the mist, a new-made mound, 
 a pine slab, upon which he had cut the name "Paul Selkirk," a 
 blood-red sun, showing dull and dead thru the autumn branches, 
 and — a tainted sword that had killed the one friend. 
 
 Thus did the old man's thoughts run their accustomed course 
 this morning — only he could not shut them out this time. So, he 
 sat and watched the sword, while the cycle of memories sought 
 vainly an end. 
 
 And. as he watched, again he heard that "drip" — "'drip" — 
 "drip," on the red, hard-wood floor! Could see the blood-flow, 
 too, as it slipped off the bright blade! Slow-steady! Slow — 
 steady! How it spattered! Ugh! Instinctively, his feet drew 
 back. The "drip" — "drip" went on. The sun burned in thru the 
 restless leaves of the poplar. The slow-ticking, old clock gave 
 forth a most uncanny sound, premonitory to striking the hour. 
 
 On hearing the clock, the old man started — then understood. 
 
 47 
 
He rose from his chair, more disgusted with himself than afraid. 
 Pshaw ! He would throw the thing away. Bury it so deep — . 
 
 He took the sword down from its pegs. The sun no longer 
 reached it and, at once, it seemed so harmless, so much to him, 
 that old war-sword, that his fears vanished as completely as any 
 ghost. Why should he ever think such things? He would not b© 
 so foolish again! 
 
 But — he recollected that this was the third time that he had 
 taken down the sword and reached the same conclusion! Yes, he 
 would remove the accursed thing from his sight — forever! His 
 reason was more than his sword! 
 
 He got up to go out when, suddenly, came to his ears the 
 sound of someone singing. The voice was that of Old Lady Sel- 
 kirk. The voice, cracked and tremulous — anything but musical — 
 was, nevertheless, full of a strange mingling of hope and trust and 
 fortitude. The words were those which she had sung for years, 
 but never quite so lustily it seemed — "The Battle Hymn of the 
 Republic." Long John Watkins listened. The thought, quick, 
 like the sting of a bullet, flashed into his head — he had heard 
 it mentioned the day before — that she was on the following after- 
 noon to be taken to the poor-house. And she was singing the 
 praises of God! She, who had given all her kin: a husband, and 
 three sons two sons to the North and one to the South, as they 
 had heard the call. She, who had given of her life for this, now 
 sang full lustily with patriotism and faith ! 
 
 The old man went back into the house. He put the sword 
 back upon its pegs and the sunlight flashed along the blade. The 
 old man stood a moment as one hypnotised, again watching the 
 sword, while the beams played upon the steel. Then he started 
 suddenly from his fascinated stupor, as a young soldier, dreaming 
 of his sweetheart, starts at the call to arms. The soldier knows 
 his duty must be performed before he may dream again. 
 
 * ** * * * *** * * * 
 
 Late that afternoon, the lawyer of the village, drawn by curi- 
 osity or something else, drove up to the little red house. He had 
 been strongly impressed by the strange mood of its owner, who 
 had been to him several hours earlier and had had his will made. 
 
 48 
 
leaving all his money to old Mrs. Selkirk, and making no provis- 
 ion whatever concerning the house. There had also heen a hint 
 that the lawyer should call the next time he drove that way — that 
 afternoon, any time, the sooner the better. 
 
 Upon reaching the house, the lawyer rapped loudly on the 
 faded red door. Receiving no response, he finally opened the door 
 to go in. 
 
 He saw an old man, a sword, and much blood. The setting 
 sun shone red against the big mirror hanging on the opposite 
 wall. The floor, the table, the chairs — everything giared red. 
 
 LAWRENCE C. WOODMAN, 1914. 
 
 Maine Weather 
 
 Maine weather! One not acquainted with the joy of this 
 prominent feature of Maine's charm would hardly think this sub- 
 ject particularly interesting or fruitful. But what a feeling of joy, 
 not unmixed, however, with sorrow, passes through the mind of a 
 person who has summered and wintered in Maine! 
 
 Perhaps the long, drowsy, smoky, purple days of autumn may 
 be the first to greet the new arrival. He glories in the harmony 
 of the yellow-brown trees or the radiance of the scarlet; he tramps 
 the highroad, or dreams away the sultry afternoon on some gently 
 rippling lake; he thinks, in his ignorance, that this is the much 
 discussed Maine weather. 
 
 Then, one morning, he peeps from his window to see the 
 ground fast whitening, and large, delicately cut snowflakes float- 
 ing down. This is merely one more of the happy surprises. 
 
 "Bur-r-r! What can be the matter with that furnace?" he 
 asks himself some mornings later, as he climbs shivering from his 
 warm bed into his dark, icy room. 
 
 49 
 
"Fine winter morning! Just a tinge of frost in the air," he 
 hears outside his window. 
 
 "Well, rather," he comments inwardly, and hugs the radiator. 
 
 It doesn't sound the least bit cheering when a neighbor kind- 
 ly remarks, by way of encouragement, that it is "only fifteen be- 
 low, lots colder coming." He determines to start for sunny 
 climes on the next train, but there seems to be an unconscious 
 fascination in this new department of the Weather Bureau. It is 
 cold, of course, but one could put on three or four extra sweaters. 
 
 The 'cold snap'' may continue for a fortnight or even longer, 
 but suddenly without the least warning, the weather changes its 
 mind, a gentle, drizzling rain begins, the water in the streets runs 
 in rivers, umbrellas jostle one another on the corner, and woe be- 
 tide the man who is caught with one of those extra sweaters — 
 and no rain-coat. 
 
 "Nothing but a January thaw," is the gracious reply to the 
 puzzled questioner, and he immediately decides that a "December 
 freeze" is the thing most desired by the community in general. 
 
 The snow begins to depart, fairly runs away to hide its face 
 in mud as if ashamed to be seen in such fine, warm, spring 
 weather, although it is only the first of March. Sleighs fast disap- 
 pear, and enterprising automobilists spatter through the deep 
 mud, trailing oozy ruin in their wake. The old settlers shake 
 their heads and murmur "more snow," but the new arrival laughs 
 at their ill-timed croaking and decides to buy a new spring suit 
 the next day. 
 
 Next day, every back yard appears a miniature fairyland. The 
 boughs of the trees are bent low, old picket fences are pearly, 
 glistening white, and a tiny diamond quivers on the tip of each 
 bush twig. "New Arrival" humbly wades off down street with 
 tears in his eyes and a handkerchief in each hand, but while 
 cursing his cold, he cannot but admire the beauty all about him. 
 
 The early spring predicted is rather tardy in showing its 
 much desired face. Hot days and cold days follow each other at 
 irregular intervals. Summer hat and fur coat, muff and linen suit 
 hobnob in the ice-cream parlor. The New Arrival is nearly ready 
 to depart from the joys of this life, when Spring, the real, the 
 
 50 
 
long-looked for, bursts upon him. The birds begin their conven- 
 tions in the fast-budding trees; the painters and carpenters drum 
 up trade; and the millin.er looks expectant. Everything sings the 
 glad tidings that Spring is here. 
 
 Who can find fault with the Maine summer, that thing sought 
 for from east and west, north and south? The pleasures of this 
 God-sent season can never be described by mere words. Let the 
 "doubting Thomas" try it. To be sure, Maine weather is varied, 
 but he who knows it best would not change its unexpected treats 
 for the placid sameness of any southern land. 
 
 —AMY LOUISE WEEKS, 1913. 
 
 The Price of Power 
 
 In silent wonder and awe a man and a woman are bending 
 reverently over the marvellous product of years of patient toil. 
 What miracle have they performed! The tiny grain of yellowish 
 metallic substance before them is sending off millions of electri- 
 cally-charged particles, moving with such tremendous velocity 
 that they look like myriads of twinkling stars revolving rapidly 
 through space. Is this in very truth a miracle? 
 
 Ah, no! This is simply an exhibition of magnificent power 
 and Professor Curie and his wife have paid the price of that 
 power. For this wonderful radium which they have discovered 
 was obtained only after long years of constant and untiring 
 energy. 
 
 If now, power in the inanimate world can only be obtained at 
 so great a price, should we not expect to pay at least as much for 
 power in the realm of life? 
 
 And yet how often do we hear men bemoaning their lot and 
 crying out against the "cruel fate" which has placed them in the 
 
 51 
 
world at such an unpropitious moment; longing for power, yet 
 never for a moment thinking of paying the required price. Is Fate 
 to blame for our lack of power when we fail? Listen! The great 
 Shakespeare says: 
 
 "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars. 
 But in ourselves, that we are underlings." 
 
 Should we expect to get something for nothing? As well go 
 into a jeweller's shop, demand the finest diamond to be had and 
 then curse the jeweller because he refuses to hand over the ring 
 without first receiving the required price. 
 
 The desire for power is not unnatural. It is, perhaps, one of 
 the strongest attributes of the human mind, and in one form or 
 another is it not something which every living soul yearns to 
 possess? With one man the longing may be for physical power, 
 with another for intellectual power, while still a third man's 
 heart s desire is the possession of spiritual power. Without this 
 longing there would be no progress. The world would stand ttill 
 and men would remain forever "underlings." 
 
 Yet the attainment of power is possible to every human be- 
 ing who is able and willing to pay its price. Our Heavenly Fath- 
 er does not mock His children with longings and aspirations for 
 things which they never can attain. On the contrary, He has giv- 
 en to every human soul the ability to become whatsoever it will, 
 upon only one condition — that the required price is paid. 
 
 What, then, we may ask, is the price of power? Simply this: 
 Work — good, hard, patient, unremitting toil. Nothing worth while 
 was ever accomplished in this world without hard and painstak- 
 ing effort. Lack of power is due more to lack of industry than to 
 any other single cause. Men with only average ability who pos- 
 sess dogged persistence and a genius for industry will become 
 men of power while their more gifted but indolent brothers are 
 living lives of impotence. All the forces in the universe seem to 
 serve the man who is determined to win and is not afraid to 
 work. "God helps those who help themselves," and thus the toil- 
 er draws down power from the skies. 
 
 Is it not always with feelings almost akin to awe that we re- 
 
 52 
 
gard those few strong souls, who, by infinite pains and labor, have 
 attained to a high degree of power? We look up and see them on 
 the heights, but we do not stop to ask ourselves how they got 
 there. We are inclined to regard them as more favored than 
 ourselves and to overlook the fact that 
 
 "They, while their companions slept. 
 Were toiling upward in the night." 
 
 Like the radium, great power is rare and those who get it 
 must pay a great price. 
 
 The kinds of power are as many and as varied as are the 
 forms of human activity, yet each one of them, whether physical, 
 mental, spiritual, or of whatever kind, has a definite price which 
 must be paid before we can call the treasure ours. 
 
 Who has not been swayed by the magic power of some great 
 musician? And how we have envied him his skill, forgetting that 
 no matter how much natural ability he may have possessed, the 
 mastery came only after long years of patient drudgery! 
 
 All about us we see examples of a fair degree of power, yet 
 since the world began we have had but a single instance of 
 perfect power. The life of Christ revealed to humanity the fact 
 that perfect power is possible. Yet even Christ had to pay the 
 price of His power. Thirty years of that divine life were spent in 
 preparation for the three short years of public service which lift- 
 ed the world from darkness into light. And then came the last 
 great price — ^the awful agony of the Cross. Ah, terrible indeed 
 was the price, yet the power of that one perfect life will live till 
 eternity, its divine rays lighting the pathway of millions of strug- 
 gling souls and revealing to them the secret of the only power 
 worth while. 
 
 And the time will yet come when all mankind will be able and 
 willing to pay the price of power. And then, like the tiny piece 
 of radium, or the wondrous life of Christ, their lives will send 
 forth only radiations of power, for our desires are realized and 
 the gift is ours, the moment we have paid the price. 
 
 —MARGUERITE E. LOUGEE, 1913. 
 
 53 
 
The Lucky Switch 
 
 Big Duncan McNeil swung gaily along the street, health and 
 gladness in every movement of his great, splendidly muscled 
 body. And did he not have good reason to be happy? He was on 
 his way to take No. 13, the next train to the famous White Ex- 
 press itself, on its two hundred mile run from Alta to the coast. 
 When Sinclair, who was running the Express, retired, which 
 would be soon, for Sinclair was a veteran in the service, McNeil 
 would be in line for his run, the most coveted run on the road. 
 Duncan McNeil was a young man, but his skill in running an en- 
 gine, amounting almost to genius, and his dare-devil courage, 
 which was yet tempered by an instinct which told him when to 
 dare and when not to dare, had raised him rapidly to his place as 
 the best engineer on the line. 
 
 In addition, there was Annie Norman, the little Scotch lassie 
 who was more to Duncan than anything else in this world. An 
 orphan since boyhood, the young engineer had centered his af- 
 fections on his old playmate, until now his dreams seemed likely 
 to be realized, for Annie had promised to name the day for their 
 wedding. So, as Duncan swung into the cab of his engine, he was 
 happy. He was still happy as his train swept through fields of 
 grain, through woods and by lakes on its way to the city by the 
 sea. His spirit was not dampened by the fierce thunder-storm 
 which arose, and driven by the wind, kept pace with him as he 
 rushed along. Indeed, he gloried in its wild thunder and inces- 
 sant lightning. At Southark he had to wait ten minutes for the 
 first section of the White Express. He smlied as he read his or- 
 ders to meet the second section at Euton. Once more his engine 
 became a thing of life at his touch. Darker grew the sky and 
 louder raged the storm, yet Duncan laughed and exulted in its 
 fury. But, suddenly, as he swept around the curve where forests 
 of pine hid the coming track, he saw another headlight flash into 
 view. To shut the throttle, push back the reverse, and jam on 
 the brakes, seemed one movement, so swiftly were they done. 
 But the impetus of the two trains was too great, and they came to- 
 gether, like two mailed knights of olden time in deadly conflict. 
 
 54 
 
But at the first shock the mailed warriors were both unhorsed 
 and their armor strewed the ground. The prompt action of the 
 two engineers saved much of the loss of life, yet it was a fearful 
 wreck, and many there were who did not live to tell the tale. The 
 engineer of the White Express was killed instantly. Duncan, 
 who had stuck to his engine, was thrown out of the wreck. 
 
 For many days he was unconscious; when he came to him- 
 self he was told that the telegrapher had proved that he (McNeil) 
 had disobeyed his orders and run by the signals. The orders had 
 been destroyed, he could prove nothing in self defense. For six 
 months he was laid off; then he was taken on again as an extra 
 on the yard engine. 
 
 The blow to his pride was almost unbearable; he, who had 
 held his head so high among his fellows, was forced to begin his 
 life again, yet not again, for it was amid the same surroundings 
 as before, with his old reputation to make him ashamed of his 
 present position. He might have left the road and gone to work 
 on another, you say? Yes, but three things held him back. In the 
 first place, tradition was strong. His father had worked for the 
 road from its beginning, had spent his manhood in its service and 
 had died at his post for its honor. To Duncan, every telegraph 
 pole along the line spoke of the days when he had ridden with 
 his father, of the time when he had begun to fire under his fath- 
 er's direction. As by invisible hands, his memories held him. 
 
 Secondly, there was Annie Norman. Yet here another grief 
 had laid its hand heavily upon him, Annie, when his trouble had 
 come, had declared that she could not and would not marry a man 
 who was almost a murder. Yet still she held him there; he could 
 not bear to go away where he would not know what was happen- 
 ing to her. 
 
 And lastly, his own pride forbade him to go. Here he had 
 risen; here he had fallen from his high position; here he would 
 rise again even higher than before. He would prove to those who 
 now frowned upon him of what metal he was made. True, he still 
 had many loyal friends, who believed that he had not been in the 
 least to blame, but there were many who had been jealous of his 
 rapid rise, and who now, even if they did not openly rejoice in. his 
 
 55 
 
downfall, were inclined to believe that there was a certain poetic 
 justice which was bringing him the ievil as well as the good. But 
 Duncan McNeil stuck stubbornly to his work, no matter what 
 friends or enemies said. For a year he worked on the shifter; 
 then he was given a chance to run on a gravel train, hauling sand 
 from the gravel pit to repair the roadbed. To Duncan such a po- 
 sition seemed far removed from the White Express, yet it was a 
 step upward; so he took it. And three months afterward came 
 his chance to redeem himself. The gravel train was running as a 
 regular train between Alta and Seboin, a distance of fifteen 
 miles. Therefore, according to schedule, Duncan pulled out of Al- 
 ta with a train of empties at 1.30 on a beautiful afternoon of ear- 
 ly spring. The calmness and joy of the day soothed his spirit, 
 hardened and saddened by his experiences. As he ran along he 
 thought of the time when he should regain his former position. 
 
 The gravel pit was two miles from Seboin. As Duncan 
 climbed the hill just before the side track to the gravel pit, he 
 thought he heard a distant whistle, but, pulling out his watch, de- 
 cided that he must have been mistaken, as no train was due at 
 that time. He reached the top of the hill and began the descent, 
 running slowly, in order to be ready for the sharp curve at the 
 entrance to the pit. As he neared the foot of the long hill, he 
 heard again the whistle, near at hand this time, and then around 
 the curve, saw a passenger train coming swiftly toward him. On 
 the single track a collision seemed inevitable, as no human power 
 could stop the two trains before they crashed into one another. 
 Instantly Duncan reached for the throttle and reverse, but even 
 as he did so, another thought flashed into his mind, and instead 
 of closing the throttle, he opened it wide, and with the other 
 hand released the brakes. At once the traih began to gain in 
 speed. But could it gain fast enough? By every means in his 
 power, in the few moments at his command, Duncan urged his en- 
 gine onward. Faster they flew, and faster, till they struck the 
 open switch to the gravel pit. Madly the engine rocked as it 
 struck the tangent, yet she took the switch, and followed by the 
 reeling empties, swung into the cut, only to fall on her side as the 
 
 56 
 
switchman threw the switch behind her, while the pilot of the pas- 
 senger almost grazed the last empty. 
 
 "What do you mean, Duncan McNeil, by coming in here like 
 that?" demanded Mike Casey, the engineer of the steam shovel, 
 angered by what he thought Duncan's reckless running. But his 
 words died in his throat as he saw the passenger train climbing 
 the grade. Duncan's train was on its side; the engine had rolled 
 half over; the hiss of escaping steam filled the air. Help had to 
 be summoned from Alta, and while the wrecker was reaching the 
 scene of action, Duncan lay directly in the path of the steam, 
 pinned down by his engine. When it was removed, it was found 
 that while he was severely burned, he was not otherwise injured. 
 The other members of the train crew miraculously escaped from 
 serious injury, although all of them were obliged to spend a few 
 days in the hospital. 
 
 The next morning as Duncan lay, swathed in bandages, in the 
 hospital, he closed his eyes in order to keep to himself his bitter 
 thoughts at the last rough blow given him by fate. But as he lay 
 there, he heard a soft voice, murmuring "Duncan," and, opening 
 his eyes, he saw Annie standing beside him. 
 
 "Oh, Duncan," she cried, "I am so proud of you now! And 
 you will forgive me for being so cruel, won't you Duncan?" 
 
 "I don't understand," whispered Duncan. 
 
 "You are a hero now, Duncan. That was the president's spe- 
 cial that you saved yesterday. And the despatcher has confessed 
 that he gave you the wrong orders before, and you are to have the 
 White Express as soon as you can run it!" 
 
 "I am very glad," smiled Duncan, "but there is one thing that 
 I want more than that, Annie. May I have it now?" 
 
 And Annie, bending down, pressed her lips to Duncan's. 
 
 — ROXANNA ELIZABETH SPILLER, 1912. 
 
 57 
 
The Ships 
 
 In revery here by the restless sea, 
 
 While the sun's soft rays are paling, 
 I am watching the sea-gulls flying free 
 
 And the ships go sailing, sailing. 
 Far, far away from the headland steep. 
 Out where the wild wide waters sweep, 
 Away out there on the blue, blue deep. 
 
 While the sun's soft rays are paling; 
 With every sail unfurled, they go. 
 Glistening gold in the sunset glow. 
 Far out where salt, sweet breezes blow; 
 Over the rim of the world they go. 
 
 The ships go, sailing, sailing. 
 
 —PETER I. LAWTON, 1910. 
 
 A Bachelor's Romance 
 
 "Rumble, grumble, crumble, rumble," hummed the old cook 
 as she clattered the pots and pans. "Rumble, tumble, bumble, 
 grumble." The ceilings and walls echoed this dismal chant as I 
 sat resting from a day's labor in the fields. I was a country bach- 
 elor and gained a meagre living by the plow. I lived, with my 
 ancient cook, in a ramshackle cottage built a century ago. The 
 cottage was full of mysterious corners and cupboards. It had 
 locked doors that barred unused rooms, and the credulous coun- 
 try villagers believed them to be haunted. The furnishings were 
 dingy and worn, and everything had the appearance of great age. 
 
 But in spite of these defects I loved my humble home, and 
 would have been contented, if one cruel circumstance had not ex- 
 isted in my life. I had always been misjudged by my neighbors, 
 
 58 
 
and because of self-conceit and timidity, I had not had the 
 strength of mind to live down their prejudiced opinions- When a 
 youth, my bashfulness and timidity had been ignorantly mis- 
 judged as obstinacy and pride, and this judgment had continued 
 and grown strong. It had always been necessary for me to work 
 hard on the farm in order to keep alive, and I had not received an 
 opportunity to leave my home people. They had stamped me as 
 harsh and cold, and harsh and cold I was externally, but within 
 my heart burned for friendship and good-cheer. 
 
 I was sitting alone on one of two wall-seats which ran out 
 from either side of the fireplace, and I was recalling the events of 
 the day, and longing for a companion to cheer my lonesome even- 
 ings. Suddenly, as I looked across the fire, I saw a beautiful face 
 peering into my own, the face of a beautiful woman who was seat- 
 ed on the opposite wall-seat. How she had entered the room with- 
 out disturbing me I shall never know; but there she sat, gazing 
 at me across the fire. An attack of my old shyness urged me to 
 leave, but she smiled and beckoned to me across the hearth. Her 
 strange, enticing leyes drew me on, and finally, we met and em- 
 braced. 
 
 "At last. I have a companion and shall be happy," I thought, 
 as we sat watching the darting flames in the fireplace. The flames 
 leaped and roared, but the happiness of my heart was stronger 
 and fiercer than they. The long hoped-for desire of my life had 
 come true. 
 
 "We sat there for a long time until the flames grew dim and 
 the embers smouldered. "I must go, now," she said, "but I will 
 come again tomorrow night, if you will watch the flames as I 
 enter, and as I now leave. Promise this to me." I promised, and 
 she left. 
 
 On the next evening she stole behind me, as I sat in front of 
 the hearth. Her mysterious entrance did not seem unusual to me, 
 because I was so happy. We talked and watched the flames until 
 they died away. "Shall I come tomorrow night?" she asked, lin- 
 gering by my chair. 'If you do not, I will not live. O, come!" 
 "Then watch the flames," she said, and disappeared. 
 
 59 
 
On the next evening, I sat again, gazing into the fireplace and 
 listening to the wind roaring up the chimney. I was waiting for 
 my guest to come and it was growing late. I glanced across the 
 fireplace. There, peering over the hearth, was her face, smiling 
 to me as she had done on the first night. Nothing was visible ex- 
 cept her face, and I rushed to it madly. She drew back upon the 
 seat quickly, and to my surprise, I saw a hug;p, roughly-dressed 
 man in the further corner. He stepped over to me, and said; 
 "See here. Mister, being as my lady-friend, here, and myself has 
 had a sight of misfortune and trouble, having had sickness and 
 big bills, we wondered if you wouldn't be kind to us and subscribe 
 for a one-voiume reference work, thereby helping us unfortunate 
 people and getting a fine book for yourself. And you can kindly 
 pay ten dollars in advance to us now." 
 
 "Great Jupiter!" I screamed, "another book-agent scheme! 
 After all of my dreams. I'll never take the book." A low growl 
 sounded behind me, and as I glanced around, an ugly bull-dog 
 was preparing to leap on my back. "All right; I'll take it. Here's 
 your money. You've got the best of me." The woman took the 
 bills, laughing shrilly at my trembling hands. Her coarse com- 
 panion whistled to his dog, and they left. 
 
 Disappointed and lonely, I resumed my seat, and watched the 
 flames die down. The wind roared up the chimney, the boards 
 creaked, the cups and saucers rattled, and the old cook hummed, 
 "Rumble, grumble, mumble, rumble." 
 
 — WILBERT S. WARREN, 1914. 
 
 60 
 
Friendship 
 
 Then what is friendship? But a cup to hold 
 
 The golden wine of words, fair-spoken praise, 
 Endearments tender, cheering when the days 
 
 Are dark; a book wherein our secrets old 
 
 We write, and know the page will ne'er unfold 
 Our confidence; a light in this dim haze 
 Of half -seen shapes to guide our feet in ways 
 
 Of safety? Nay, not half of friendship's told. 
 
 It is a cord of two strands twisted well 
 
 That bears what neither strand alone could bear 
 
 And still but twists more tightly with each strain. 
 
 The cord that, though we've fallen even to Hell 
 And shudder in the dark caves of despair, 
 Securely draws us back to Heaven again. 
 
 — GULIE A. WYMAN, 1910. 
 
 The Two Voices 
 
 It was a dismal dreary day in the latter part of October. The 
 sky was overcast, and gray, low-hanging clouds threatened an au- 
 tumn storm. The leafless trees along Skinner Street stretched 
 their gaunt limbs out to the dull sky and swayed mournfully as 
 the wind howled through them. The dust and dead leaves 
 whirled in eddying clouds. The flying dust, however, did not con- 
 ceal from the curious villagers who passed along the street that 
 a fluttering lavender ribbon and a green wreath hung upon the 
 door of old Esau Hawkins's little one-story cottage. 
 
 For sixty years this little dwelling and its occupant had been 
 objects of curiosity in the village, and this crepe on the door in 
 no wise lessened the interest. There was no question as to who 
 
 61 
 
was dead, for but one person had lived in this cottage in the mem- 
 ory of the oldest inhabitants. That person was Old Esau Haw- 
 kins. Of course, the "Old" wasn't really a part of his name, but 
 no one could remember when Esau hadn't been old in appearance 
 as well as name. So, "Old Esau" he was, to everyone in the vil- 
 lage. But that "Old" implied more than age to most of the vil- 
 lagers. The ill-mannered children thought it a good taunting pre- 
 fix as they called out after him, 
 
 "Old Esau Hawkins, 
 Don t wear no stockings." 
 
 Indeed, Old Esau didn't wear any stockings, and only a part 
 of a pair of shoes. Winter and summer, year after year, he 
 slouched about in sandals that looked worn enough to be the cast- 
 off property of some ancient Egyptian. 
 
 The more mature people of the village regarded Old Esau 
 with various sentiments. Some of the more superstitious regard- 
 ed the shaggy-bearded old man as a veritable wizard, and told 
 tales about his prowling around the woods at night, collecting 
 magic herbs. Old Esau seldom went out during the day and this 
 fact, of course, contributed to the mystery. Many and many a 
 time he had been seen walking slowly and stealthily around his 
 house in the dead of night, uttering a queer half-audible chant, 
 which was generally considered to be a nocturnal conversation 
 with evil spirits. Other strange uncanny stories had been nar- 
 rated about the black cats that came from all parts of the village 
 at certain new moons and held midnight concerts on the old 
 man's roof, and about strange lights that flitted about the yard 
 like fairy lanterns. Some declared that they had heard the old 
 man talking and singing in his house when they could see him 
 walking outside. If you had asked these good people for any 
 proofs of these strange happenings they would doubtless have 
 been at a loss to give them to you, but, nevertheless, they firmly 
 believed them. At all events, the taunting children dared not 
 taunt at night, nor dared pass the house, except on the opposite 
 side of the street. Less superstitious people declared that old 
 Esau was merely an eccentric old miser, though where he could 
 
 62 
 
get the money to hoard, since he had never been known to work 
 in sixty years, was an open question. 
 
 One thing however, was known to be true — that he liked to 
 sing, and that he did sing frequently. He seemed to amuse him- 
 get the money to hoard, since he had never been known to work 
 woman from a neighboring village, who occasionally came to see 
 him. She, by the way, was more or less an object of curiosity her- 
 self. 
 
 Day after day Esau's cracked old voice could be heard sing- 
 ing various old songs and hymns but most frequently it was, 
 
 "Love of Jesus all divine, 
 
 Fill this longing heart of mine." 
 
 There was at times sincerity and feeling in the old voice that 
 was pathetic, but usually the voice sounded forth monotonously, 
 with a lifeless metallic ring to it. 
 
 To-day Old Esau was dead and the mystery of his life was 
 still unsolved. Although his house had been free from company 
 during his life, it was crowded on the afternoon of his funeral. 
 The village people gathered, sad to say, mostly from pure curiosi- 
 ty. Each one entered with- an awed feeling that grew upon him 
 as he looked at the corpse of the friendless old man lying in the 
 coffin. For the first time, the villagers experienced a feeling other 
 than curiosity toward Old Esau. They pitied him because of his 
 former loneliness, but what fascinated them all was the mystery 
 of his life. 
 
 Solemnly the minister spoke: 
 
 "We know little of the life of this man who has just passed to 
 the great beyond, but we feel certain that according to his light 
 he lived worthily and well. Often have I heard him singing the 
 sweet old hymns of the church. Especially did he like to sing the 
 hymn beginning 'Love of Jesus' — "The familiar cracked old voice 
 of the man lying in the coflin took up the words: "Love of Jesus 
 all divine," and finished the hymn. 
 
 The minister's hands, which held his Bible, dropped to his 
 sides, and his face became as white as that of the corpse before 
 him. A deathly silence took possession of the people, while a 
 
 63 
 
startled "Heaven keep us" broke from the lips of an old deacon. 
 All eyes were turned upon the dead man's face, but he lay motion- 
 less, with unspeaking lips. Still the quavering voice went on. 
 The assembly drew back in horror. Could it be Old Esau's spirit 
 singing at his funeral? Wide-eyed the people gazed, and yet an- 
 other shiver of horror ran over them as a curtain behind the cof- 
 fin trembled slightly and drew back. An involuntary groan came 
 from them as they gazed in a fascinated stupor at the wavering 
 curtain. Three times it drew partly back and then fell again with 
 an uncanny motion that struck terror to their hearts. The minis- 
 ter dropped on his knees and began to pray. After an almost in- 
 terminable time, as it seemed to the waiting assembly, the curtain 
 derw aside and disclosed in a corner — a graphophone and beside 
 it the mysteriosu woman from the neighboring village. In a few 
 words she explained the episode as a whim of the half-crazy old 
 man, who had made her promise to carry out his wish. One by 
 one the people departed, satisfied that the mystery of Old Esau 
 Hawkins' two voices was at last solved. 
 
 — ALETHA ROLLINS HARMS, 1913. 
 
 An Extract from a Translation of 
 Goethe's Faust 
 
 The Poet's Dedication: 
 
 Again ye near, oh, wav'ring forms of vision. 
 Who early once to my sad glance were shown; 
 To hold ye this time, be it with precision? 
 Or to this craze does still my heart feel prone? 
 Ye're pressing near: ah, well, may't be your mission 
 Through fog and mist to make me hear your tone. 
 My bosom, by your nature's magic shaken, 
 Once more feels all the joys of youth awaken. 
 
 64 
 
And with ye come tlie thoughts of joyous days: 
 
 Thus many a dear friend's shade doth reappear. 
 
 Just as in these old, time-worn, fading lays, 
 
 First Love and Friendship as their tale I hear. 
 
 My pain renews. The winding erring ways 
 
 Of life remind me of my bitter tear. 
 
 They re called by name, these good ones, ah, deceived 
 
 Of joys by fate; they're gone; I am bereaved. 
 
 No longer do they listen to my song. 
 These souls, to whom my verses once I sung. 
 Dissolved, indeed, is all the friendly throng; 
 The first rehearsal, oh! all faded, rung. 
 The unknown masses bear my plaint, now long; 
 Though they're approving, fear my heart has stung. 
 All those who then had liked my thoughts well versed. 
 If still alive, err in the world dispersed. 
 
 But I am seized with unaccustomed hoping; 
 
 That quiet, ernest spirit-realm I seek. 
 
 Like those on an Aeolian harp you're groping, 
 
 My notes in doubtful, plaintive song are meek; 
 
 A tremor holds me; tear with tear is coping. 
 
 My heart, though firm, it feels so soft and weak. 
 
 What I possessed appears so far away. 
 
 All things that vanished now as truths hold sway. 
 
 Prelude in the theatre. 
 
 Director. 
 
 So often you have helped me, stretched out an aiding hand; 
 What hope have we, oh, poet, clown, here in the German land? 
 The crowd I wish to favor, the crowd that let's us live. 
 Seats, stage, and mass are ready for us the play to give. 
 
 Comfortably are seated the people in the chair, 
 
 Their eyebrows high, uplifted, to praise our acts played fair. 
 
 I thought I knew to flatter the viewers spirit, mind. 
 
 Yet this is overwhelming, there's nothing I can find. 
 
 65 
 
The best they are not used to; they've read a fearful lot, 
 How can we make old, novel; give splendor to the plot? 
 Indeed, I wish the masses into the booth to pour; 
 Thus overwhelming, coming to crowd the narrow door. 
 
 And early in the morning I see that day at four 
 The ticket-box so crowded, and still they're coming more. 
 By elbowing and pushing they're rushing from behind. 
 Eager, oh, so eager to fill their wand'ring mind. 
 
 And just as in a famine folks crowd the baker's door, 
 They'll stretch out for their tickets, although their necks be sore. 
 But now, oh friends, do help me; do find for me some way; 
 Go, proceed, be active; compose it now, to-day. 
 
 Poet. 
 
 Oh, of that mixture do not speak to me; 
 
 From this my sight that busy mass conceal. 
 
 One glance alone makes inspiration flee; 
 
 Celestial nook of silence, I'll to thee, 
 
 Where to the poet may pure joy appeal. 
 
 Where Love and Friendship, heart's grand blessing, 
 
 God's hand that made it fills with caressing. 
 
 Oh, all that from our inner soul has sprung. 
 Ill-fated now and now perhaps succeeding; 
 All that the lip has shyly lulled, has sung. 
 Wild moment's might devours, on this it's feeding. 
 The knell of worthy toils oft long has rung; 
 Now it's complete, in honor now it's leading. 
 All things that shine are short-lived, truthless; 
 Age stands for truth, age is not ruthless. 
 
 Clown: 
 
 Posterity and age to me, please, do not mention. 
 Assume posterity were taking my attention. 
 Who'd then give pleasures to our fellow-men? 
 
 66 
 
These they desire, and these they even crave. 
 The presence of an artful jester brave 
 Is, I should think, of value even then. 
 
 For if the poet's mind to please does trend. 
 
 His life the people's whims cannot embitter. 
 
 He is desirous, yea, of many a friend 
 
 Whom to impress, he thinks, is surely fitter. 
 
 Let phantasy, intelligence, and passion. 
 
 And sentiment, and reason lack no zest; 
 
 Remember well, that gay minds eas'ly fashion 
 
 Good thoughts to verse and make them seem the best. 
 
 Director. 
 
 But first give them sufficient for their fee. 
 Folks come to look and much they wish to see. 
 If many a trick before the crowd is done. 
 So that the wond'ring mass will stop their fun, 
 Forthwith the world at large you will have won; 
 You'll be a much-respected, (much-loved) man. 
 The mass you force by mass; of else there's none. 
 And each one will select his favorite part. 
 Whoe'er brings much will have for every one 
 And satisfied for home they will depart. 
 Scenes make a play; so give it all in scenes. 
 Such medley. Sir, to you good fortune means; 
 As easily presented as thought out. 
 If you present a whole, the crowd may doubt, 
 This audience here to criticism leans. 
 
 Poet: 
 You cannot feel how bad such business is. 
 How little this to real art befitting. 
 Those fellows' works, far from the goal amiss, 
 Let's you, methinks, the genuine be omitting. 
 
 Director: 
 Such a reproach with me has little might: 
 A man, who thinks to do the right, 
 
 67 
 
Must keep the tools that always best are fit. 
 
 Remember, none but soft wood you've to split; 
 
 Juat take a glance and see for whom you write; 
 
 For this one leisure hours have no might, 
 
 That one comes filled from some fine, well-set table; 
 
 And what I call the hardest plight. 
 
 Some come from journals, oh, of many a lable. 
 
 Confused they hasten here just as to masquerades; 
 
 So curious they, that winged seems their walk; 
 
 Themselves and their adornment, to this add dames and 
 
 maids. 
 Who without wages join in play and talk. 
 Why let your dreams be art's most noble peer? 
 With connoisseurs of art are these seats lined? 
 Look at the patrons from anear. 
 Some do not care; some not the least refined; 
 He after this hopes cards to play; 
 
 That one on some maid's bosom pass the night. 
 Why do you plague, poor fellow, say 
 For such a cause the muses, is it right? 
 I tell you give them more and more; give much; 
 Then you will never lose your own set goal. 
 Try to confuse the mass in heart and soul; 
 Content to them will never bring your touch — 
 What is it? Fascination? Is it pain? 
 
 —ARTHUR SHUBERT, 1914 
 
 68 
 
In the Closed Room 
 
 M. Renault was glancing over his morning paper, when he 
 suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! Here is a case that may prove interest- 
 ing. Listen: 
 
 "An attempt was made last night to murder M. Gauthier, a 
 retired grocer. The whole affair is shrouded in the deepest 
 mystery, as the only possible entrance for the murderer happened 
 to be occupied at the time by his house-keeper. M. Gauthier 
 escaped with a bad wound, and can give no account of his assail- 
 ant other than that he was very powerful, and was gone as 
 suddenly as he came. The house-keeper and neighbors testify 
 to hearing a revolver shot." .... and then came the usual 
 details. 
 
 My friend jumped up and prepared to go out. "Want to come 
 along?" he asked. 
 
 Seeing that he intended to visit the scene of the crime just 
 read, I gladly agreed. M. Renault and I were old friends. We 
 had gone through school together, had decided to live the life 
 of single blessedness together, and had made a fairly good liveli- 
 hood from our practice as lawyers in Marseilles. My friend was 
 also very much interested in the investigation of the half-hidden 
 mysteries that puzzle even the professional detective, and so I 
 could sympathize with his eagerness at this new mystery. 
 
 Arrived at the house where M. Gauthier lived, we entered, 
 with the permission of the police, who kept outside the crowd 
 that through curiosity always collects at such a scene. M. 
 Renault was evidently on good terms with the officers, for they 
 immediately gave him permission to examine any part of the 
 house that he wished. First he turned from the hall-way to the 
 scene of the crime, the front room on the left. It had two win- 
 dows, both in front, and was ventilated only by a grating that 
 was fastened into the chimney. My friend tried to move this; 
 but it was evidently firmly set in the mortar. The windows were 
 of leaded glass, without sashes, and so could not be moved. The 
 only other opening was the door by which we had entered. 
 
 M. Renault hastily surveyed the walls and ceiling, which 
 
 69 
 
were intact save for the tiny bullet hole that pierced a picture- 
 frame and the plaster behind. The bullet, the police said, had 
 not been found, as it had evidently pierced the wall and fallen 
 outside. The rest of the room was quite bare — no carpet, smooth 
 wide-boarded floor, little furniture, and that of a heavy, old- 
 fashioned character, and the fireplace — that was all. 
 
 M. Gauthier was in the house, and my friend asked to see 
 him. He had not been very badly injured, but the long furrow 
 of the bullet could be plainly seen when the bandage was raised. 
 
 "Tell us how it happened," suggested my friend, and the 
 grocer began. 
 
 Seating himself in a heavy arm-chair beside the center-table, 
 he told of his coming in, the night before, from an evening with 
 friends. He had seated himself just as he sat now, and was deep 
 in thought when suddenly he felt himself attacked by some in- 
 distinct object. As he leaped up, he upset and extinguished the 
 light and the rest of the battle was carried on in darkness. Ap- 
 parently his opponent had seized a revolver that had been on 
 the table and nearly killed him in a chance shot in the dark. 
 The noise, however, had so frightened the intruder that he seem- 
 ed to have withdrawn by the same way he had entered. As to 
 what that way was, M. Gauthier could offer no explanation, as 
 he had almost immediately become unconscious, but it was 
 evident from his manner that he had decided, for himself at 
 least, that his assailant was hardly of a corporeal nature. 
 
 My scientific and legal friend apparently sympathized with 
 him, although I knew that the supernatural explanation did not 
 appeal to him. Thanking M. Gauthier for his trouble, he con- 
 ducted him from the room, and then, having closed the door, 
 searched the whole surface of the walls, floor, and furniture with 
 the wonderful swiftness and minuteness characteristic of him. 
 Finally, with a sigh as of content, he remarked: 
 
 "Well, the whole thing is solid — not a crack in the whole con- 
 struction. I'll guarantee that there's no secret door in this busi- 
 ness." And, knowing my friend's thoroughness, I of course 
 agreed. 
 
 "Then the murderer must have come in through the door," 
 I remarked, M. Renault did not answer. He remembered that 
 
 70 
 
the newspaper had mentioned the fact that the door had been 
 watched by the house-keeper at that time — so did I, for that 
 matter — but I had thought that this had been merely a newspaper 
 exaggeration, to make the mystery deeper. But no; she was 
 also in the house, and in answer to our questions said that she 
 was positive that no one could have left the front room after the 
 revolver shot. Her room was on the right, corresponding to the 
 one in which the crime had taken place. She had been awakened 
 by a tremendous crashing and stamping, and had rushed into 
 the hall. While she stood there, suddenly a revolver shot was 
 heard, and then followed a thud — then, silence. The door remain- 
 ed closed, and after fearful hesitation, she entered timidly. The 
 chair and lamp were upset, and her master lay stretched on the 
 floor unconscious. She had replaced the chair, and raised him 
 to it, when several of the neighbors, alarmed by the noise, came 
 in. M. Gauthier was soon revived, and th.en a search was made 
 for his assailant. Although the house-keeper was sure that no 
 one had left the room, the house was searched. No one was 
 found, and so the whole matter remained a mystery. 
 
 I must confess that I was completely bewildered. Here a 
 man had been attacked and severely wounded in a closed room, 
 and yet a moment later no sign of his assailant was to be found. 
 I looked at M. Renault, who I had noticed had smiled rather 
 oddly once or twice before — as when examining the bullet-wound 
 — and now he was almost grinning. Surprised at his apparent 
 callousness and yet trusting that in some way he had seen 
 through the whole matter, I cried, "Why, what is there humorous 
 about this? Can you tell us who the murderer was?" 
 
 "Why, yes," he answered, "the fiendish spirit that has so 
 terribly frightened you all is there." He pointed at the fender, 
 at each corner of which rose a pointed brass ornament. One was 
 slightly discolored with a brown streak at the top. 
 
 "Why why but how did it happen?" exclaimed one of 
 
 the police. M. Gauthier was evidently as mystified as myself. 
 
 "Well, as there was no crime, this is not a place for the 
 police; however, we may satisfy their curiosity. 
 
 "M, Gauthier, are you not sometimes troubled with night- 
 mare?" 
 
 71 
 
"Why, yes, once in a long time," hesitantly answered M. 
 Gauthier. 
 
 "Then, I suppose your 'evening out' with friends must have 
 laid some grounds for a return of the trouble. Suppose, now, 
 that you had fallen asleep in the chair. When attacked in your 
 dream you struggled until nearly awake. I am sure we have all 
 been in such a condition, when for a moment we do not know 
 where we are, or what is real and what the dream. So, rising 
 from your chair, and bewildered betwixt your imaginary assail- 
 ant and reality, you continued the struggle, upsetting the lamp 
 and chair, seizing and firing the revolver, and finally stumbling 
 in the dark and striking your head on that ornament. It was 
 purely your own actions that aroused the house-keeper." 
 
 Sheepishly the lately-excited police and "victim" bade us 
 adieu. 
 
 "But how did you ever dream of such a queer explanation?" 
 I asked my friend on the way home. 
 
 "Why, of course from the first I knew there was some rational 
 explanation. I've never yet investigated a spirit or ghost that 
 didn't turn out to be either a fake or an illusion. This one could 
 not be an exception, although I soon found that no person could 
 have entered or left the room. Finally, an examination of the 
 wound where the bullet had grazed M. Gauthier's head, as he sup- 
 posed, showed me that it was too wide to have been caused by 
 a revolver-bullet. The fender-ornament showed what had caused 
 it. That's all. It was perfectly obvious that M. Gauthier must 
 have been the sole actor in his exciting little drama, and with 
 that idea, I immediately hit on the explanation — ^which, I fear, was 
 rather an anti-climax to the ideas the police had in mind." 
 
 —ARTHUR B. HUSSEY,1914 
 
 72 
 
The All-Quest 
 
 A modest wood anemone 
 
 Dwelt in a sylvan glade; 
 And all about, with romp and rout, 
 
 The elfin sunbeams played. 
 
 And by her side, on drooping stem, 
 With face of virgin blue. 
 
 Serene, amid the grasses green, 
 A violet nestled, too. 
 
 And as a rillet babling on 
 To join the river's reach, 
 
 Would pause to ponder Nature's laws, 
 They chatted, each with each. 
 
 "Anemone, with brow of white. 
 
 Thy face is fair to see; 
 In love you scan the sky above — 
 
 Thine all is purity. 
 Anemone, with heart of hope, 
 
 In sooth, I envy thee." 
 
 "Nay, Violet of perfumed prayer, 
 
 Beloved of the dew. 
 Cerulean glow of Heaven below, 
 
 Thou tellest God is true! 
 Yea, tender, tilting Violet, 
 
 I would that I were you!" 
 
 And ever, with its joyous lay. 
 The rillet tripped along — 
 
 "I flash; I glance; I dash; I dance; — 
 I flood the world with song! 
 
 I treble over groaning wheels — 
 
 The mist-'mazed main's my quest,- 
 
 Yet, underneath its purling breath 
 'Twas sighing, "Ah, to rest!" 
 
 Anemone and Violet, 
 
 And Rillet, as of yore; 
 Bach blossom's here within its sphere — 
 
 The Rillet ripples lore — 
 They murmur, murmur, each to each — 
 
 Complaining o'er and o'er. 
 
 — C. V. CHBSLEY, 1912 
 73 
 
A Later «' Hamlet 
 
 »» 
 
 The great American drama has not been so often heralded 
 as has the great American novel, but of its coming w.e are no 
 less sure. The audience for it is gathering even to-day. Many a 
 man and woman of the thoughtful type which, a decade ago, 
 spent evenings quietly at home with book or scholarly review, 
 now answer the call of the theatre. Sitting unobtrusively among 
 those who responded long ago, while the call was shrill or harsh, 
 they help to bring the better plays that will sometime give place 
 to the best. The appeal of the play is many-sided and powerful. 
 It reaches the mind directly, by way of all the senses, instead of 
 being transferred, as is a book, from the printed page by one 
 sense alone. It has the dynamic force that springs from action. 
 It brings a man into nearness with his fellows, if not into touch 
 with them: it is social. The magic of the whole induces a 
 pleasant and wholesome exhilaration. Moreover the play, being 
 condensed to a degree books can never attain, is a great time- 
 saver. Once drama flourished because men had leisure for it, as 
 for many other things of strength and beauty; to-day it is chosen 
 by many who have time for recreation of no other kind. The 
 audience is already gathering. At some day there will arise a 
 master-dramatist, one who will mould all things to his purpose. 
 Upon his sensitive soul will flash the light of a scene, an episode, 
 a character, — of another soul, perhaps, that shall waken him to 
 highest creation. Then, when the master and his theme are met, 
 will come forth the great American drama. 
 
 Though we cannot forecast the time of its appearance, we 
 are yet able, gazing on the future through the glass of the past, 
 to discern, if not its scope and scene, at least a dim outline of 
 the personality around which it might be built. 
 
 In that deep mirror of the past we view the progress of the 
 race. We see the great eastern nations, holding man of less value 
 than the brute beasts; Egypt, building mercilessly with labor of 
 tens of thousands; Greece, wonderful in her intellectual and 
 aesthetic development, but unmoral and selfish; Rome at her 
 height, magnanimously granting that all may worship what gods 
 
 74 
 
they please after paying reverence to the deified beast on the 
 imperial throne. We see the mediaeval church, embracing all 
 nations, but binding them thereafter with iron bands of hypocrisy 
 and superstition. We see the Reformation, early Protestant 
 England, Puritan New England; onward to our own day. And in 
 the evolution of our race we see as an essential element the 
 gradual growth, not of loyalty or courage, but of fair mindedness: 
 of the will as well as the power to grant to the other man rights 
 and judgment, to see in him a fellow-being. Slow has been the ad- 
 vance, — sometimes has lapsed for centuries; yet from Israel be- 
 neath the lash, making bricks without straw, to the widening 
 and deepening social spirit of to-day, how great is the change. 
 Perhaps that deep mirror will sometime show a people who no 
 longer echo the cry of constitutional government, — grand and 
 necessary as it was when it rose: "A chance for us as well as the 
 King!" but who live and work by the greeting, "For thee and 
 them as well as me, friend." In that day there will be no strife, 
 no separation into parties, no need for partisanship. 
 
 As for this last, psychology tells us that a man cannot be 
 absolutely non-partisan. But note, it does not say that man's 
 capacity for joyous and full-hearted partisanship, such as now 
 obtains, may not be lessened. Is not this diminution, indeed, 
 precisely what must occur? For as the ability to see the merits 
 on both sides of a question, to recognize justice in the plea of 
 each of two contending, to admit one's neighbor's right as well 
 as one's own, strengthens, in similar ratio must weaken the nar- 
 rowness that sees but one side, feels but one's own claim. 
 
 In every age there have been men "ahead of their time," in 
 the eyes of the elders; hopelessly so, but grandly, too, for their 
 names form the role of the great. In centuries to come there 
 will be men in advance of their time. Of these men, one shall 
 by-and-by be born, and grow to youth and manhood, whosie mind 
 and soul have gained the summit of the mountain ages old. A 
 man he will be who sees with impartial sight the breadth and 
 depth of life as well as the narrows and the shallows; sees the 
 fallacy and pity of our earthly judgments; a man capable of judg- 
 ing, yet withholding his word; not a mere judicial-minded 
 machine, slowly weighing with infinite care of scrutiny, and final- 
 
 75 
 
ly choosing for self-advanoement, but a man with, breadth of 
 mercy, depth of love, infinitude of hope, — and of tragedy. For 
 look you, can the inner life of one who sees all the needless 
 causes of suffering in life be anything but tragedy? 
 
 His position, in the world will not matter. He may be an 
 aged king, ruling wisely, but neither loved by his people nor 
 understood; a young statesman of brilliant promise, deposed ere 
 he reaches his full powers, by men less just than he; a school- 
 master, loving and beloved, for children although themselves 
 always eager to "take sides" can yet appreciate the attitude of 
 the grown-up who does not. He may be an artist, trying to show 
 men the needless sorrow caused by narrow sight. He may be a 
 meditative "chore boy," or a beggar by the street corner. It will 
 not matter: he will live. 
 
 Him the master mind will preceive, will seize upon, will 
 re-create. In the work of the master the people will see the 
 flower that had bloomed in the other's life. Then, the curtain 
 fallen, every man will look with new comprehension upon his 
 neighbors about him, for into each one's heart will havie come a 
 new gift of understanding. 
 
 —JESSIE HAGUE NETTLETON, 1910 
 
 Cradle Song 
 
 Hush thee now my darling! 
 
 Time to go to sleep. 
 Close thy weary eyes, love. 
 
 While the shadows creep. 
 Sunset's golden twilight 
 
 Now has turned to gray; 
 Rest in sweet repose, love, 
 
 Till the dawn of day. 
 Rocking, rocking, rocking. 
 
 Steady to and fro. 
 Up and down like father's ship 
 
 Tossed by winds that blow. 
 Sleep, my darling, sleep! 
 
 —CARRIE A. RAY, 1911 
 
 76 
 
The Price of Peace 
 
 The twenty-fourtli day of December was waning and tlie 
 ground was covered with snow. A few large flakes were still 
 fluttering slowly, silently downward, although the sky had clear- 
 ed. The wind was humming in the chimney strange, weird songs 
 and the cheerful blaze from the fire-place rose and fell in perfect 
 rhythm to its music. Now it sank to a dull red glow, leaving 
 the corners of the room in darkness, and now rose in bursts of 
 flame, clearly revealing the rich furnishings of the room and the 
 solitary man sitting before the hearth with a paper in his hand. 
 Solitary, Judge Newton had been for years, save for the com- 
 panionship of his dog, Towser, who now lay stretched out on the 
 rug before the fire. Now and then the man held the paper out 
 over the fire as if about to destroy it but each time he drew it 
 back. 
 
 "Why should I?" he asked, speaking half aloud. "He brought 
 it upon himself and was it not enough to save him from bank- 
 ruptcy and disgrace?" He leaned back in his chair and looked 
 thoughtfully into the fire. In its glowing light, he seemed to see 
 the face of a woman of radiant beauty, her eyes beaming with 
 quiet happiness. It was a face he had not seen for years and he 
 began to wonder what changes time had wrought in its youthful 
 beauty. — But hark! Above the noise of the wind frolicing in the 
 chimney he heard the sound of bells. Softened by his thoughts 
 of other days, he listened, but their joyful peals failed to awaken 
 any response in his heart. Joy! Was there such a thing? Yes, 
 there was no mistaking the look on the face of the woman 
 pictured in the fire. It maddened him. Why had he missed the 
 one thing in life worth while? The softened look gave place to 
 one of grim determination and he grasped the paper more firmly 
 in his hand. "She made her own choice," he said. 
 
 At these signs of returning consciousness in his master, the 
 dog rose from his rug, stretched himself before the fire and 
 went over to the man's side. He put one paw on his knee, seized 
 the paper playfully in his teeth and looked up with pleading, 
 brown eyes. "What! do you want it destroyed, too?" the man 
 
 77 
 
asked bitterly. "I thought you would stand by me better than 
 that." The dog, puzzled at his mood, released his hold of the 
 paper and returned to his rug, where he kept one eye on his 
 master. The fire rose and sent forth tempting flames in the 
 direction of the paper. The man hesitated and again held it 
 forth. He did not need it. Why not? — 
 
 The door opened softly and the maid announced a visitor. 
 Hastily he put the paper in his pocket and arose. As he looked 
 at the man in the doorway, the lines of bitterness about his 
 mouth deepened, but in the waning light, the visitor did not 
 notice. "Merry Christmas, Jack!" he cried in cheery tones as 
 he entered the room and extended his hand; which greeting was 
 coldly returned, as his host motioned him to a seat by the fire. 
 
 "How does it happen, Robert, that you come here tonight 
 of all nights, when you should be rejoicing by your own fire side?" 
 asked the Judge. 
 
 "Do you mean you have not guessed?" asked his visitor, 
 Robert Bradlee. "I came to pay my debt to you and take home 
 to Mary, the best of Christmas presents, the note, to burn on 
 Christmas morning." 
 
 "You are late in payment," the Judge said coldly, after a 
 pause in which he noted the well worn overcoat of his guest, 
 the stoop in his thin shoulders and the lines of care above the 
 eyes, that still looked forth with kindliness in spite of their 
 habitual sadness, which tonight had almost disappeared. 
 
 "Yes," he answered slowly, "but I did the best I could. It 
 was a big debt, but tonight every cent is paid and I am a free 
 man before the world." 
 
 "I told you, you were a fool to assume that debt. Bob," (the 
 old name slipped out unconsciously) "when there was no legal 
 claim upon you." 
 
 "Yes, and at the same time advanced the money to pay it," 
 added Bradlee. "Your words and deeds are very contradictory. 
 Jack," with a note of tenderness in his voice. "But we must 
 come to business now for I must take the next train back to 
 Mary. So please get the note and I have the money." 
 
 There was a moment's hesitation. The Judge understood 
 the sacrifice that must have been made to secure that payment. 
 
 78 
 
He cleared his throat. "There is no note," he answered slowly. 
 "It was cancelled long ago. Honesty pays many debts." 
 
 Robert Bradlee sank back into his chair. "What do you 
 mean?" he asked. 
 
 "What do I mean?" asked the Judge. "What do you mean 
 by coming here and offering me money? Do you think I don't 
 know the price of that money, the sacrifices, the giving up of one 
 pleasure after another, the years of toil — why man, it was a 
 super-human effort to take that debt — and you insult me by 
 offering me the result of that effort! I tell you, there is no 
 note!" 
 
 For a few moments there was silence and then Robert 
 Bradlee spoke, "Nonsense, Jack!, you cannot mean it, no man in 
 his senses would give away such a sum. Do you think it is right 
 to deprive me of the end for which I worked? In all my efforts 
 there has always been before me the thought of the time when 
 every cent should be paid and the last note destroyed." 
 
 "Every payment has been made and the last note destroyed," 
 answered the Judge. Then in fiercer tones he added, "Can't you 
 think of anyone but yourself? Think of Mary, your wife. She 
 has earned as much of this money as you. All these years she 
 has been sacrificing, economizing, going without those things 
 women love, to satisfy her husband's exaggerated idea of honor. 
 And now, if you persist in this madness and give me your last 
 cent, her sacrifice will not cease. Keep it, give her a home, 
 educate the children, get the comforts you all need. Bob, can't 
 you see that it is of Mary and not yourseK that we must think?" 
 
 The passion in the voice of the Judge sent Bob Bradlee's 
 thoughts back to the days of their youth. "Jack," he cried, with 
 the light of a great understanding dawning in his face. "Forgive 
 me, I never guessed it. You loved Mary, too!" 
 
 The Judge bent his head in assent, and both were silent for 
 a time looking into the fire. Bradlee was the first to speak. 
 "I have had the easier life. Jack, in spite of your success, for in 
 all my trials, I have been sustained by companionship and love. 
 I understand your feeling, Jack, but don't disappoint Mary's joy 
 in burning the note on Christmas morning." 
 
 79 
 
The Judge turned to his desk, seized pen and paper, wrote 
 a few words and handed them to his companion. 
 
 "Perhaps," he said, with a grim smiie, "Mary will get as 
 much enjoyment from keeping this as she would from burning 
 the note. You are an honest man, Bob, and Mary chose aright." 
 
 Bradlee took the signed receipt. In the revelation of this 
 man's soul, it were base to press the matter further. 
 
 "Mary will keep this paper as her most valued treasure," he 
 said, and with a long handclasp, they parted. 
 
 Left alone, the Judge turned to the fire again and took the 
 paper from his pocket. "Yes, Towser, we'll burn it now," he 
 said, and, at the change in his master's voice, the dog barked 
 gleefully. And so man and dog watched the paper slowly dis- 
 appear. The wind roared down the chimney and a triumphant 
 burst of flame shed a halo of light about the face of the Judge. 
 The lines of bitterness had disappeared and the light of a great 
 happiness shown in his eyes. For the first time he felt only the 
 joy of his long love, its pain was forgotten, buried beneath the 
 snowy mantle that would hide the past of all the world from the 
 New Year that was so soon to come. There fell upon nis ear 
 the sound of distant chimes. From the belfry of the village 
 church was still ringing, like a benediction to his spirit, the glad 
 message of Christmas to all the world, "Peace on earth; good 
 will toward men." 
 
 —LUCY McCANN, 1914 
 
 80 
 
At Magnolia 
 
 The wind blows cold from o'er the sea, 
 
 The breakers swell and bolst'rous grow. 
 
 While foam flies high in ecstacy 
 
 As o'er the rocks the waters go. 
 
 The blue-gray waves are tempest-turned. 
 The surf is mad and raging wild — 
 
 The tender sea-weed's grace is spurned. 
 And on the beach its stems are piled. 
 
 The rushing water-tongues devour 
 
 A former breaker's backward flow; 
 
 And cruel in their awful power 
 
 They sweep the ledge where grasses grow. 
 
 Far out from land the storm-floods roar, 
 And as they rumble toward the coast 
 
 The caverns groan along the shore 
 And of their thunder-echoes boast. 
 
 The great expanse of ocean, wide 
 
 Against the sky a ghost-form takes 
 
 While on the cliffs the beating tide 
 
 Shimmering sprays of whiteness makes. 
 
 O'er them hangs a heavy mist 
 
 Which veils the scene in gruesome light; 
 Weird cloudlets form where'er they list 
 
 Enshrouding day in shades of night. 
 
 To eddying inlets wave crests roll 
 
 Where lurk the rocks with savage sides; 
 Still on, o'er snares of Knavish shoals. 
 
 Triumphantly the storm King rides. 
 
 Bells toll their dismal monotone. 
 
 The sound of horns grows dull and drear, 
 The earth reverberates their moan; 
 
 All nature seems to gasp with fear; 
 
 81 
 
For Heaven itself is nowhere still, 
 
 Its troubled clouds are hurrying by. 
 
 With magic speed they move, until — 
 A rainbow decks the sky! 
 
 Oh wondrous rainbow up above 
 
 My heart is filled with joy in thee. 
 
 Thou art a message from God s love. 
 Which shines through all eternity. 
 
 —CARRIE A. RAY, 1911 
 
 Pat, The Brave 
 
 Patrick Mahoney, short, stout, and jolly, leaned back in his 
 battered green porch chair, and surveyed the little patch of 
 door-yard with an air of silent satisfaction. His physical attitude 
 bespoke supreme content. He drew in a great mouthful of 
 smoke from his stuffy, black pipe, and blew it in little curling 
 rings which hung lingeringly for a moment in the still air and 
 then gradually disappeared. He looked meditatively at Betsey, 
 his wife, who sat on the porch step shelling peas for the morrow's 
 dinner. Ah, a fine woman was Betsey and a mighty good cook 
 too. Her equal wasn't to be found in the county. She could 
 cook a meal fit to set before His Majesty, God save him! His 
 mind lingered pleasantly on the supper of liver and fried onions, 
 flanked with the dish of potatoes and noggin of buttermilk 
 churned by the same capable hands. He had eaten until as he 
 said, "he had filled his contract," and afterwards had taken his 
 usual after-supper position on the porch, still mentally berating 
 the insufficient capacity of three pints which nature had allotted 
 to him. 
 
 Now his head was sinking on his chest, and the gray embers 
 were dropping in miniature showers from his pipe at each fitful 
 sleepy jerk. It was Betsey who touched him gently on the 
 
 82 
 
shoulder and awakened him saying, "Arrah, Pat, boy, ye had 
 best turn in. It's the best cure for what ails ye. The supper 
 ain't disagreeing with ye, is it?" So Pat sleepily disrobed and 
 climbed into the bed. He crossed his hands above his head and 
 fell asleep almost immediately. His last waking thoughts were 
 a combination of that delectable supper and the charms of the 
 one who prepared it. 
 
 Betsey, in the meanwhile, was walking around in the kitchen 
 in stockinged feet and arranging the details for breakfast. She 
 was whispering the words of the prayer for sailors as she 
 measured milk and flour, when suddenly a yell broke the silence 
 and turned her words of prayer into an ejaculation of horror. 
 Her eyes fairly popped from their sockets. Seconds seemed 
 hours before she could summon resolution to go to see what the 
 matter was. Muttering a prayer to the holy Virgin she took the 
 candlestick in her trembling hands and started for the bed-room 
 door. Scarcely had she put her hand on the door knob to turn 
 it, when the door burst open and Pat's stocky form shot through 
 the door as if hurled from a catapult, and knocked the horrified 
 woman against the wall. "Oh, Pat," she gasped, "What's hap- 
 pened?" Pat's short, bristly hair stood upright, glinting red in 
 the candlelight. His face was as white as the night dress that 
 clung to his trembling frame. The fingers of his rigid hands 
 were held up as if to ward off an invisible enemy. "Ah," he 
 wailed, "my time has come. The Old Boy himself put his cold 
 hand on me face and said, 'Pat, I'm all ready for ye.' Me time 
 has come fer sure. Betsey, girl, send for the praste to shrine 
 me soul, for it's dead I'm to be soon. What'll become of ye, me 
 girl, when I'm gone. Always be a widdy, Betsey and keep me 
 memory green. Don't pay any attention to that Jim Callahan 
 if he tries to hand out blarney to ye. May his cake be dough 
 and the divil have the bakin' of it, if he ever tries to cajole ye. 
 Ah, send for the praste, and be quick." 
 
 An obliging passer-by summoned the priest, who gravely listen- 
 ed to Pat's excited account of the visitation, and then prepared 
 to take his confession. 
 
 "My son, relieve your mind of every secret sin," was his 
 advice. Thus admonished Pat began with a groan. "Yistiddy 
 
 83 
 
I knocked the lights out of Jim Callahan for havin' free talk 
 about my Betsey. May the saints fergive me, I hope his rascally 
 bones ache yet!" 
 
 "Patsy," was the solemn rejoinder, "be forgiving. Consider 
 that these are the last moments of your life on earth!" 
 
 "I fergive him," stammered Pat. 
 
 "Go on," my son. 
 
 "Yistiddy, I played a game of poker with John Sheehan, 
 and, begorry, beat him three dollars and twenty cents — ." 
 
 "My son," gravely rebuked the priest's voice. " — and I 
 gave it to the blessed church," continued Pat hurriedly. "I 
 swore I'd beat John in the off'ring to ye Rivrince, and I did, and 
 this morning I drank a wee sup of fine whiskey. There was only 
 three fingers in the bottle, ye Rivrince, and it was a burnin' 
 shame to waste it." For a moment Pat forgot his confession 
 as his mind reverted to the three fingers of Scotch Rye. He 
 was recalled by the calm voice of the priest. 
 
 "Think well, is this all?" 
 
 "Yes, y'r Rivrince and may the evil one get me if it isn't." 
 
 After the usual ceremonies the priest departed leaving the 
 two alone again. "Pat," anxiously suggested the weeping Betsey, 
 "do be getting into bed, and compose yourself. I'll sit by you 
 and read from the Book to you." After much coaxing Pat 
 crawled, trembling and pale, into bed to wait for the expected 
 summons. The hard day's work on the section and lulling note 
 of Betsey's voice proved too much for Pat. He crossed his 
 arms behind his head, and in spite of the dreaded appearance 
 went to sleep again. Betsey, with lips ashy and continually 
 moving in prayer watched her husband anxiously. He didn't 
 sound like a man who was expecting to close his earthly account 
 at any moment. His breath came first in subdued puffs and 
 gradually his mouth dropped open. He proved his still tangible 
 hold on life by snoring, now softly and then with increasing 
 vigor. Suddenly over the sleeper's face came a look of unrest. 
 His hand dropped on his face and its coldness was disturbing the 
 deep slumber. He moved uneasily, stirred, and opened his eyes 
 slowly. His face took on an expression of horror, and he sprang 
 upright with a piercing shriek. "Me time has come!" he yelled, 
 
 84 
 
But Betsey knew better this time. She had solved the problem 
 of the hand of the Evil One who had summoned Pat. She shook 
 his shoulder until he was thoroughly awakened, and explained 
 the mystery to him. When he was quite convinced, he crept 
 back into bed with a sheepish grin. After a few minutes silence, 
 he murmured sleepily, "Betsey, girl, it was just as well I didn't 
 tell the praste 'twas a whole pint instead of three fingers." 
 
 —FRANCES V. BRYANT, 1915 
 
 Wintry Lonesomeness 
 
 Sad! how sad I am! 
 
 What gloomy shadows o'er me pass! 
 
 What ghostly dreams, 
 
 What frosty streams, 
 
 My soul compass! 
 
 Once — oh, yes, once, 
 
 For I know not how long 
 
 Since last I saw the dance, 
 
 And heard the merry song 
 
 Of summer, woodland nymphs — 
 
 Once I was a youth. 
 
 My spirit roamed with murm'ring brooks. 
 
 The cuckoo's nest. 
 
 The hemlock's crest, 
 
 The sylvan nooks. 
 
 I climbed the mountain heights 
 
 Where fragrant slumbers dwell 
 
 That lull to sleep the sprites 
 
 Beneath the. shadowy dell. 
 
 I heard the valley-breeze 
 
 Tuned to the shepherd's flute; 
 
 What strain! what melody devine! 
 
 85 
 
— A shepherd lad 
 
 Is never sad, 
 
 Doth never pine. 
 
 Amid the flowery mead 
 
 He lingers morn and eve; 
 
 Upon his liquid reed 
 
 The woodland echoes weave 
 
 Celestial harmonies 
 
 And Nature's lulling tunes. 
 
 But now, the stormy seasons roll! 
 
 The tempests blow 
 
 The drifting snow 
 
 Within my soul. 
 
 The deep'ning shadows brood 
 
 Over the ocean main; 
 
 The hill stands cold and nude 
 
 Above the village plain; 
 
 The drowsy owl screeches 
 
 At yonder rising moon. 
 
 Oh! yes! — once — long time ago, 
 
 When silent streams 
 
 Mid blissful dreams 
 
 Of flowers did flow, 
 
 My heart was light in years. 
 
 But now, the wintry blast 
 
 That frets the clouds to tears. 
 
 Enshrouds my distant past 
 
 In thunder, storm, and fears. 
 
 — COSTAS STEPHANIS, 1915 
 
 S6 
 
A Real Fairy House 
 
 Don't you believe in fairies? I guess you don't know mine 
 then and the big fairy house I made for 'em all myself. Will 
 you promise never, never to tell a single person in the whole 
 world if I tell you? 'Cause don't you see some folks laugh and 
 say there aren't no fairies, but there are, just you wait. 
 
 One time long, long while ago when the little tiny leaves 
 were just a-comin' out on the trees, I made a big brown house 
 for my fairies. Then I chucked 'em in and locked 'em up. Only 
 they wasn't fairies then, they was just little bits of round 
 brownies, all fast to sleep. I felt real sorry for 'em 'cause the 
 house was dark and I was afraid they'd be lonesome when they 
 waked up. I used to go to the house every morning, but I didn't 
 see any fairies. The sunshine came, too, and one night the rain 
 drops came tumblin' down so hard I knew my fairies must wake 
 up. And sure 'nough, next mornin' right out on top of the house, 
 there stood the tiniest fairy, all dressed up in a green suit and 
 a holdin' his little hands up to me. I scooches down and was 
 goin' to pull him up but he hollers in a little squeaky voice so 
 you could hardly hear him, "Let go o' me." 
 
 And I's so s'prised I lets go quick. Then he says "Hello" 
 and I says "Hello" and he says "What's your name?" and I says, 
 "Betty, what's yours?" and he says, "Bob Up." Then we talks 
 some more and I asks him what he hollered so for when I pulled 
 him. And he says, " 'Cause my brothers are goin' to wake up 
 pretty soon and they'd be lonesome if I wasn't here." I tells him 
 I won't pull no more 'cause I don't want the little fairies to be 
 lonesome and wish they hadn't waked up. He acted kind of 
 sleepy like, and I has to go to school anyway so I says "Good- 
 bye," and he says, "Good-bye, come and see me some more," and 
 I says, "All right." 
 
 There aren't any fairies at school and all the time I kept 
 thinkin' and thinkin' and thinkin' about my fairy at home and 
 how glad I was I had him. When school was done, I run hard 
 as I could to my fairy house again. And I kept a hearin' the 
 funniest little noises 's if there was some old bumble bees a 
 
 87 
 
hummin'. And what do you s'pose — there was lots and lots of 
 little igreen fairies, just like the little one I saw in the mornin', 
 all rubbin' their eyes as sleepy as could be. They didn't pay any 
 'tention to me, so I says real polite like, "How'd you do." Then 
 my little mornin' fairy pokes his head up and says, "Hello, Betty." 
 I says, "Hello." Then he says, 'Tell us a story," just the same 
 as I say to Mamma when I'm sleepy. I didn't know what to do 
 'cause I didn't know what kind of stories little fairies liked best. 
 But I begins tellin' 'em about Goldylocks and I talks real kind of 
 low like the way Mamma does at bedtime. I just got to where 
 the great big 'normous bear says in his great big 'normous 
 voice, "Who's been a' sittin' in my chair?" and I looks down 
 and all those little fairies are sound to sleep. Then I gets up and 
 don't make a speck of noise so's not to wake 'em up. 
 
 Next mornin' I gets up pretty nearly the same time's the 
 sun does and runs out to laugh at my fairies for goin' to sleep 
 before they ought to. But they says, " 'Sh-h,' " just as loud as 
 they could, which really and truly isn't loud at all. "You'll spoil 
 our concert. Listen," they says. And I listens and there was 
 a great big fairy a singin' just as sweet. He didn't look like 
 my fairies at all but he wore a brown coat and a pretty red 
 shirt. He kept a singin' "Cheer up! Cheer up!" till we couldn't 
 help laughin' and clappin' our hands as hard' as could be. At 
 last he went away. I was sorry and I think my fairies were too. 
 
 After that every night and every mornin', my fairies and I 
 had the nicest times. But one day when I came, every single 
 one of 'em was just as cross as could be. I was scared 'cause 
 they never looked that way before. "What's the matter?" I says. 
 Then they says, "Some bad wicked fairies came and kicked us 
 and punched us and was a-^goin' to push us right out of our own 
 house. And our sides are so lame we can hardly stand up." I 
 was dreadful mad 'cause my little fairies were all a-droopin' over. 
 And I says, "Where are those bad wicked fairies?" And they 
 says, "Right here hidin' behind us." And sure 'nough, there 
 they were as scared as could be. And I says in a great big voice 
 same's Papa's when I'm naughty, "What's you in my fairy house 
 for?" and they don't say a word. Then I pulls everyone of those 
 bad wicked fairies up. Then I gives my fairies a drink of water 
 
and they feels better. But do you know those bad wicked fairies 
 would come back every chance they could get and I had to keep 
 a pullin' 'em every day. I guess they was jealous 'cause my 
 fairies had such good times. 
 
 The sun and the wind used to tell them hundreds of stories 
 because you know the sun and the wind go all over this world 
 and see everything. They would tell about little boys and girls 
 who didn't talk a bit the way we do. Some of them lives where 
 it is winter even in the summer time and do you know some 
 of them lives where there isn't any snow at all. Sometimes the 
 wind and the sun would tell about poor little boys and girls no 
 bigger than me, who had to work all day long in a great big, big 
 place and never had time to play. Then the fairies and I would 
 cry 'cause we felt so sorry. But one thing always made us glad. 
 The wind and the sun said that no matter where the little 
 children were, when they were very, very little they always 
 believed in fairies and it was only when they grew up that 
 they'd forget. The wind and the sun every time they leaves 
 my fairies, they says, "Be a little bigger when we come back." 
 The rain drops comes too, sometimes to wash my fairies faces, 
 and they always says the same thing. So my fairies grows and 
 grows. 
 
 One day I saw most every one of 'em had something real kind 
 of funny that they were a holding just as careful. "What you 
 got there?" I says. And they says, "Wait and see." So I has 
 to wait. Every day what they was holdin' grew bigger and 
 bigger. At last one morning when I comes out what do you 
 suppose they was wearin'! The prettiest pink and white and 
 blue fluffy hats you ever saw. And I jumped up and down and 
 clapped my hands as hard as I could. I couldn't help it. The 
 fairies laughed and bobbed their hats at me. 
 
 Did I tell you I made my fairy house right beside a long, long 
 street where people were goin' by all the time? First they didn't 
 pay much 'tention to my fairies, but bimeby when the fairies 
 were bigger some people used to stop and looks at 'em. After 
 they put on their pretty fluffy hats — the fairies, I mean — lots 
 and lots of people stopped, only wasn't it funny, they didn't 
 know they was lookin' at fairies. The fairies liked to have the 
 
 89 
 
people stop and they told 'em stories like what the sun and the 
 wind had told them. The people heard what the fairies said, I 
 know, 'cause the people look so happy like when they goes away. 
 But, honest and true, hope to die, they don't know it's fairies 
 they are talkin' to and laugh when I tell 'em. 
 
 One day a little bit of a ragged girl came 'long and says, 
 "Can't I have one of 'em?" and pointed right at a lovely fairy 
 hat. I's awful cross and says, "No, you can't" and chases her off. 
 Bimeby I comes back and there's that pretty fluffy fairy's hat 
 all brown and homely as can be. I sits rignt down and cries as 
 hard as ever I can. Then the fairy looks up cross like and says, 
 "What's the matter?" and I says, "Look at your hat," and he 
 says crosser still, "Why didn't you give it away 'fore it got all 
 spoilt?" And I's so s'prised I most tumbles over and I says, 
 "Give your pretty hat away!" He says, "Yes, of course, that's 
 what it's made for. I can have a lot more if you'd give that 
 away." Then he 'splains to me how other people love 'em just 
 same's I do and I's a naughty, naughty girl if I keep all the 
 fluffy hats myself. I's dreadful sorry, truly, so I snips all the 
 fluffy hats off and gives 'em to the people when they go by. It's 
 lots of fun, lots more than just a keepin' all of 'em myself. 
 Here's one for you. Oh, you call 'em flowers, all grown-ups do, 
 but they really are fairies, now aren't they? 
 
 —MILDRED M. RYDER, 1914 
 
 Souls 
 
 Three thousand years and more ago, where now the dusky 
 
 golden rings 
 Of the Euprates, winding slow, sweep round dead ashes of dead 
 
 kings — 
 Where careless desert grass runs o'er column and ashlar Sargon 
 
 made — 
 Then palace gardens fringed the shore, the home of fountain, 
 
 bird, and shade. 
 
 90 
 
The joyous thrill of the bulhul's note re-echoed in the orange- 
 grove. 
 
 Where dappled shade and sunshine mote were scattered thru 
 the leaves above. 
 
 Three thousand years and more ago — a morn of spring — and you 
 and I 
 
 Among the shadows pacing slow where the Euphrates rippled by. 
 
 And I was prince of Chaldea then, and you, a slave from Persia 
 brought. 
 
 Dragged from your father's palace when Al Kizar the Victorious 
 fought. 
 
 Your eyes were deep as the forest pools, your hair the hue of 
 the ripened wheat. 
 
 Graceful you were as the bending rush-face tip-tilted flower- 
 sweet. 
 
 And I was girt with the jewelled sword and the golden baldric 
 the Monarch gave — 
 
 For I was a thousand bowmen's lord — and you in the garb of 
 an Eastern slave. 
 
 A dear face dropped beneath the sun. . . Think you such 
 moments do not bring — 
 
 Tho seldom given, yet ah! how sweet! — more than the favors 
 of the King? 
 
 Does Rimmon's pride bring happiness — or mounted files of spear- 
 men tall? 
 
 I knelt to the hem of a slave-girl's gown and pressed my lips 
 to a sandal small. 
 
 And the trumpets blew from the palace gate, and far without 
 in the dusty street 
 
 Sounded the signal that would not wait, the marching drum of 
 horses' feet. 
 
 A slender body crushed close to mine — a clang of scabbard on 
 stirrup-bar — ■ 
 
 A plunging charger — dear eyes upturned — a red spur pricking 
 out to war. . . 
 
 And there, bayed round by the savage foe, too weak to conquer, 
 to proud to fly, 
 
 91 
 
Whelmed by the shafts of the Hittite bow, the hosts of the King 
 
 rode down to die. 
 I looked on the ranks of my men behind, the tense-lipped faces 
 
 o'er wind blown mane. 
 I looked on the shouting Death before, and prayed. . . and 
 
 knew that my prayer was vain. 
 I heard the trumpets give the Word — the gathering throb of the 
 
 charge behind; 
 I saw your face thru the lances' sheen and the dust hoof-tossed 
 
 on the desert wind. 
 Our horsemen crashed upon their ranks as rollers crash upon 
 
 the shore. 
 The steel flashed bright before my eyes. . , 
 Gone are the flower-hid palaces — gone the Euphrates stream that 
 
 rolled. 
 In place of pylon and of palm flaunt autumn woods of red and 
 
 gold. 
 Flung on the wheel of the hasteless years, thru blind, unknowing 
 
 aeons hurled. 
 We meet — and with a younger race, a northern sky, a newer world. 
 And as we meet this autumn time, among the leaf-fall's driven 
 
 showers. 
 As friends who pass and pass again, do you remember the dear, 
 
 dead hours? 
 Do you remember the troth we vowed — the words low spoken — 
 
 the paths we trod — 
 That walked adoring, opened browed, when Love was Very Per- 
 fect God? 
 Do you remember the hurt, the bliss — the old, old garland of 
 
 Rose and Thorn? 
 The first embrace, the Heaven sent kiss, the wrenching pain of 
 
 that battle morn? 
 The hasty glance in the crowded street — ^th« wakening Memories 
 
 that we feel — 
 
 92 
 
The lightest greeting when we meet — do not all these reveal? 
 And young we are as young we were (Three thousand years ago! ) 
 We who have passed thru the Gate of Souls; we who have Seen 
 and Know! 
 
 —IRVING HILL BLAKE, 1911 
 
 The Modest Pansy 
 
 Once upon a time a family of beautiful white pansies lived 
 in a flower garden, where they were the most admired of all the 
 gay flowers that blossomed around them. This wasn't because 
 Mother Nature was kinder to them than to the others. No 
 indeed? Mother Nature was never partial to anyone. The real 
 reason was that they made themselves beautiful. They were 
 always the first to pop out of the ground in the spring, and from 
 that time on, they were never idle. They carefully arranged 
 their leaves so that their bed would be perfectly round; they 
 shook off the dust and dirt which the wind and rain left on 
 their petals. They washed their faces every day in the softest, 
 earliest dew. They simply couldn't help being beautiful after 
 taking such pains. 
 
 But one summer, something dreadful happened, which with 
 all their care they could not stop. A horrid, creepy, red worm 
 came crawling into their bed, and, in spite of their tears and 
 protests, began to eat their green leaves. My! Such awful anger! 
 They rustled threateningly on their stalks, and shook their 
 heads in the most forbidding manner. Every one was talking 
 at once but the Modest Pansy; but the Modest Pansy never 
 said very much, anyway. They all loved her best; but of course 
 she couldn't be expected to do anything, when it was absolutely 
 necessary to use force and will-power. 
 
 Long after her companions had gone to sleep, that night, 
 the Modest Pansy was wide awake, listening to the "Crunch! 
 Crunch!" of the red worm as he steadily ate away. 
 
 93 
 
"Some day he will eat our beautiful faces," she thought, and 
 shuddering, she drew her petals more closely about her. 
 
 A belated bee stopped to rest on a green stalk near by, before 
 finishing his journey homeward. The Modest Pansy at once told 
 him all her troubles and begged for his help. But the bee was 
 not even interested. 
 
 "Everyone must live," he said, "and I wouldn't sting a poor 
 worm to death for trying to get something to eat." 
 
 Suddenly the Modest Pansy became very crafty. 
 
 "I have a little honey for you," she said sweetly. 
 
 The greedy bee at once flew into her center; and, quick as a 
 flash, the Modest Pansy closed her petals tightly about him. 
 "Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! Let me go!" stormed the bee; but she only 
 clasped him still more closely. All through the long night she 
 held him fast, although it seemed that his struggles would burst 
 her delicate petals. 
 
 In the morning the other pansies awoke and called to their 
 sister, but she remained drooping on her stalk. With all their 
 gentle waxing they could not get her to raise her head. 
 
 "Ah! Our poor little sister is dead!" they cried, and every 
 pansy head was bowed in sorrow. But the Modest Pansy was 
 not dead. She was waiting for something to happen, and she 
 did not have to wait long, either. The red worm had been eating 
 her leaves and now he began to climb her stalk. The Modest 
 Pansy extended one of her petals, and the worm put out his 
 ugly nose, and slowly crawled upon its white surface. Then the 
 Modest Pansy quickly closed it up again, and the bee and the 
 worm were shut in. 
 
 Then followed a terrible battle. The bee tried to sting the 
 worm, and the worm hugged his ugly body about the bee. As 
 soon as the Modest Pansy saw that the worm was getting the 
 worst of the battle, she opened her petals and the two fell upon 
 the ground, where they were eagerly watched by the flowers. 
 After a while, the bee spread his wings and flew triumphantly 
 away, leaving the red worm stretched dead upon the ground. 
 
 When the pansies turned to look at their drooping sister, 
 they found her transformed. The blood of the red worm had 
 
 94 
 
stained her center a most brilliant hue. In time she grew well 
 and strong again, but her beautiful crimson center always re- 
 mained, to remind her comrades that the finest things in life 
 come through sacrifice. 
 
 —MABEL C. DURGAN, '15 
 
 How The Lobster Came To Its Own 
 
 Long ago the Great Spirit was angry with his children and 
 sent a drought upon their country. They grew weaker daily. At 
 last they met in council to choose a sacrifice to propitiate the 
 angry deity. The chief gave the dearest thing he had, his son,. 
 Red Fox. The young man was very sad and went down to the 
 sea to pray that the great sorrow be lifted from his people. Long 
 he prayed while the sun glittered only the more fiercely. The 
 sun beat down in dazzling brilliance and turned his brain to fire. 
 As he watched the ocean crawling back from the parched land, 
 he saw a green Rock-Devil clumsily moving among the stones. 
 He stared in fascination at the evil thing which lurched a little 
 nearer. He drew his feet back hastily for he knew well that if 
 the creature once pinched his bare toes, it would never loose its 
 hold until it should thunder. He watched the clumsy creature 
 dully; but all the while how his stomach did ache! 
 
 Then a dreadful idea came to him. Since he was to die on 
 the morrow, it should be on a full stomach. He stepped down 
 and deliberately lifted the frightful thing which none of his people 
 had ever dared to touch. The Rock-Devil's eyes bulged, its feel- 
 ers waved threateningly and it frothed at the mouth, so violent 
 was its rage. Its claws clashed and reached for him, but tho he 
 trembled, he still held on. A man can be very brave when there 
 is a gnawing pain at his stomach. 
 
 He kindled a fire and when the coals glowed, red and hot, 
 laid the Rock-Devil upon them. It struggled and he trembled at 
 
 95 
 
his own rashness. A frightful change came over it. The de- 
 parture of its spirit caused it to flush and change from dull 
 green to glowing scarlet. He shivered but how his stomach 
 cried for food! He crushed it with a rock — a really tempting 
 odor arose. He tasted, he ate lustfully, he smacked his lips and 
 he lapped his fingers. How pleasant it was! 
 
 Just then the council appeared. "Only taste!" he cried. 
 They smelled the curious odor, they sniffed at the shell and 
 began sucking the claws. Soon the tribe rushed down over the 
 hill. They heard how Red Fox had eaten one of the Rock Devils 
 and was still alive. Then they went down to the rocks to find 
 some for themselves. Soon, all along the shore could be seen 
 small fires and crouching forms industriously roasting Rock- 
 Devils. The air was full of a bewitching odor and their stomachs 
 were full of succulent food. They hailed Red Fox as their saviour. 
 Day after day they ate Rock-Devils. Finally the drought broke, 
 but even then they did not abandon their new food. 
 
 Centuries passed and an alien race came to their shores. 
 They, too, learned to like Rock-Devils. They liked them so well 
 that they drove the children of the Great Spirit from their lands. 
 Now, they have nearly extinguished the Rock-Devil people. They 
 have no sense, these Pale-Faces. They call the Rock-Devils, 
 "lobsters." They float bits in milk and call it "stew;" they 
 drown it in mayonnaise and call it "salad;" they torture it and 
 disguise it in undreamed of dishes; worst of all, they serve it in 
 beated halls. Now the Rock-Devil is a child of the open and is 
 at its best in the open. Never should it be served, save with 
 the great sky overhead, and the great sea beyond, where its 
 aroma may mingle with the odor of the sea, the fragrance of the 
 pines, and the tang of the smouldering fire. Nor should it be 
 disguised by heathenish condiments. The Rock-Devil should be 
 served in its purity to an unjaded palate. It need not even be 
 salted for this detracts from its delicacy. 
 
 The children of the Great Spirit realize the desecration of 
 their beloved Rock-Devil. They now dwell far away toward the 
 setting sun and their numbers are few. The old men gather in the 
 twilight and talk sadly of the glory that was theirs when they 
 dwelled on the coast where the Rock-Devils live. They smoke 
 
 96 
 
and dream of a time wben the Chosen People shall drive the 
 Pale-Faces hence and then come to their own. Yet they shake 
 their heads mournfully, for only the old men remember and the 
 young men do not care. 
 
 —EDITH ADAMS, 1914 
 
 The Three Great Jews of Literature 
 
 Of all persecuted races of later times none have suffered 
 more in Christian lands, have been more reviled and despised 
 than the Jew. In comparatively modern times, writers, caught 
 by their dramatic suffering, have come to make the Jew the 
 hero of some of their best works. The three greatest of these 
 characters have been created by Lessing in his "Nathan the 
 Wise," Scott in his "Ivanhoe," and Shakespeare in "The Merchant 
 of Venice." 
 
 Lessing has set his drama "Nathan the Wise" in mediaeval 
 times but the story in reality takes place in his own time and 
 portrays the gentle, noble character of his friend, Moses Mendle- 
 sohn. In Nathan, Lessing has ruled out almost every quality so 
 supposedly characteristic of the Jewish nation, except his love 
 for gain. "Nathan the Wise" he is called by the people of the 
 city; yet he was not born with his enduring wisdom. Many a 
 time had he cried out in hate and cursed the Christian who had 
 burned his home and his dear ones, even cursed the Christian 
 God. He says, "Three night had I lain in dust and ashes before 
 my God and wept — aye, and at times arraigned my Maker, and 
 cursed myself and the whole world, and to Christianity swore 
 unrelenting hate." Then the child came into his life — the little 
 helpless Christian girl. This little one, because it was a child, 
 he kept and loved, thanking God for giving him one out of seven. 
 It was the first step in a great forgiveness. "Nathan, you are a 
 Christian," the old friar told him and Nathan has answered 
 laconically but very gently. 
 
 97 
 
"What makes me to you a Christian, makes you to me a Jew." 
 
 His patience with the fiery young Templar is unbounded. 
 His wisdom in bringing up the child is more wonderful still. 
 With all a Jew's love for his nation and religion, he did not bring 
 the girl up as a Jewess but merely taught her of the one great 
 Maker, and instilled in her gentleness and tolerance for all. He 
 was willing to renounce even his claim as father, if it would be 
 better for her. Her interests and wishes were his own first ones. 
 More of his great wisdom is shown when the Sultan cunningly 
 asks which is the true religion, Christianity, Mahomedanism or 
 Judaism. Nathan responds with the exquisite parable of 
 Boccaccio concerning the three rings. The judge called upon to 
 distinguish between the three says, "And then, after thousands of 
 years, when the virtues of the rings have been manifested, let 
 them be brot again before this tribunal. Then a wiser man than 
 I will sit in judgment and pronounce sentence." Who else is the 
 "wiser man" than the Maker of the three rings, than the Maker 
 of the three religions? Thru all the play one feels a certain 
 reserved strength in the character of Nathan. In him is best 
 illustrated the answer to the Bible query: 
 
 "But where shall wisdom be found, and where is the place of 
 understanding? 
 
 "Behold the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart 
 from evil is understanding." 
 
 Scott has chosen to portray the life of the Jew at the very 
 crisis of persecution. On none who have read "Ivanhoe" does 
 the withered, bent little figure of Isaac of York, with its terrified 
 beseeching humility, fail to leave a deep impression. His en- 
 trance into the story is startling, his outlandish dress immediately 
 sets him out before us. Almost instantly sympathy is aroused by 
 the curt treatment of the Saxon hosts, the dog-like cringing of 
 the Jew. Only one in all that great hall offered him food and a 
 place at the fire, and that sympathy was mixed with contempt. 
 But the Jew had schooled himself to insult, and was thankful 
 if only he might escape torture. There is something pitifully 
 humorous in the drawing of Isaac. He is a Jew with all his 
 nation's love for gain, all his nation's tenacity to hold the hard- 
 won wealth. His frantic assurance to Ivanhoe, who is helping 
 
 98 
 
him escape Bois-Guilbert that he is penniless; his struggling 
 generosity in lending Ivanhoe the horse, all cause the reader to 
 smile even while realizing its pity. 
 
 The character of the Jew impresses one by flashes and is 
 scarcely twice alike. At the tournament he is ridiculous, con- 
 temptible, and pitiful at once. The next moment, safe in his 
 own home, he is master of the situation, worried over his money- 
 bags. When Gurth comes to make payment on the horse and 
 armor, generosity once more assails him and he struggles with 
 his avarice. But the feeling is too new and avarice wins. Yet 
 Isaac is not all greed and frightened humility. He does not 
 forget Ivanhoe's aid, takes him into his care when wounded, and 
 hastens to pour out his gratitude for service rendered. If Isaac 
 has been drawn a pitiful figure as a whole, in one phase of 
 character he rises beyond pity up to the height of admiration. 
 That is his all-sacrificing love for his only daughter, Rebecca. 
 Whatever failings he may have had, this love stands supreme. 
 For her he would undergo every torture. If he is petty in other 
 things, if his departure from the story is far from glorious, I 
 love to choose him at and remember him at his great height 
 of agonized father love. 
 
 In the "Merchant of Venice" Shakespeare gave Shylock 
 wealth and a shrewd eye for business. He has not made him 
 humble and suppliant, neither has he made him a paragon of 
 virtues; but has given him a keen wit that is not once over- 
 stepped in wordy battle with his haughtier Christian brothers. 
 Shylock hated Antonio. Antonio scorned usury and let out his 
 money "gratis;" moreover he insulted the Jew on every occasion. 
 Shylock's arguments leading up to his bond, are keen and logical- 
 ly convincing. By the parable of Jacob and the sheep he obliges 
 Antonio to admit that flesh is interest. Then as Antonio does 
 not condemn flesh as interest, Shylock states his terms for the 
 loan. 
 
 His life was wearing. He was suspicious always and there 
 was no one whom he dared to trust — he even had misgivings in 
 trusting his daughter Jessica. When at last misfortune does come 
 it pours in"in an overwhelming flood. Antonio has lost his ships 
 and becomes a bankrupt on his hands, Jessica has eloped with a 
 
Christian. It seems hardly probable that Shylock planned at 
 first the cold-blooded carrying out of the bond, but everything 
 drove him to a frenzy of madness. In self -justification he cries: 
 
 "He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; 
 laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, 
 thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; 
 and what's his reason? I am a Jew." 
 
 .Shylock has been condemned for saying, when he heard of 
 Jessica's foolish extravagance abroad, "I would my daughter 
 were dead at my feet and the jfewels in her ear." It sounds un- 
 feeling but we must remember that Bassanio offered to sacrifice 
 his wife instantly if Antonio might be saved. The court scene 
 is a strange mixture of humor and tragedy. Shylock, still self- 
 possessed and fiercely calm, jealous of his right to justice, an- 
 swers every remark with dry, harsh wit. Nothing moves him ex- 
 cept the first apparent judgment and then he bows eagerly in an 
 exultation of gratitude. "Oh learned judge — O excellent young 
 man." 
 
 As the tide turns and presses him harder and harder to the 
 wall, he resists for a while and then crushes suddenly together 
 like a tinsel ball. He has nothing behind him. His daughter is 
 gone, his wealth is taken from him, and even his religion. He 
 stands alone, absolutely shorn of everything for which a man 
 could live. Then his spirit breaks, the indomitable unbending 
 spirit which has enabled him to keep his place in the world. It 
 has been said that had Shylock's will not broken at that moment 
 the play would have become a tragedy. Yes indeed — ^but to me 
 the court scene is a tragedy. It is satisfactory of course, but all 
 the while there comes to mind a picture of a broken old man, 
 going out alone with the weary answer, 
 
 "I am content." 
 
 Were I obliged to classify the three great Jewish characters 
 definitely, I should say that Nathan the Wise is most intensely 
 ideal, Isaac of York is most intensely a Jew, and Shylock is most 
 intensely human. 
 
 —MARION SANBORN, 1914 
 
 100 
 
La Bacchante 
 
 You reclined at the feast, a wreath on your head, 
 And a cup in your hand of the purest gold; 
 Your jewel-eyes sparkled; your lips, ruby red. 
 Were curved in a smile that no bitterness told. 
 But you drained the goblet, dear heart, too deep; 
 Mirth should be quaffed in the daintiest sips. 
 At the revel-strewn table you lie asleep, 
 Life's dregs a stain on your purpled lips. 
 
 —FRANK HILL, 1914 
 
 Little My-All 
 
 John Gresnal lay in his quiet chamber with tears on his 
 bearded white face and the pain of an unanswered questioning 
 in his sombre hollow eyes. A light breeze fluttered the curtains 
 at the open window and the sunlight streaming across the foot- 
 board rested warmly on the little girl who lay in tired content- 
 ment playing with a simple toy. Gresnal put his hand to his 
 throat, 
 
 "Oh, My-All, Little My-All," he whispered. 
 
 The nurse at the window turned her head away at the 
 sound of the heart-broken voice, but the child on the coverlet 
 at the man's feet fingered the colored beads in her hands and 
 murmured on in the unmeaning, monotonous tone of a child who 
 cannot hear. Gresnal's eyes, wonderfully soft and loving even in 
 their despair, watched the sunlight shimmering on the child's 
 yellow curls, the flush of color in the rounded cheeks, the in- 
 cessant motion of the little face that knew no unhappiness and 
 no misfortune. She looked up from the tossing of her beads and 
 answering his look with a slow smile she crept gently across 
 the coverlet and nestled into the hollow of his arm. She patted 
 
 101 
 
his cheek sleepily and uttered soft, incoherent murmurings. The 
 sunbeams shifted slowly across the bed and presently the child 
 lay asleep, one hand beneath her red-flushed cheek, the other 
 clasped about her father's fingers. 
 
 When the nurse came from her seat by the window to throw 
 a covering over the child, John Gresnal roused from his sad 
 scrutiny of the baby's passive face. 
 
 "Little My-All, poor baby," he said, as he looked up at the 
 nurse. "Have you thought it a strange name for a baby girl? 
 It is the only name she ever has had. Life had come to mean 
 so much to me the four years Miriam and I were together that 
 when she went, it seemed as though the whole world dropped 
 away from me. She had been so happy in the thought of all 
 that life was and all that it would be — but then the terrible 
 accident came to her and the baby was born before its time. 
 She lived only long enough to kiss the child and know it was 
 the little girl she had yearned for — and then she was gone. For 
 weeks I knew no happiness; I called the baby my all — I let the 
 joy and love of everything else in the world go out with my dead 
 wife. It was a bitter, selfish time." He paused a moment pain- 
 fully. "Then one day the doctor came to me and told me that 
 the accident that had cost my wife's life had blighted my baby; 
 she would never hear, never talk, never be in her mind as other 
 children are. As I held her in my arms and thought of what life 
 would mean to her, in that bitter, black hour I learned that I 
 must live; I had called her my all, now I knew that, more than 
 this, I must be her all, her protector, her interpreter, her teacher 
 in the little she would ever be able to learn. For five years I 
 have been her constant companion! I have learned to know 
 every expression that comes to her face; to understand her way 
 of making known her desires; I have never let her experience 
 an unhappy moment — see! the lines of her face are all happy 
 lines! I have loved her well — alas! far too well!" He turned 
 his head with a movement of despair. Passing his fingers across 
 her head he brushed the curls away from her beautiful, useless 
 little ear. "Oh the misery of such a mistake! I did not know I 
 was to die so soon. And the world is a world of people who do 
 not understand and do not care!" 
 
 102 
 
At the sight of his grief-drawn face the nurse walked hastily 
 to the window. Thru the blur of her tears she looked out upon 
 the meadows and the dust rising from the country road. As 
 she stood fighting back the tears she prayed, "Oh, God, help me 
 to lighten his suffering and distress." Over and over the prayer 
 was repeated. "As I love him, oh, God, grant me a way to ease 
 his dying hours." When she turned toward him again, he lay 
 quiet, but his eyes still watched the child's dreaming face and his 
 unsolved trouble had graven deep lines upon his cheeks and 
 brow. 
 
 In the evening when the gray shadows had deepened and the 
 child sat by his pillow playing with her fat little fingers the 
 simple games he had invented for her, the doctor came. His 
 visit was brief; there was no reason for it to be other than brief; 
 there were no words of hope and encouragement to be spoken, no 
 medicines to be administered with expectation of relief; he left 
 only a small phial, the contents of which would stimulate the 
 man thru sinking spells for a few times, perhaps, and prolong 
 his life for a few hours. The busy doctor lingered a moment 
 from the round of his country calls to speak a word of sympathy 
 with the tired nurse, and as he looked back at the child chatter- 
 ing by her father's bed he gave her a few low words of caution 
 in regard to the stimulant he had left; she must administer it 
 with extreme care and by no means allow the child to reach it. 
 
 After the doctor had gone, the nurse moved quietly about, 
 preparing the room for the night and striving to steady herself 
 for the long night vigil — the last, probably, that she would ever 
 keep with him. The Death Spirit hovered near, and the nurse 
 was yet so young that even in its calmest, most peaceful approach, 
 the Death Spirit was full of terror for her. And — she gripped 
 her hands convulsively together — she had learned to love this 
 man in the nobility of his soul. 
 
 The night wind fluttered the curtains at the windows and 
 the dusk of twilight crept silently in. The child, wearied of her 
 playing by her father's side, pushed her playthings impatiently 
 across the floor. Her father, with his eyes watching the darken- 
 ing landscape, his mind deep in the contemplation of unhappy 
 thought, did not notice her fretful impatience, and the nurse 
 
 103 
 
kneeling by her side souglit to satisfy her before she should dis- 
 turb him. But the child tempestuously pushed aside every 
 proffer of comfort, beat her hands restlessly together, and re- 
 peated again and again a sharp, insistent, petulant cry. With 
 tears of pity and distress on her cheeks the nurse endeavored to 
 soothe the baby, but it was useless; she could not understand the 
 desire that prompted that urgent cry. 
 
 The insistent voice of the baby roused Gresnal from his 
 sad reverie and he half raised himself anxiously on his elbow. 
 
 "It is water she wants," he said as he listened to the re- 
 peated cry. 
 
 As he looked at the two tear-stained faces before him, the 
 sadness deepened in his eyes. 
 
 "No one can understand her," he groaned, as he sank back 
 on his pillow. "No one, not even you who have tried so hard. 
 No one can help her save I alone — and I am dying!" 
 
 Little My-All quieted when her want was satisfied and the 
 nurse put her to bed by her father's side. Silence settled about 
 the farm house; all was still but the sound of the wind in the 
 trees and the chirp of the crickets outside the window. The 
 night lamp burned low on the stand and the shadows were 
 very dark in the little room, but as the nurse sat in her low 
 chair by the window she knew that the man's eyes were open, 
 sleepless, and always questioning, questioning, in their sad, des- 
 pairing gravity. Three times he called her as the long hours 
 wore on; three times she administered the stimulant, and each 
 time she saw the weakness of death creeping nearer and nearer. 
 And as she stood by his side the prayer swelled in her heart, 
 "As I love him, oh God, grant me a way to ease his dying hours." 
 
 Suddenly she heard him speaking in a calm, purposeful 
 voice. 
 
 "Will you sit here beside me, nurse?" he asked. I have 
 something to say to you; I have not much longer to say the 
 things I wish. You have been most kind to me in these unhappy 
 days — you will never realize how deeply I feel it — but I wish to 
 ask one thing more; may I ask it of you?" 
 
 Her tired face lighted. 
 
 104 
 
"My kindness has been such a little thing; just a response 
 to your own kindness. If I may only help you!" 
 
 His sombre eyes scrutinized her face. 
 
 "You know the cause of my trouble," he began slowly, 
 passing his hand ovier the baby's curls while the palor deepened 
 on his cheeks. "I am dying; there is no power on earth to save 
 me; each time you have given me the stimulant it has been less 
 effective. The end comes quickly. But I leave behind me this 
 baby, little My-All, born to misfortune. I have shielded her too 
 carefully; no one understands her save myself, and she has 
 never known unhappiness. What does she know of the brutal 
 world? Must I go and leave her to the world, friendless, un- 
 fortunate, unloved? He raised himself in his anguish. "Promise 
 me! Promise me! Will you do as I ask?" he pleaded. 
 
 The woman leaned forward in her eagerness. The hot 
 tears gleamed on her cheeks. 
 
 "I will do everything as you wish! I will keep her as though 
 she were my own and shield her as you have done. I will give 
 my life to her as you have given yours." 
 
 A wave of bitter agony crossed his face. 
 
 "Oh God!" he groaned. "You have not understood! How 
 could you love what is not your own! And if you die — what 
 then?" 
 
 He looked into the woman's bewildered leyes and half raising 
 himself, he seized her hand. 
 
 "Listen!" he continued passionately. "I heard all the doctor 
 said. I am dying. Perhaps the next time you give me the stimu- 
 lant it will do no good. You will watch me dying! You will 
 know! Promise, you must promise in God's name, when that 
 time comes, you will save me from a death of agony and my 
 little child from a life of utter wretchedness! Promise me that 
 you will give her the drops that shall put her to sleep beside me, 
 never to awaken!" 
 
 With a moan of horror the woman drew her hand from his 
 and covered her face. 
 
 "Promise me!" he pleaded, dropping weakly back on the 
 pillows. "There is little time to spare. Remember, she has not 
 a mind such as other children have! What would the world be 
 
 105 
 
losing when it lost her? To me alone is she a being to be loved 
 and cherished! Promise me! 
 
 She put her hands down revealing a white, strained face. 
 
 "Give me a moment to think!" she gasped. 
 
 She went to the open window and sat looking out across 
 the moonlit meadows. She had prayed God that she might 
 lighten his dying hour. Was this the answer to her prayer? 
 She loved him so well that her heart had cried out against his 
 suffering, she had prayed for the lessening of his agony. Why 
 then should she hesitate? Was it right to let the child live and 
 suffer? Was it wrong to help her die before she knew anguish or 
 realized her own misfortune? Her soul recoiled at thought of 
 the deed. 
 
 "I will not think of my self-sacrifice," she sobbed to herself. 
 "If it is right and best to do it, no self-sacrifice is too great for 
 me!" 
 
 But a human life is a human life, at its best and at its worst, 
 in glorious fulfilment of promise or in pitiable limitation, a life 
 is a life, and who dares set a value upon it or strike it out at 
 his will? 
 
 "Oh, but I long to help him! I long to know that he dies in 
 peace and happiness!" She wrung her hands in her distress. 
 "What shall I do? What is it right for me to do, oh God? I 
 might give her a harmless portion" — she grasped at the idea eager- 
 ly. "He would die content, he would never know that I had de- 
 ceived him!" But the child, left to a world' which she could 
 never understand or benefit, which could never understand or 
 appreciate her; what of the baby? 
 
 With a sudden weak cry John Gresnal called her. In a 
 moment she kneeled with her arm beneath his head and forced 
 the stimulant between his lips, but as she laid him back on the 
 pillow, she knew it was in vain. The end was at hand and with 
 the baby rosy in sleep by his side he waited. Too near death to 
 speak he yet lingered for a moment and pleaded with his dying 
 eyes as she stood with the phial in her hand. 
 
 Dawn crept in through the curtained window; it touched 
 the face of a man, a sad face to look upon, white and wasted but 
 
 106 
 
beautiful and peaceful, without a line of trouble or distress; 
 it touched the form of a little girl lying in the curve of the 
 man's arm, one hand beneath her pink-flushed cheek, the other 
 clinging to his slender white fingers; it touched the figure of a 
 woman who knelt by the bedside and breathed a wordless prayer 
 to God who understands. 
 
 —GRACE J. CONNER, 1913 
 
 Burr*s Illumination 
 
 With a "bang!" followed by a "Whirr!" ending in a shriek, 
 as the brakes stopped the wheels. Burr Frostworth bounced out 
 of the car, bluing the air with his opinion of a spark plug that 
 would go wrong when a fellow was in a hurry. 
 
 Below and around him twinkling lights showed that night 
 was settling down, and little by little they formed a familiar out- 
 line which he had not seen for two years. The curse on the 
 head of the old ferryman, who had misdirected him, was for- 
 gotten as Frostworth realized that he had come upon Bronson, 
 his old college town. 
 
 Since early afternoon Burr had been trying to straighten 
 out the tangle of unfamiliar roads, with the result that he now 
 found himself miles from Ware, and the directors' meeting, and 
 within only two minutes of tne place he had fought against 
 seeing again. Fate had removed him from the chance of buying 
 some oil property, and nov/ it could take him down into the city 
 and find amusement for him. 
 
 A new plug set the engine sputtering triumphantly again, 
 and soon Frostworth was coasting down the hill unmindful of 
 pedestrains and other street ornaments. Supper, at a farmhouse 
 some miles back, had satisfied his hunger. So the passing cafes 
 had no temptations for him and he let the car take him where it 
 would. 
 
 107 
 
Now and then he overtook groups of animated and excited 
 people, all hurrying in the direction of the college. From bits 
 of tiieir conversation he learned tnat the annual campus illumin- 
 ation was in progress and realized that of all days this was most 
 inopportune for his visit. 
 
 Rapidly his mind travelled back two years to the time when 
 he had last witnessed the fete, and when Snell, his old room- 
 mate, had been a member of the graduating class. An impulse 
 to turn and flee from the scene of unpleasant memories seized 
 him, but the longing for the old place was too strong, and he 
 continued on his way. 
 
 Skilfully dodging and escaping other cars, he worked his 
 way down the midway and came to a stop within a short dis- 
 tance of the raised platform. 
 
 Almost before he realized the fact, chairs, sofa pillows, and 
 human beings had completely filled the ground about the car, 
 and Burr found himself hemmed in from every direction. 
 
 Simultaneously with this perception, a stir was heard, as 
 three people pushed their way into the mass and sat down 
 perilously near the left mud guard of Frostworth's car. 
 
 He did not have to guess as to the identity of one of the 
 three, for he well knew the distinctive outline Dorris Martin 
 made, in the feeble light. She was a rare type, and the only 
 person who could come so near him to-night. 
 
 Feeling secure in the depth of the machine and the shadow 
 of the trees, Frostworth made no move to change his position. 
 It was indeed a kindly fate that had drawn them into each 
 other's presence, though unknown to either, and Burr could 
 not withdraw. There could be no harm in basking in the pleasure 
 of being near her again, and so, settling down comfortably 
 among the cushions, forgetful of the band playing on the pavilion, 
 and the other people about him, he waited for the sound of her 
 voice. 
 
 It was not she, however, who broke his stillness, for good 
 Mrs. Martin asked if Burr Frostworth had not been, at one time, 
 a member of the present graduating class. 
 
 Burr was rather surprised to hear the answer that came 
 
 108 
 
at once from the Professor, "Yes, Frostworth should be here 
 to-night, and it is a sad thing that circumstances rule otherwise." 
 
 Mrs. Martin was quick in her retort, "I hardly see how you 
 can accord any virtue to a fellow who had the baseness to do as 
 that fellow did, to get his degree. Anyone who could steal ex- 
 amination papers could abscond with anything. I, for one, am 
 glad the scapegoat is not here." 
 
 And so, thought Burr, the old Prof, lets me live, the Mrs. 
 thinks me a scapegoat, but — well, the rest of the family will keep 
 its opinion to itself, I hope. 
 
 In a lull of the orchestra, the Professor was speaking again, 
 "I fear, my dear, that you draw your conclusions from off the 
 surface, just as too many others do. Some of the possibilities 
 in this case were not considered, and too little time was given 
 to looking up both men." 
 
 "Was someone else concerned. Daddy?" Dorris quickly ask- 
 ed. "You said 'both,' you know." 
 
 "No, dearie, you misunderstood me," he replied, but she 
 knew she had heard aright. 
 
 "I don't see why you people concern yourselves so much," 
 was Mrs. Martin's contribution. "I venture to say that wherever 
 he is, he leads a hand-to-mouth existence," and Burr smiled 
 pityingly. 
 
 Again the Professor was speaking, not heeding his wife's 
 opinion. "Somehow I did like the fellow in spite of his dare- 
 devil spirit. I am sure he was the one who told Davidson that 
 aqua regia would make a good mouth wash, but then, Davidson 
 never knew anything, anyway." 
 
 "You're a wise old gazook," thought Burr, "but you might 
 have put some of your admiration on my rank bills." 
 
 "I could hardly agree with the rest of the faculty in sending 
 him away, but I suppose his own confession should have been 
 enough to convict him," the Professor went on. "You remem- 
 ber, perhaps, the fellow Frostworth roomed with. He was 
 graduated two years ago. The two fellows were alike in some 
 external respects, but very different in others. It always seemed 
 to me that Frostworth pitied his roommate and championed 
 
 109 
 
him. He needed a champion, for the fellow never seemed to 
 have anything but a wishbone." 
 
 "You may also know," Mr. Martin continued, "that Frost- 
 worth's only living relative was a cousin to whom Snell was 
 engaged. There was nobody depending on Burr, but everything 
 for Snell's family hinged on whether he got his degree that year 
 or not. His people were poor and the position the 'A. B.' assured 
 him would make them comfortable for life. 
 
 "Didn't the two fellows do some regular work in the faculty 
 building. Daddy?" Dorris questioned. 
 
 "They alternated janitor work and had keys to all the rooms," 
 her father answered. "You know the rest of the story as well 
 as I do." 
 
 "Well, then, don't bore me with it," her mother cut in. "Here 
 you are, talking about a man without family, name, social posi- 
 tion, or wealth, as though he were the greatest lion. I am glad 
 he was removed before Dorris was entirely captivated by his 
 coarse eccentricities." 
 
 "The papers were found in Frostworth's desk, weren't they, 
 Daddy?" a sweet voice bored on. 
 
 "Yes," answered the Professor, "and what use a Sophomore 
 had of a bunch of Senior examinations, wrapped around two old 
 Sophomore papers, is more than I can guess. It leads me astray." 
 
 "More than one thing is straying to-night," commented Burr 
 to the palm of his hand, as a big fellow shouldered himself into 
 the Martin triangle and sat down between Dorris and her mother. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Southy!" Dorris acknowledged, "Daddy and I were 
 just speaking of Mr. Frostworth. You remember him, don't you? 
 He used to be a member of this class." 
 
 "You mean the fellow who pinched the golden papers?" 
 Southy drawled. 
 
 "It was Burr Frostworth of whom we were speaking," Dorris 
 retorted in a tone which said, "If you can't talk decently, you 
 had better think," and turned to her father. 
 
 "Come, come, Dorris," Mrs. Martin interjected, quite unmind- 
 ful that she herself had introduced the subject. "We've had 
 enough of this. Let's hear something interesting. Mr. Southy, 
 are you still oiling the country?" 
 
 110 
 
"If he does much longer," thought the man in the car, he'll 
 have to water his well." 
 
 "You flatter me, Mrs. Martin," Southy replied. "I can 
 scarcely say that my oil flows as freely as that, and, now, since 
 a turn of affairs this morning, I have become confined more 
 closely to my old territory." Southy never lost an opportunity 
 to pour an oily tale of his woes into Mrs. Martin's ear and the 
 present one seemed most favorable. 
 
 "Pray tell us what has happened," encouraged his listener. 
 Dorris and her father were engrossed in their own conversation. 
 Southy plunged at once into his trouble. "This evening I 
 received a telegram from my foreman, saying I had been outbid 
 to-day in some valuable oil property adjoining mine. This is the 
 third time the same thing has happened to me during the past 
 two months, and I am afraid I shall have to go West to give the 
 matter my special attention." Just what his "special attention" 
 would amount to, it might be difficult to say. 
 
 "If the fellow would come out in the open and fight on the 
 square, I would soon do him up," the would-be oil magnate assured 
 her. "I know who is plotting my ruin, but I am not quite ready 
 to give him that information yet. When I do strike, I can easily 
 say I am oiling the country." 
 
 "When you give any information, you will be oiling wheel- 
 barrows at a dollar and a quarter a day," mused one of Southy's 
 hearers. "You don't know nitro-glycerine from basting cptton." 
 "It must be great to be in such control!" Mrs. Martin ex- 
 claimed. "Doesn't it make you feel as though you were really 
 doing things?" 
 
 With this encouragement Southy lost discretion and let him- 
 self lick at the dish of defeat he had set before his oil rival. 
 
 "Two weeks ago, I was West to look after affairs. I'd never 
 had much faith in my foreman, for he never seemed to have 
 more than a wishbone." Dorris and her father turned to listen. 
 "Somehow or other he had got hold of the plans of an inven- 
 tion that, he says, literally will boil the oil out of the ground," 
 Southy ran on. "I didn't ask any questions, but I am pretty sure 
 it is the same thing that the man, who outbid me to-day, gave 
 up a short time ago because of lack of money." 
 
 Ill 
 
"Isn't it a pretty serious thing to claim another's invention?" 
 Dorris questioned. "I should hesitate about claiming it, I think." 
 
 "Oh, yes," Southy answered easily, "but the owner can't 
 prove anything, and, besides that, isn't it a pretty serious thing 
 to set iire to another man's well? He did that to me, and that 
 is only one of the many underhanded things he's done to work 
 my ruin." 
 
 "He set fire to an oil well and endangered lives as well as 
 property!" Dorris exclaimed excitedly. The man in the car 
 said, too — nobody in hearing — "Some day. Baby Doll, you'll learn 
 to be careful with matches in the oil country, and then you won't 
 be starting a smudge that later will fire your own well." 
 
 Then, as the concert ended and people began to rise, Dorris 
 turned to her father with, "Come Daddy. We've been mistaken. 
 I hate such a man as that!" 
 
 "Hate away to your heart's content," said Burr, as he sprang 
 out to light his lamps, "but I'll bet my pipe line against Southy's 
 signature that my oil will light you upstairs before long" — which 
 may or may not have meant more than one thing. 
 
 A familiar exclamation made Dorris turn just in time to see 
 a face, full in glare of one of the lamps, as Burr strove to light 
 another match in the breeze. Only a moment did the face re- 
 main in the light, but that was sufficient. She saw a sneer and 
 a firm set jaw under snapping eyes that told her a good deal. 
 Dumb with realization of what his presence meant, so near, 
 where he surely must have heard everything, chagrined by her 
 own words, she felt more than ever the valley between them. 
 She would have called out, but no words came to her lips, and, 
 astounded, she heard him swallowed up in the darkness. A 
 moment she stood, loolung into the blurr of twinkling lights 
 from whence came the sound of his engine, diminishing in the 
 distance. But she knew where the underhanded man stood. 
 
 PART SECOND 
 
 A snake slowly uncoiled itself, raised its head a few inches 
 into the burning air, and then, with an eye half-blinded by the 
 glare of the sun, began its way to a hole nearby, in the depths 
 of which was coolness that no person found. Now and then a 
 
 112 
 
"Thousand Legs" came out of his hole, half way, and then, find- 
 ing it hotter out-of-doors, quickly disappeared into the hot sand 
 again. A "Sand Flea," toiling laboriously, at last gave up his 
 determination and burrowed his bigness out of sight into the 
 ground. 
 
 As the last foot of snake disappeared into the sand, a short, 
 piercing shriek, repeated twice, broke the stillness. The effect 
 was electrical. Six feet, nine inches, of human being unwound 
 itself from the shade of the little station, and, hitching up its 
 belt, came out to the edge of the platform to send a deluge of 
 tobacco juice at the oncoming train. 
 
 A stopping train might easily arouse excitement. San 
 Martine in the Guadaloupe foothills was scarcely more than a 
 watering station and, even then, engines seemed to prefer the 
 water at Gomez, twelve miles farther east, so that few people, 
 generally speaking, knew that San Martine was on the map. 
 
 Miles away the engine was fairly flying over the sand-strewn 
 rails, drawing its train of cars after it with little regard for their 
 safety. The man on the platform saw the distance lessen until 
 the engine grew larger and larger, finally stopped, towering above 
 the station, and panted with impatience to be off again. Two 
 or three "bangs," another scream from the engine, a slam from 
 a vestibule door, and two trunks and three people had been de- 
 posited on the platform. 
 
 A rapid survey of the little station, the miles of hot sand 
 from which mirage floated upward, and the mountains rising in 
 the distance, was not reassuring to the newcomers. Dorris 
 Martin turned to find herself quite as interestedly surveyed by 
 the tall, awkward Westerner. Her first impression made her 
 wish the fast disappearing train could be made to come back 
 after her, and then she began to wonder why she had let herself 
 be dragged into such a country even if her dearest chum, Evelyn 
 Southy, had made elaborate plans for a month's stay on her 
 brother's oil farm. 
 
 The reception committee came forward, one hand full of hat, 
 the other extended in true Western cordiality. Six Feet Nine 
 Inches began negotiations with Professor Martin. 
 
 "I take it you're the three that's goin' up to Southy's?" 
 
 113 
 
Upon being assured that he had the right conception of the 
 situation, he started toward the rear of the station from whence 
 he presently emerged with a pair of mules and a rattling buck- ■ 
 board. 
 
 "Southy couldn't come down himself and this here's the only 
 kind of a hossless carriage I can steer," he apologized. 
 
 "If Cecil thinks we're going to ride up in that rig, he's much 
 mistaken," stormed Evelyn. "That's a pretty way to receive 
 us. You go up and tell him to come down with a civilized wagon. 
 We'll stay here in the station until he comes." 
 
 "Of course, Miss, it's just as you say, but it's a good eight 
 miles, and he's pretty busy these days," and then as she turned 
 away, added meekly, "I'll take the trunks." 
 
 As the buckboard rattled away in the hot dust, Evelyn led 
 her guests into the station where the heat was even greater than 
 in the full sun. Gradually, she began to realize that her brother 
 had not shown any particular enthusiasm about her coming out 
 in the first place, and anger, for a moment, made her forgetful 
 of Dorris and her father. 
 
 She turned toward them to offer some sort of apology in his 
 behalf, but a welcome sound of a stuttering motor from without 
 saved her the speech, and the three hurried eagerly out upon the 
 platform. A disappointment sat in the auto for, instead of 
 Southy, a stranger, in serviced plainsman's clothes, was applying 
 the brakes. To Dorris, the machine seemed to have a familiar 
 outline, but then — of course, there were many of the same type.. 
 
 Before any mention could be made of hiring the services of 
 the providential stranger, he offered them respectfully, and soon 
 the little station was alone again. The artificial breeze dis- 
 persed the sun's heat, and the people in the car soon forgot 
 that they had been swetering but a few minutes before. 
 
 The road suddenly began to rise and wind away into the 
 hills, following along a ridge, on each side of which was nothing 
 but bare ledge and scrub foliage. It was a barren waste of rock 
 and sand piled together in great disorder. 
 
 Dorris startled herself and the others with an involuntary 
 exclamation, "What a lonely place for a man to spend his life 
 in." 
 
 114 
 
"Yes, of course, it is strangely lonesome for us," Evelyn 
 replied, "but then, you know Cecil does not intend to spend tlie 
 rest of his life in this place. The country is prettier up beyond." 
 
 A few minutes more brought to their view a tableland and 
 in the distance they could make out the towers and tanks of oil 
 works. As they drew nearer, the confusion of it all began to 
 take on some form, and they could make out the streets and 
 little houses at the foot of the towers. Everything seemed to 
 be greased, as they passed by tank after tank, near by which 
 Wiere the never-ceasing pumps. No man seemed to have any 
 spare time, and few could be found who were not busily engaged 
 in some sort of work. 
 
 Behind a bend in the road they saw a different sort of country. 
 In the immediate foreground was a large, peaceful house sur- 
 rounded by well-kept, shady grounds. Dorris noticed with pleas- 
 ure the deep verandah which ran completely around the house, 
 and, beyond that, the garden and flower beds lost in the shade 
 farther back. In a few minutes the party had stopped by the 
 gate and Evelyn turned to inquire of the stranger, "To whom are 
 we indebted for this service?" 
 
 "Boni Frostworth," the man replied, "I'm exercising the 
 thing for him," and began to turn around. 
 
 As they went up the walk, Cecil's sister exclaimed to her- 
 self, "The impudence!" Dorris wondered if "Boni" was Texan 
 for "Burr," or merely a misuse of Latin with good intent. The 
 Professor was wise and satisfied. 
 
 Dinner that night was a farce, so far as Cecil Southy was 
 concerned, and he hurried off as soon as he could, leaving his 
 sister to make amends for his actions on the grounds of pressing 
 business. 
 
 Later in the evening, as the three newcomers sat in the big 
 piazza enjoying the night air, the magnitude of the West seized 
 Dorris. Away across the valley a single house was lighted. 
 Down below, directly in front of the house, she saw the dim 
 outlines of the towers projected against the mountains rising 
 beyond. Miles upon miles was the radius of the circle of vision, 
 and the thought that this vast territory was but a very small 
 part of it all, made her see something of the greatness of the 
 
 115 
 
country. More than this, she knew that out there somewhere 
 Burr Frostworth was enjoying the evening, a part of the big 
 country not given over to trivial matters but concerned mainly 
 with things that only men could execute. She fell to wondering 
 how she could speak to him, if by any chance they should meet 
 during her month in this dangerous country. Would it be better not 
 to let him know she had seen him two months ago, or to try to 
 make some reparation for the things he had heard them say of 
 him? Well, she remembered the contempt she had seen in the 
 glare of the lamp, and in some way she felt small and unconse- 
 quential beside a man who could scorn his accusers. It might 
 be very probable that he would not give her more than a nod of 
 recognition, if they should meet. Perhaps he was as willing to 
 let her hate as to do anything else. As she thought more and 
 more of all these possibilities and probabilities, a feeling came 
 over her that she was indeed in an alien country. Burr was 
 too much occupied with his greater life for any thought of her 
 and Cecil ("Bah! What a name") unscrupulous enough to take 
 any means for the ends, one of which she felt herself to be. 
 Somehow she grew to feel that Evelyn had planned her western 
 visit for a definite purpose, and when she followed her father 
 into the house that night, Dorris was a most unhappy little girl. 
 
 Sometime later in the night she was awakened from her 
 drowsy sleep by voices down under her window by the front 
 gate. The first she understood clearly was: 
 
 "You do the square thing to-morrow, Southy, or you may 
 find yourself in a deep hole." 
 
 There was no mistaking that voice. It was the quiet, force- 
 ful voice of a man who knows his ground and that he speaks 
 the truth. Though the greatest issue might be at stake, Burr 
 Frostworth never let his voice rise above the tone of ordinary 
 conversation, but he could be forceful. 
 
 Dorris went quickly to the heavily curtained window and 
 strove to catch the rest of the conversation. The excited, ir- 
 rational voice of Cecil Southy came up to her. 
 
 "What's the use, Frostworth, of all this fuss? You know 
 I've got you, and, with the invention that'll be declared to- 
 morrow, I can draw your oil through the side of an iron pipe. 
 
 116 
 
Your property that you've worked so hard to get away from me 
 won't be worth anything." 
 
 "Hasn't it occurred to you, Southy, that you are committing 
 a crime?" questioned the steady voice. "That belongs to me 
 and you know it." 
 
 "Oh, well," Southy answered, "You've taken every means 
 you could to buy up the oil country here, and now I'll pay you 
 back for it. You can't prove anything, and, even if you could, 
 you haven't enough money to put it through. You might as well 
 throw down your hand." 
 
 "Look here, Southy," Burr exclaimed, I haven't taken any 
 unfair means to secure property here. If you preferred the 
 charm of a woman's eye in the East to your finances here, it was 
 no fault of mine. A man has to work once in a while, you know. 
 Whether I've money enough to develop this thing or not has no 
 bearing on this question." 
 
 You're hanging to the last straw, Frostworth, and let me 
 tell you it's a blamed thin one," Cecil replied with finality as he 
 started up the steps. "I guess you can't endure seeing the girl 
 slip through your fingers, but I've got her," he flung back from 
 the top of the steps. 
 
 "There are some men who are not ruled by women, Southy," 
 Burr fairly snarled. Then to himself as he cranked the machine, 
 "I'll make a plank of the straw and bust it over your infernal head 
 to-morrow." 
 
 There was a familiarity about that chugging off there in the 
 darkness, and, even after she had ceased to hear it, Dorris sat 
 looking in the direction it had gone toward the house across 
 the valley. Just why she sat and watched she could not have 
 told. Burr's heated reply burned in her mind and she felt as 
 though a blow had fallen on her head. She might have known, 
 she thought, that the man placed his work above everything else, 
 and that in the coming fight there would be no woman. Resent- 
 ment at her own feelings swelled up within her. Why should 
 she feel such a surprise at Burr's exclamation? Why should it 
 make any difference whether women were concerned with him 
 or not? Why — a good many things as she sat there alone in 
 the dark? 
 
 117 
 
Across the valley a light appeared in one of the upper 
 windows, burned a few minutes, and then went out. Dorris rose 
 silently and returned to bed wishing that her mother might 
 have heard the conversation on the steps. 
 
 The next morning when she came down stairs, Frostworth's 
 car stood by the gate, alone. Evelyn soon joined Dorris with, 
 "Cecil says we are to take the horses into the hills today, 
 Dorrie, it's so lovely." 
 
 Dorris scarcely realized that it was some seconds before 
 she repMed, but her mind was busy in the meantime. 
 
 "And so," she thought, "Cecil doesn't want us around here 
 to-day. He may have to have us just the same, though." 
 
 It did not occur to her that she and Evelyn did not have any 
 part in the day's proceedings, and she could not tell why she re- 
 volted Cecil's plans for a pleasant day in the hills. She review-' 
 ed, feverishly, symptoms of a plausable, sudden malady — head- 
 aches were too hackneyed — but when the two girls had reached 
 the table she had not found any, and could not but accede to 
 horseback. 
 
 As they sat down. Professor Martin and Burr came out of 
 the house and down to the car together. Dorris felt a new hope. 
 At least, her father was going to have some part in the affair, 
 and she tipped the sizzling teakettle on her bare arm with desired 
 results, in increasing degree. 
 
 PART THIRD 
 
 Dorris lay by the window in the upper hallway, looking out 
 across the back yard, over the ridge, into the oil field that be- 
 longed to Southy, painfully aware that she had stayed at home 
 in spite of his plans to get her and his sister away. The burn 
 had proved to be more than the artful Dorris had intended, but 
 she had the satisfaction of knowing that she was in the house 
 where things were going to happen, even if she could not have 
 a part in them. 
 
 Her father was busy at the other house; she had scarcely 
 seen him all day. Evelyn was busy in another part of the house, 
 and thus Dorris was left quite alone, as she was only too glad to 
 be. 
 
 118 
 
She heard the front door open down In the hallway be?ow 
 and shut again, as two strange voices began to mingla with those 
 of Southy and his foreman. When the four men had passed into 
 the adjoining room, Dorris came to the top of the stairs and 
 peered down. Separated from them by only a heavy portiere, 
 she could hear all their conversation, and she gripped the balus- 
 trade as she heard something laid on the table that she knew 
 must be the model of the stolen invention. She wanted to rush 
 downstairs and do something, but what to do she could not tell, 
 and she could but listen, tortured by the knowledge that the 
 underhanded man was winning out, after all. 
 
 The demonstration was going on, and she thought that the 
 strangers were becoming convinced. Only a few minutes re- 
 mained before Southy would be declared the propagator of the 
 new revolution in oil machinery, and the man to whom it all 
 belonged would be ruined. The irony of her powerlessness to 
 do anything but sit and listen to such a complete lie, overpowered 
 her, and she started blindly down the stairs. Half-way down she 
 stopped, and, looking out to the road, saw her father and Burr 
 coming up the walk. 
 
 By the time she reached the top stair again, Frostworth was 
 inside the house, and got to the curtains just in time to hear 
 one of the strangers exclaim, "Why, this valve is on the wrong 
 side to operate the feed pipe. Is this your own model, Mr. 
 Southy?" 
 
 Evidently the strangers were becoming suspicious, and Cecil, 
 quick to see that something had gone amiss, replied easily, "No, 
 indeed. It is my foreman's work, and I am only financing it for 
 him." 
 
 The next moment, the curtains had been drawn aside, and 
 Burr stood by the two strangers, looking across the table at 
 Cecil and his foreman. Not waiting for any explanation from 
 anyone. Burr seized the model, and, looking the foreman squarely 
 in the eye, paralyzed that individual with: 
 
 "Tell the truth about this, Snell, or I'll tell the truth about 
 those examination papers. Your full beard doesn't fool me a bit." 
 
 No one would surmise that these two men facing each other 
 across the corner of the table had ever been college room-mates. 
 
 119 
 
Hatred, contempt, and loathing, showed in one face; cowardice, 
 fear, and selfishness in the other. 
 
 Snell managed to pull his discovered self together enough 
 to parry: 
 
 "And suppose you did, who'd believe you, here?" 
 
 "I, for one," said the Professor, stepping into the room. 
 
 As the men turned toward the newcomer. Burr fell heavily 
 to the floor, and a heavy, glass paperweight clattered down be- 
 side him. In the confusion Snell slipped out to the back piazza, 
 unnoticed, hugging the model under his arm. Blood flowed 
 freely from a long gash on Burr's forehead, and a swelling was 
 fast closing an eye. 
 
 The Professor led Dorrls away from the room into which 
 she tried to force herself, as Southy lifted Burr bodily and 
 carried him up the stairs to the best room in the house. Southy 
 had learned a good deal, since Snell threw the paper weight, 
 and he went thoughtfully down the stairs to meet the doctor, who 
 was already waiting below. 
 
 That evening, Southy left his charge long enough to come 
 down to his guests, who were sitting in the thin shadow on the 
 piazza. 
 
 "Dorris," he said, "can you come upstairs a minute?" 
 
 She arose quickly and walked to the door with Cecil. 
 
 "Frostworth keeps trying to say something that sounds like 
 'Dorris," and I think, perhaps, you had better go up, only you 
 must remember he is not entirely rational yet." 
 
 She found him lying by a west window, and, in the feeble 
 gaslight, made out a chair by the head of the bed. As she sat 
 down, he seemed uncannily quiet, and she shuddered a little. It 
 seemed an age before he moved, but it was only a few seconds 
 in reality before he knew she was there. 
 
 When he opened his eyes, it was to see a feminine outline 
 against the window, and he was puzzled for a moment to know 
 how Southy had changed so much. 
 
 "I'm taking Cecil's place for a few minutes," Dorris ventured. 
 "Can I get you anything?" 
 
 "Oh, it's Dorris," he exclaimed. "Just a sip of the grape 
 juice, please"," 
 
 120 
 
When she brought it, his hand closed over both her hand and 
 the glass, and he drank thus, but she remembered that Southy 
 had said the patient was not fully rational. 
 
 "You must think the West is some wild, after what you saw 
 this afternoon, Dorris," he began, but she interrupted him. 
 
 "The doctor says you are to do nothing but keep quiet." 
 
 "Hang the doctor and his catnip tea," Burr burst out. "He's 
 afraid of his own shadow," and tried to sit up. 
 
 Dorris gently forced him back on the pillow but when she 
 tried to take her hands from his shoulders they were prisoners in 
 his larger ones. It was then for the first time that he noticed 
 the bandaged arm. 
 
 "What has the country done to you?" he asked in consterna- 
 tion. 
 
 "I spilled some hot water on it this morning. It's nothing," 
 she added. 
 
 "Oh, yes, now I remember," Burr replied, "Evelyn told me 
 about it and that you did it purposely. Why did you?" 
 
 Not knowing that Burr was guessing, she admitted, "I want- 
 ed to stay home to-day and know what went on here." 
 
 "And how did you know anything was going on here to-day, 
 in the first place?" 
 
 "I — ^I heard you and Southy down by the front gate last 
 night," she stammered. 
 
 It was Burr's turn to feel uncomfortable. 
 
 "You heard us last night on the steps," he said, half to him- 
 self. "Then you must have heard me sa — " and then grasping a 
 possible diversion, "Do you know where that infernal model it?" 
 
 But he did not release her hands. 
 
 "Southy has it, I think. Snell didn't get far," she explained. 
 "But you mustn't bother about that now, you know. It's all right, 
 and Cecil will help you with it." 
 
 "I am going to give the whole thing to him, Dorris. I have 
 no — " but just then a great flame leaped up in the distance, fol- 
 lowed by another and another. "There goes one of Southy's 
 tanks,," Burr said calmly and regretfully. "That man Snell has 
 
 121 
 
dug up the hatchet, I guess, and some firewater, too. Might as 
 well try to bail out the lake with a dipper, as to try to stop a fire 
 in a tank." 
 
 "Isn't there anything to do to it?" 
 
 She shivered, and he felt her draw a little closer to him — 
 there's something about fire that makes people kin. 
 
 "That's his best tank, I think," continued Burr. "Too had, 
 too bad, but, then, mine are full and he will have them in a few 
 days." Then, as she turned questioningly to him, "Southy is 
 going to have my whole property. I — I'm going back to college." 
 
 The entire country was lighted up, trees standing out plainly, 
 and the details of the whole works were as light as at noon. 
 
 "That's some illumination beside of the last one I saw," 
 Burr mused. "I'm glad I — we — were there." 
 
 Somehow her hands met behind his neck, and he drew her 
 up so that both got the same view. 
 
 —CHARLES N. STANHOPE, 1912 
 
 122 
 
ERRATA 
 
 The poem, To'bet and Leila, (Page 19) credited to Irving 
 Hill Blake should have been signed Salim Y. Alkazin, 1911. 
 
Deacldified using the Bookkeeper process 
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