LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. Chap..'>?j? Copyright No. Shelf.£.S5K|(S UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. Mosses From a Rolling Stone. — BY— OINOXKNATI, O. THE EDITOR PUBLISHING OO. TWO COPIES RECEIVED. Library of C«ngr«(% Office ef th« NOV 1 6 1899 Register of Copyrlghtfc 47701 COPYRIGHTBD EDITOR PUBLlSHDiTG COMPANY Cincinnati. SECOND COPY, Vdosscs ^vom a Kolling Stone. When anybody dreams a dream for five long years and then — it suddenly comes true, I wonder how anybody ought to feel? Happy, of course ! A little bit miserable too, and cross and tired with waiting so long for something that wasn't worth much after all. Anyhow that's how I felt when my dream came true. This dream wasn't such a very big affair, and I'd hardly dare tell you about it, if I didn't have faith in you and know you won't laugh in the wrong places. Just to be all by myself in a big, far away city and see what I could do, anyhow! Away from the minis- ter and his flock, and the circle of loving neighbors, and yes, even from 1 2 MOSSES FROM all the relations unto the third and the fourth generation. Never to slumber on parlor sofas anymore ; never more to be tucked up in folding beds that are hidden away in dingy corners; never again to sleep "three in a bed," and then help do up the work next morning. Sweet, sweet dream ! And every night, when my other prayers were done I put in a P. S. to my own special little god, he who ruleth the Critics and the Editors, yes and even the two for a nickle maga- zine and the penny apiece. I knew I wasn't worthy to do so much as loosen the latchet of his shoe so I prayed just for one small corner where I might "shine his boots" per- chance, and so keep in touch with his godship. And then — when it all came to pass, and I stood in that far away city surveying my little room with its real bed that was all my own — then would I have counted the whole AEOLLING STONE 3 world well lost just to be back home again and sit on the cellar steps and cry and cry and cry ! I felt so dread- fully common-place. I slipped to the little mirror but it was not vanity saith the preacher, for I only wanted to see if I had the same old look I had worn for ages. Yes, and there were the freckles that spanned my nose — just the same — only there were eleven now and there used to be only ten. I wondered why God had made me. I don't suppose I'm the first being who has wondered that in the light of his own reflection, only a pretty girl with sweet, dark eyes has no need to. I can't help liking a pretty girl, and I'm not a man either! I don't care if she is flirtful and naughty and does wear silk-lined gowns, I can for- give her seven times seventy and a hundred fold, dear girl ! I guess if you were pretty 'twould turn your head too ! 4 MOSSES FROM Once on a time when I was away at school I had a dainty sweet little room, so pretty that I used to go into the closet and peek out of it through the half-closed door. I never stood in the midst of it without a conscience stricken feeling that I was spoiling the effect. By and by I took unto myself a room mate, just as, some- times, men take a helpmeet, because she was dainty and sweet and her blue eyes went so well with things and her fair hair matched the drap- ings. She whistled "Hot Time" from dewy morn till eve, and "Home Sweet Home" whenever I had the toothache, still I loved and cherished her and my greatest delight was pos- icg her in the window seat and long- ing for the power to do her in water color. She was the model and I the artist — only, 1 couldn't draw a house so you could tell it from a chicken coop. But I do like pretty things ! Many, many moons ago, when I was four- A ROLLING STONE 5 teen, I fell in love with a — preacher. Not that he was pretty, oh no ! but just wait till I get there. Now, as I look down from the dizzy heigiit of the years that have piled up since then I see myself as through a glass clearly, and behold! 1 was a very little girl, quite on a par with my china-headed doll with its sawdust heart, only we didn't know our hearts were sawdust then, that doll and I. When I learned that this preacher had a wife I joined the band of mar- tyrs and suffered and died for two weeks. The next week I figured as "Lucile." To be sure my hair was as tow and my eyes w^ere pale, but I had a fertile imagination and 'twas but the work of a minute to have my hair all fall out and come in black as night. As for my eyes, I think I used diamond dye on them for they too "came in black." One day I met her and then — my love of the beauti- ful triumphed over my love of the 6 MOSSES FROM preacher. Sorry — but I couldn't help it. Such a sweet, high-bred, dainty face as she did have; and "she was as good as she was beautiful." That night I broke Lucile's head with my little hatchet. And if any man doubt me, let him remember his fourteenth year. Fourteen is the age of miracles, of all sorts of wonderful, marvelous things : one day we love John and the next we love Sue, and the day after we hate everybody and all his kin folks. I would return to my subject if I only knew where it was. "Lost, Strayed or Stolen: a subject! Anyone returning same to writer will receive a reward." "Virtue hath its own reward." "All's not gold that glitters." "A thing of beauty isa joy forever." There ! I knew I'd find it in some old saw — it's Beauty my theme is. (I learned those old sayings at Normal School, glad now I went.) Some big man has said that beauty A ROLLING STONE 7 of mind is way above beauty of face. I expect he was an ugly animal. That would be all right though if one could only wear the mind outside and get folk acquainted with it first, and then spring the face on 'em by de- grees. If one could do that, why, we'd love each other better, old Soc- rates and I. You see, I beheld a pic- ture of Socrates before I read any of his writings, and as I gazed on his brow and nose 1 readily understood how he could drink poison with a rel- ish. On a sunny afternoon long ago, I chanced to remember that, according to some man's tell, the eyes are the windows of the soul. I knew to a surety that I had a soul and I decided to have it peek out of its windows and get a glimpse of the great busy world. I had been reading some divine poetry and I felt so grand and great and good that I was sure my soul must be in its "Sunday best." I tip-toed to the glass. I gazed and gazed. Hush!. 8 MOSSES FROM The windows were empty and I knew there were "Rooms to let!" I tip- toed back to my chair and in my heart was a feeling of goneness. Bless the heart of the man who said beauty is in the beholder's eye. It's lucky for me if it is in the other fel- low's eye, for now I won't have to "fix up' ' any more but just advertise for the right kind of an eye; one containing two beams and a mote with an eye winker in between. It must be color-blind and belong to a millionaire. Such an eye, I feel sure, can not fail to appre- ciate my style of beauty. Gentle reader, when last seen in the body I was at the mirror counting freckles — away back there where I was wondering w^hy I had been created. I turned away from the little glass and there were tears dripping onto the bridge of freckles, but they couldn't wash it away for it was founded upon a bone and the winds came and the tears beat upon it but the freckles multiplied and grew strong. A ROLLING STONE 9 Yes, I was weeping. Was this the girl who had prayed, not two weeks gone, "Oh, vision stay! Oh, dream turn real?" No! it was the other girl who claims she is a part of me, but you and I and Brown and Jones know better — ive know she's a snide and an interloper. I took her up to the feet of Judge Reason. "Why do you weep?" asked the judge. "Has not your dream turned real, your vision stayed? Are the ships on the Bay not as large as you dreamed, or the city, is it too small ; — or have you ceased to aspire to 'black- ing the boots' of your little god.?" The girl stamped her foot (and strange enough, but I did the same thing.) "What do you think I care for this trash? this' and this! and this! I want my dream — that's all." Who says Reason has no heart? Not I! She had heart enough to leave that poor girl alone anyhow! And as for me, I had entirely lost my individuality in that of the "other 10 MOSSES FROM girl" and which was t'other I didn't know. She had my entire sympathy, as I know she has yours. You've all been there! Hugged a dream to your hearts day and night, longing with a fierce longing for it to come true — never realizing that it must die before it can be born — then all of a sudden you wake up with a little dead elephant on your hands and you wonder where your dream has fled. Folks point to the elephant and tell you that is your dream "turned real," but ah, you know bet- ter! Did I say that or did some other fellow say it a long, long time before I was born? It makes me feel bad to think that no matter what I say it's all been said before. The only thing left for me to do is to turn it wrong side out, put on a new facing, hang it up on the line and beat it with a broom, till being already old and full of years, it falls to pieces and is then ready for the rag-bag. Ah'sme! A ROLLING STONE 11 But there I was, (I and the other girl, whom at last I had recognized as being one with myself) there I was weeping! By and by my tears began to dry up and after mopping my face for an hour I struck dry land. I hailed it with joy, for I was hungry and needed my eyesight returned in order that I might seek food. Reader, I was to do ''light house- keeping" and there was a small back room for this purpose. This room was evidently intended to be lit by the star-light of my own eyes, for there were no apertures through which the rays of light might penetrate, ex- cepting a transom and a key-hole. I entered this room. "What a love of a place for devel- oping pictures!" I said hoarsely. Then I cried in a loud voice, "Let there be light ;" but the matches were not, and there was no light. What I did in that room might have been "light house keeping," but if 12 MOSSES FROM you had heard things drop from my hands, down, down into utter dark- ness, you wouldn't have called it so. I don't know what I partook of that evening, for only at rare intervals did I find the way to my mouth — and then, when I did, I gulped her down without regard to "race or color." I said my prayers though. Some- how the darker it is the easier it is to find the place by your bedside to kneel. I remember just what I prayed: "Dear God, let me go right to sleep and forget all about every- thing and not wake up till ten o'clock." And God did. Which is another way of taking a Sedative. The next moraing I sat up in bed with a start. My window was open and I could hear the chirp and twit- ter of a little bird for it was spring- time in the land. "But, surely, surely," I cried, "spring hath no word in all her vocabulary to describe the smell in my nostrils." A ROLLING STONE 13 * 'Boiled onions !" whispered a little demon in my ear. "That is the word," I muttered, "onions !" The transom and the keyhole which proved such poor conductors of light did beautifully in conducting the rays of onions to my nose. The morning waned, but the supply of onions did wo^ wane. "Man does not live by onions alone," I cried, "can't that woman, if woman it be, cook anything else?" It seemed she could, for pres- ently the little demon whispered : "Cabbage, boiled dinner!" After a time I crossed the hall to the store room, where my wood was piled. Reader, I knew that was my wood — anybody who stops to consider knows it too, yet when a wild-eyed woman came in upon me and an- nounced that "that there wood, she'd have me know, belongs to the gen- 'leman what owns this buildin'!" I dropped it and ran, and not until the 14 MOSSES FROM ^'gen'leman" himself swore that he didn't own a stick of it, did I dare to touch it. Even then I looked over my shoulder with fear and trembling, for I had a fearful presentiment that this avenging woman was the onion lady. That same afternoon as I was pass- ing an open door I heard someone singing such a sweet, cheery song that I stopped to catch a glimpse of the singer. Ah, I was pleased ! Such a, dear little woman, dainty and sweet and white-haired! I remembered old- fashioned pictures I'd seen, and when she smiled at me I thought of my moth- er. She beckoned me in. It was love at first sight,just as it always is with me. As I was leaving, she said: "I daresay you haven't done much cook- ing yet and I'm going to give you a little of mine." I made no protest — why should 1? It pleased her to give, and it pleased me to receive, so what mofe does anyone want? She halved A ROLLING STONE 15 a pie and quartered a cake and then filled a china bowl with something, preserves no doubt — really,! thought, I must stop her. Then I heard her saying : "I almost know you're fond of on- ions — my husband and I like them so and I have to cook them fresh every morning so he can have them cold for lunch." I murmured that maybe he'd want them. "Oh no, I'll cook fresh ones in the morning," she said in her cheery -way. I carried them home to my room. I •didn't touch the pie or the cake, but, reader, I ate every scrap in that on- ion bowl and licked my chops for more. 'Twould have been all the same to me if it had been a bowl of ■castor oil or of catnip tea for I wasn't feeding a dainty palate but a hungry, homesick, aching heart. I would have swallowed a whale if I thought it would please anyone. 16 MOSSES FROM The following morning when the little demon whispered in my ear I ordered him behind me, and I said, ''God bless her! How good those on- ions do smell." And my heart was lighter for hav- ing this reminder of her presence. "Better a dinner of onions where love is," I muttered, and then laughed at my own folly, there being no one else to do it. Not long after, a great lady came to call on me. She was the wife of the minister of the First Presbyterian Church in this city. She weighed, say three hundred pounds. I do hope her eyes were not the windows of her soul for if they were they must have been washed in butter milk and blu- ing. She sat down in my own little chair : I heard it squeak. So did she, and she asked if there were many mice in this "Institution." Then the things which served her for eyes lighted on my books. "Oh, did I love to read? She just A ROLLING STONE 17 lived on reading — poetry was her specialty. Was I fond of poetry!" In what contrary hour was I born that I, like Peter, should deny what I love? I looked her in her butter- milk eye and told her I couldn't abide it. She was shocked. I was glad. Was it possible I didn't care for Browning or Shakespeare or Shelley or Keats or any of those lovely writers? "Quite possible," I said, looking straight at those eyes. "Of course," she said, "you don't care for Riley — " Then the cock crew thrice and I bolted. When I returned I took the conversation by the horns and led it myself — Was she fond of onions? I asked. I just lived on 'em day and night, I said. Then Mrs. Minister's eyes com- menced to bulge and I could have knocked them off with a poker, only I feared spilling buttermilk on my carpet. 18 MOSSES FROM I then went on to tell her that if she'd sniff I'eal hard she could prob- ably smell onions cooking even now, as someone in this "Institution" was almost always fixing them. She went. She thinks I'm crazy. I think so too. When she had entirely disappeared I cried, and then went and got dear old "Riley" and kissed the brown covers and turned over the pages — not that I did not know every one by heart but I was just "taking stock." I felt as if someone had been trying to swipe my pet lambs. Then I ran in where the Lady of the Onions dwelt and read her "Out to Old Aunt Mary's" in my best voice, and when I succeeded in bring- ing tears to her eyes I was happy, and Jim 'n me adopted her at once as one of "the relations.'' But oh, it wasn't because the min- ister's wife was fat and had bluing eyes that I acted so mean ! I wouldn't have cared how puffy her cheeks were A ROLLING STONE 19 if only her mouth hadn't been so little and hard and horrid; and some- how she made you feel cold and nasty and lonesome, and you almost knew she'd hold her skirts away from the dear old onion lady, and be "bored to death" if s/ie ever went "Out to Old Aunt Mary's." She would weep at the reading of "Had a Hare-lip, Joney had," by the Reverend Mr. Minister, but if she ever met a real live Joney, in the flesh, sitting next her in church she'd roll out of the pew and pass by on the other side. Well, may her bones rest in peace, if she's got any ! Perhaps when she "shuffles off that mortal coil" she wears they will come to light. There are thoughts that lie too deep for words and 1 guess that's what is the matter here. I want a word,a nice strong word that I can back up with an exclamation point. I like exclamation points : I'd like to use one after every step I take. The word itself must be stirring and origi- 20 MOSSES FROM nal — something to appeal to the hearts of my hearers and not a wicked, naughty word. It would be so easy if it were not for this stipulation ; as it is, though, I've asked for too much. I'll use that mark anyhow! So there ! My room being in the tip-top story, its windows command a varied and interesting view. The ships on the Bay, the mount- ains beyond; nearer, the Butcher's and Baker's and candle-stick Maker's and sundry back yards decorated from corner to corner with clothes-lines, all in full bloom. There are some women who wash six days in the week and on the seventh hang their bedding out to air. 1 have been watching a little yellow dog in one of these back yards. I could see his small tail wagging and I knew by the wistful expression on his nose that he was hungry. I could tell by the turn of his tail and the cut of his hail that he was no aristocrat, A ROLLING STONE 21 but just a hungry, forsaken little street waif. A woman appeared on the scene. She stooped to pick up a stone. She gruntel — not that I heard her, but no woman of her size could help it. I looked at the stone in her hand ; I looked at the little yellow dog ; I winced. In my mind's eye I could see the wagging tail hung low be- tween the shaggy legs. What mat- ter if it wasn't the latest novelty in tails, nor his hair of a stylish cut, I couldn't bear to see the way he'd look back over his shoulder and whine. Then the woman lifted her arm ; the dog yelped, and his tail disappeared in the manner I had foreseen. For a moment I hated that woman with a fierce hatred, and yet, she had done a very natural thing. When things whine to us for what we can- not give: for sympathy or a bone when our hearts and our cupboards are both bare, why, we haul off and hit 'em. "A stone for bread," for so it is written. 22 MOSSES FROM When I came to myself I discovered a tear on my eyelid. "In the name of Sentimental Tommy," I said, "what are you crying about?" "Nothin', " I answered. "You aren't crying over a dirty little yellow dog are you.?" "Yes ma'am." "Do you suppose for an instant that he's the only hungry dog in this city? Don't you know there are mill- ions of 'em?" "Yes ma'am." And then all of a sudden this small dog became of Lilliputian size, and his suffering grew oh, so small and insignificant compared with what was daily borne by dogkind in general. I had thought of stealing down the back stairway and buying some dog meat on the side, and patting his head and calling him ''Gip" after my own little doggie that's dead. But now I was discouraged- — for what does one hungry dog, more or less, matter anyhow? A ROLLING STONE 23 *'Unto the least of these poor dog- gies" — whispered a still, small voice, and I slipped down the back stair- way. I came home happy in know- ing that one dog had had his fill that day. The Lady of the Onions has been in for a chat. She has told me of a most incredible thing. She saw a young lady on the street, wearing rings on her thumbs ! "A little off, perhaps," I suggested. But, no! She was very much "on," it ap- peared. "She wore a beautiful dress," said the lady, "all trimmed inside and outside — mostly inside — with lovely pink silk, and she had to hold her skirt most wrong side out to get to show the trimming in it. But 'twas mighty pretty though ! Still, it does seem like it would be handier to have things trimmed right side out." It did seem so. ' "But why in the world did she put those pretty rings on her thumbs?' 24 MOSSES FROM she appealed to me once more. I ventured that perhaps they were too large for her fingers and this idea pleased her so well that she went away believing. As for myself, I knew in the innermost recess of my new tan shoe that I had fibbed mon- strously. I feared, and yes, was al- most certain, that this was but a new fad — this thumb business. Perhaps as yet it was only known to the cream of the "four hundred" — but how soon, ah how soon, would every little forsaken orphan be spending her last week's wages to purchase a brass ring to wear on her thumb ! "How long, oh Lord, how long," I cried, "before we'll have to wear rings on our big toes and go bare- foot to show them?" Speaking of the "four hundred" reminds me of my Aunt Cynthia. She was the dearest old lady, but a trifle back-woodsy — only I wouldn't advise anyone else to say as much. One day we passed a very elegant young lady on the street. A EOLLING STONE 25 "Who's that?" asked Auntie. "Oh, one of the creams!" I answered in- differently. "The what?" "Belongs to the upper crust," I explained, but Auntie looked va- remember her by, and so, with a shrewd insight into the human heart she chose the very last day for her face to shine in. Just as some of our friends who have treated us shabby for a month, turn 'round and are just melting good for about two hours^ before they set sail for Honolulu. They leave some parting gift in our hand and kiss us and cry on us and behold, how we love them ! Their kindly smile and the little gift which maybe cost two or three dollars, has- wiped out the whole bitter past. We- remember no more the night when they rolled up in the bed clothes and. 104 MOSSES FROM wouldn't budge an inch. Forgotten is that hour of agony when we hung suspended in the space between the bed and floor, while our friends lay- peacefully snoozing in our place — and then, when the final crash came and our head was pillowed on the floor matting we remember no longer how these same friends sat up in bed and cried out saying : "Well, I never! If you haven't actually tumbled out of bed!" Yes, we've forgo tton all this and we hope our friends will have a lovely time in Honolulu — and stay a long, long time. Really and truly I do think that rent in this man's town is enormous. The sum of money that passes every month in advance, into the clutches of the gen'leman who owns (Oh, you know the rest!) is dreadful to relate. I shan't tell how much my rent is, for some of my friends, I know, would be shocked at my dire extravagance while A ROLLING STONE 105 others who are millionaires, semi- millioniares and quarti-millionaires, would sniff their nostrils in disdain at such a mere nothing. But I guess if their little tin bank was filled with just mere nothings, they'd sniff out the other side of their nose. If I were a millionaire I know what I'd do. After five or six years I'd die off and leave everything to some nice young lady who was struggling to keep a roof over her. I'm afraid if you were here you'd tell me I ought to give up these rooms and 'go in search of cheaper ones. But don't, donH do it; don't set the poor old stone to rolling again so soon ! Do you think that I could bear to leave this chimney, this little bam- boo table, the dresser of teak-wood and the real bed that is not a sofa ! Do you think I could leave all this and go wandering about the highways and hedges in search of a room that at best, would be but one dollar cheaper? No, rather will I save on miy 106 MOSSES FROM butcher- bill, which will be quite easy as I don't eat meat. I'm what you'd call a vegetarian, that is, I would be, only I don't eat vegetables either; I just take Hood's Sarsaparilla three times a day for that weary Willie feel- ing in my head. I'm getting a little thin, and that reminds me: I met the minister's- wife the other day — who is not getting thin. I almost knew she',d say some- thing to make me hate her again, and sure enough ! She gazed at me a mo- ment with her peculiar eyes and then remarked that it seemed to her I was looking terribly puny. That word! The very same one that hung like a pail over my happy childhood, dark- ening and embittering it. You see, when I was a little girl about seven years old, I lived in the country. And there was an old doc- tor who went about from house to house, selling catnip tea and balsam. One night, just at supper, he honored us with a visit. He was sitting oppo- A ROLLING STOJSTE 107 site me at table, when suddenly he turned to my mother, and pointing vividly at me in the presence of all my relations, he said in a loud voice : "Mark my words, Madam, that child is puny, terribly puny." I gave him one look of intense ha- tred. I saw my brothers smile with glee, and well did I know that omen of ill ! After that, whenever I wanted to go hunting or skating or play "rob- ber" or ride old Bill or slide on the new sled or play in the loft, — no mat- ter what — those boys would gurgle with iiendish delight and say with mock sorrow : "Nope sis, we're awful sorry we can't take you, but you're puny, you know, terribly puny." When I had measles and whooping cough they would gather about my bed and ask in gentle tones if I wasn't feeling pretty puny to-day. In time I developed a fierce thick frown. I cried out for folks to "let 108 MOSSES FROM me be" and for "them boys not to talk to me." I learned to go about with an independent air, and every one knew, from the look in my eye, that 'twas "none o' their business." I would sit for hours on an old log over the creek, swinging my legs and smiling an uncanny smile as I dreamed how, some fine morning, I'd run away to a far off land and teach school till I had money enough to buy a gold watch set with rubies and a pink silk dress like the girl in the calendar had. And then, by and by, when I was eighteen and all the fam- ily had gathered together in the old farm house to mourn my loss; when all the aunts and uncles who had ever patronized me and all the cousins who had broken my dolls, came from afar to weep with one another — then in all my magnificence I would open the door and step in upon them, and the prodigal family would fall on my neck and weep and ask my forgiveness and then go and kill the fatted tur- A ROLLING STONE 109 key. (No fatted calf in mine, if you please.) During those days, and ever since, my friends have wagged their heads and muttered how they feared I never should care for anybody. Unless, as my Cousin Jane once whispered in my ear, unless he was the "right one" — some one, you understand, who would be fearfully, madly, wildly homely, with lines of sorrow about his mouth and — smart, he must be smart, she said. Why Jane should think I have a predilection for ugli- ness and smartness is more than I can surmise, for you yourselves know how I love pretty things, and as for smart- ness, why, there's nobody who cares less for it. Nobody who enjoys com- mon ordinary folks more than I do^ folks who never have even heard of Darwin's theory and don't know Browning from a hole in the ground. Who will innocently ask me how to spell "it" or "but," and if I don't ex- actly know they like me all the better 110 MOSSES FROM for it and don't act as if I'd committed murder in the first degree. Some- times they will look up from a book and enquire of me what "expectation" means. I look thoughtful a moment and then announce that "expecta- tion is when anybody expects some- thing every day for a month and then don't get it." This mayn't be just as Webster would put it but I don't care, it appeals to my people and they understand it. They know it's true from experience, and lots of times I've had my definitions bring tears to their eyes and they'd weep as they told me how often they had felt ex- actly that way. Of course one of Webster's defini- tions will bring tears to one's ej^es also, but they are tears of saltpeter and carbolic acid and are vastly dif- ferent from the crystal drops of ten- derness that flow from the human heart at hearing one of my definitions. If I ever do write a dictionary I'm going to write one that will make A ROLLING STONE 111 men and women better for having read it — not better intellectually, but truer and kinder and nobler at heart. But I'd hate to have to define a bi- cycle track. The most I know about it is that I'm not caring anything about riding on one. I enjoyed it once away back in January when cycling was out of season and the track was out of repair. I don't know what prompted me to ride that day, for it had rained the night before and the track was decidedly soggy, while the air was full of a soft oozy mist. The track leads to a little lake some six or seven miles away — if I were only good at description, which we all know I'm not, I'd give you a vivid picture of it; but let it suffice to say that it is crooked and narrow and goes sidling 'round and 'round and over and above and through a collec- tion of hills ; there are dark and bloody gulches and terrible precipices, but withal there is bewilderingly beautiful scenery everywhere. My 112 MOSSES FROM heart thrilled with delightful uncer- tainty as, ever and anon, I came upon a point where a jutty of the hill made a sudden curve in the path, and what was around that curve was as hidden as the future ; it might be a grizzly bear or a — man ! I went along at an easy gait, now catching sweet glimpses of the little lake far below, now peering up into mossy gulches, till suddenly I came upon a shady nook wherein was a small bench. It undoubtedly had been "built for two" but I found that one could occupy it very com- fortably without feeling lonely at all. My lunch too, I discovered, was about right for one — in fact, I didn't see how I could possibly have been hospit- able to two of us. Lunches are all right in their place but that place is not the human stom- ach, they leave one with such an un- healthy craving for drink, also with a lump in one's throat, composed of two boiled eggs, one pickle, one sand- wich and a piece of roll jelly cake. I A ROLLING STONE 113 looked about for water; but even when I found it what did it avail me? There was no cup to go with it, not even an old rusty dipper with a hole in it! And I'm not one of those children of nature who can lie flat down and drink from a running stream. Not that I'm afraid of getting my dress muddy nor of doing anything ungen- tlemanly, but simply because just as a big cool draught goes careering down my throat I imagine there are other things likewise careering down it, such as big, cool snake eggs, large, wet spiders; and when, suddenly, a great damp green toad hops up on the opposite bank, on a level with my eye- brows, and waves his little toes at me — oh it's horrible ! So it was that I stood there help- less beside the running brooklet. The eggs were petrifying in my throat and I could locate the exact place where the pickles lay. Then my eyes espied the eggshells. I snatched 114 MOSSES FROM thirstily at the half of one and took my station by the beautiful stream. I drank and drank and drank again, till the burden of my throat rolled away. I mounted my wheel once again, hut from there on the path grew more dangerous, the curves more numerous and sudden, while every rod or so a white sign-board hopped up by the track, saying loudly : "Ring your bell!" "Go slow!" "Keep to the right!" I am convinced that these sign- boards do more harm than good, for they caused my wheel to shy fearfully, and to whizz round the curves like blue lightning. And as for ringing the bell, there was no need of it, for I was monarch of all that beautiful path, and never a fellow biker did I meet the whole way. Foolish child that I was, I thought it would always be so, thought I could come there next June and find the same sweet quietude, thought I could ride along there at the same ambling A ROLLING STONE 115 gate, sit on the old bench and eat my lunch and drink from the little stream just as I did that day in January. And it was with a feeling of joyful expectation that I sallied forth, bound for the track, one morning not far away. I don't remember much about that ride — I just have a confused rec- ollection of hundreds of people whiz- zing by one another as if pursued; peering into one another's faces with wild, eager eyes ; ringing their bells like mad; scorching round the curves with set faces and glaring eyes ! Few and short the words they said, few and short the thoughts they thunk ! Maybe the little lake was still there below, and the trees and the bench by the quiet stream, but 1 didn't see them. I saw nothing bub whirring wheels and pantings and puffings and ringing of bells ; felt nothing but a fierce desire to "go it" with the rest — go it till I died. I own up to it that one experiences a certain wild fascination such as a 116 MOSSES FROM locomotive must feel as it goes ripping and snorting over the plains and the mountains. And to certain individuals I've" no doubt it's beneficial. To such as have feasted on sentiment till there's nothing left but bones; who have wrung their hands in rapture over the sunset, and cried their eyes red gaz- ing at the moon ; whose thoughts were bred in an incubator and whose feelings were purchased"ready made" — oh, I should think they would want to ride a million miles a minute to see if they couldn't get away from themselves. Let -th»m mount their wheels in hot haste and make for the track where all they'll need will be muscle and brawn and strength of limb — and a license on their wheel. But as for me, give me a smooth old country road, with maybe a rut here and there or maybe a little hill — who cares for things like these.? All is quiet there. Perhaps there'll be no lake, no beautiful scenery, but al- A ROLLING STONE 117 most always there's a quiet stream or a shady pool with willows all around, and then — there is time, all the time in the world : time to \vatch a cloud drift by, or stop at a farm house and ask for a drink ; and plenty of time to think the thoughts that only come to one in such sweet, simple places as these. You amble along the old white road meeting nothing worse than a cow or lumber wagon, with a kind old face smiling down at you from the high spring seat. I'd love to follow the road on to the end, for I know they'd be good to me, the people who live by its highways and hedges. The cows might shake their moosey heads at me, but by the time they had fairly whetted their horns, I should be skimming over yonder hill. I might meet some poor Wandering Jew who, like myself, had found his best friend to be the old country road. But I shouldn't be afraid, for I know he'd recognize in me something akin to 118 MOSSES FBOM himself, and he'd give me a dusty grin and pass on without so much as staying his weary feet to question my purpose or my purse. The trouble would be, when in my course I came upon some little ham- let the natives of which would gather together on the street corners and eye me suspiciously. "Why," they would ask, "why is this being who sitteth upon a bike, riding through space in this wise? It cannot be for pleasure, for the crea- ture is alone. Let us hasten up and question her." They would ask, did I ride for money ? And I would answer, no ! Did I ride for fame? Again, no! Did I ride for duty? No! Then what in Bryan's name was I riding for? And I should smile a sweet shy smile, touch the spur to my trusty A ROLLING STONE 11» "bike and leave them rubbing their eyes with their knubby fists. For why should I parley with them? If I told them my real reason they would only mock me and look down their Judas noses: if I said, "Fellow lab- orers and friends! I am riding through space in this manner,not for fame,not for money,not from a sense of duty but merely because I want to,' ^ they would either think me insane or else a Cuban spy. Oh, hum! Let's go home. For home is home even if it is just a dry goods box in an alley or a room in a block. "I suppose this seems like home to you," said a friend of mine one day. "I suppose it doesn't seem lonely or dreary or — or horrible to you?" And she gazed about while a shiver crept up her back — not that I saw it but it was in the room and the verjr air was charged with it. I told her I managed to exist here. But honestly now, didn't I think 120 MOSSES FROM I'd be happier if I'd take up embroid- ery or sewing or something; hadn't I ever thought of learning millinery or anything? I s^iould be so much more contented, she thought, if I had something to take up my mind. To hear her talk anybody would think I had a face on me like Dante, with the light of Inferno in my eyes, and a lover lost in our late war, while my mind was a regular Sahara desert and my soul a Dakota plain. When she'd gone away I felt so un- happy, with my thoughts in a tangle and with a miserable fear at my heart that maybe, after all, I was on the wrong side of the river, and that the folks on the other bank were having the best time. But just as the tears were filling my eyes a big burst of sun came through my window, filling my lap full of sunshine, while a stray verse came singing into my heart and I fell to humming in undertone : "There's a joy in mere existence That the raptured soul consumes." A ROLLING STONE 121 And then I took a deep breath of sunshine, laughed drowsily, curled up on the sofa and fell asleep. There's one thing I've never been -and that's a school teacher. I have always humored myself in thinking that someday I'd be one, someday when I got far enough along in my 'rithmetic. But honestly, I believe if it came to a pinch and I had to choose between that and going as missionary to the Cannibal Islands, I'd take the mis- sionary every time. It just makes my tooth jump to think of having some little curly-headed infant toddle up to my desk and ask me through its little nose where the Philippines were. "Pa said fer me to ask you.'"' And just to think of some tall, fair haired Maid of Athens in a pink cal- ico apron, stalking up to me and en- treating me to show her how to work an example in partial payments, and then to have her stand and look over 122 MOSSES FROM my shoulder through the whole busi- ness ! Every time 1 beheld a little grimy hand raised on high I'd faint dead away for I'd be sure they were going^ to ask some abominable question their Pa had set them up to. I suppose that every woman at some time of her life, ought to don a white apron and tie on her sunbonnet and. trudge through the fields and over the hill to the little old school house down in the hollow. I had a teacher once, and if I thought I'd ever be loved by any mor- sel of human flesh as that teacher was loved by me, why I'd furbish up my arithmetic and teach school for the rest of my days. I adored her ; her lovely brown eyes and the long braid of hair that hung; down her back. The day she picked me up and kissed me was a day to be remembered. I would plod through the snow in winter till I was worn out with trying A ROLLING STONE 123 to walk in the footsteps of my long- legged brothers — footsteps, oh, how few and far between and how like giant post holes ! But it was worth while enduring all this just to have that dear teacher untie my hood and hold me on her lap for an hour. And if she ever winked knowingly over my head at my big brothers, I never saw her. Sometimes I stayed all night with her and once she showed me her beau- tiful dresses and another time she brought forth a little box full of "keepsakes," she called them. There was a penny and a heart candy; a button and a picture, a lock of hair and an old thimble, etc. I looked at them with awe ; they opened up a new vista of life to me, an undiscovered country. Keepsakes ! Why, 7 didn't have any, but you bet I would before another day was past. I went home. I found a button box and I cut off all the brass buttons from two pairs of pants. I swiped my 124 MOSSES FROM mother's thimble and some pennies from the boys, and as for hair, I cut a lock off the head of every member of the family, from my oldest brother down to my little dog Gip. The next time the teacher stayed at our house for tea, with what pride did I show her my box! IS^obody smiled, nobody laughed. But she just said it was every bit as nice as hers, and held me on her lap the whole evening. And I know she did 'iiot wink at the boys either — now! You needn't say she w^as good to me just because of them either, for I know better, and I tell you 1 will not have this idol broken. Talk about worshiping idols ! Jim- miny Christmas! I'd like to see any- body get a chance to worship one. You no sooner get your nice little idol set up than somebody comes along with a hammer and smashes it to splinters and tells you it's no good anyhow, that its feet are of clay, and a whole lot more stuff. A EOLLING STONE 125 Then you make yourself another one, taking pains with its feet to have them of shiny gold. Somebody comes again. Yes, its' feet are all right this time, but now its head is of pumpkin. So it goes, and oh dear, I do wish folks would let other folks be! Now I'll talk a little about keep- sakes. Little children gathered here to-day, never willfully seek to acquire keepsakes. In their own good time they'll come to you, thicker than measels and they'll stay a great dejxl longer. "Till death us do part," I say sadly when another keepsake makes its way into my little desk. Oftentimes I he- roically throw away with the rubbish some worthless trinket I'm tired of, but in half an hour's time I'm down searching for it in the ash barrel. They accumulate in boxes and drawers and always they seem to be saying to me, "Whither thou goest we will go, thy trunk shall be our trunk, thy boxes oitr boxes." 126 MOSSES FROM The best way to do is to fill your pockets with them, tie a gunny sack full around your neck and another on your back, and then go down to the City Dock and jump off into the Bay. For me, I suppose the noblest thing to do before making the grand jump of a lifetime, would be to tie up these keepsakes into neat little bundles and send them away to my friends and relations. But would they ap- preciate them? Supposing I sent Jane a little old cracked cup I've had for years wouldn't she sniff with dis- dain and give it to little Anna Belle Lee for her play house ! And I know if I sent Mary that little souvenir spoon of mine with the battleship Maine, before it went busted, beauti- fully engraved on its bowl, I know she'd not only sniff with disdain but howl with disgust and say she'd seen the likes of them before and they were brass clear through! She should think I might have sent her something that at least made a pretense of being A ROLLING STONE 127 -gold. That dear little brass spoon ! how it helps to ladle up the past to me! And the little cracked cup is full to the brim of memories of the giver — even the crack tells a story and brings back other days a hundred times clearer than any old yellow page in a diary could do. I abominate diaries! The harder you try to make them bright and in- teresting the stupider and affecteder and sentimentaller they get till finally they are just about as exciting as a tub of rain water seasoned with angle worms. You are supposed to be writ- ing a Diary for no other eye than your •own, but the first thing you know you are writing down a whole chapter of sentimental trash and dreaming how Neddie or Johnny or Jimmie will run across it lying on the bench under- neath the apple trees and how he'll read therein that you are eating up your heart by the pound all for the love of him, and then how he'll come tearing up the walk on his little chubby 128 MOSSES FROM legs and fall at your feet crying out that it might have been so diiferent, oh so different, if he'd only have known sooner! And he weeps on his red ban- dana and you v^^eep on your gingham apron and then he kisses your left ear madly, passionately, and rushes away to inform Susie Green that he loves an- other and for her to give him back his. ring quick. You can't be true to yourself and. write a Diary at the same time. Being true to one's self reminds me of a little incident fraught with grief and pain. The classroom was very still. Pro- fessor and students were gathered- about a long table laden with departed beasts, for lo, it was a Physiology- class! Reader, I was there all but my heart and my eyes ; they were out- picking buttercups in the sweet, clean meadows. The group about the table were in- tent upon something the little plump* professor held in his hand. I learned A ROLLING STONE 129 afterwards that it was the eye of a cow. This cow never again would roam the green pastures and switch her brindle tail in the sunshine, for her weary bones had been whitening long upon some grassy slope or shady hollow, and only her eye was left to tell the tale. I like cows' eyes — in their place — in a cow's head: provided that same cow is living and breathing and chewing her cud and looking pen- sively at me with her soft brown orbs — then I think cows' eyes are pretty, but in death — I draw the line. I drew the line that day. As in a dream I realized th'kt they were searching for something on that eyeball. The professor said a little black spot should invariably appear on the something or other of the something or other that belonged to the eye. At last they all found it, all save one ! ''There were ninety and nine in the fold that day, But one was lost on the hills away," 130 MOSSES FROM sounded mournfully in my mind ; and, oh reader, / was that lost one, for to :save my life I couldn't see that wretched little black spot. I gazed and gazed till the class grew impa- tient and the professor grew irritable. Well, even girls with green eyes and big ears have something of the actress in them. This quality had hitherto lain dormant in me but now there was need of it. I clasped my hands ; a look of excitement crept into my face and I cried out in an ecstatic voice : ^'Oh, I see it, 1 see it! Isa't it a dear little spot?" I deceived the class en- tirely, but not so the wily Prof. My €yes had bulged a trifle too much and the note of ecstacy in my voice had been a trifle too loud for his quick ear to be deceived by it. He looked at me sadly and said: "Miss Abbie, what- ever you do, be true to yourself." Then I saw several hundred little black spots and I felt sorry, very, very sorry, for no matter how much I may fib to other folks I've always wanted A ROLLING STONE 131 to be true to myself and do the square thing by it. But between you and me and my own heart lc?o think I was true to myself, for I saw that black spot as clearly in my mind's eye as if I had focused a dozen ordinary green eyes at it. Of course I shouldn't have called it a "dear" little spot, nor acted tick- led about it, — but goodness, I guess anybody would act tickled to see even a Mis-ouri cousin if 'twas in self-de- fence. Not long after we stood again in the little class room. It looked like Noah's Ark struck by lightning ten days before. On the table lay some half dozen cats who had passed quietly away some time ago. There were several dogs slain by an assassin. There were chickens, "absolutely fresh, "and little odds and ends in the shape of toads, mice, etc. Oh, the table was just cov- ered with and-so-forths. 132 MOSSES FROM I sniffed with anguish and' two young ladies grew pale and wobbly,, which caused the little Prof, to re- mark angrily that as for him.he could relish his dinner in that same room as much as if he was in his own dining- room at home, (which wasn't saying much for the dining-room at home.) I looked at him. He had a kind, honest face with nothing hardened in its expression, nothing of depravity in his glance which could lead one to believe in the truth of his remark. I saw that just for his profession's sake he had wheedled himself into believing a wretched lie ; and when I had com- pared that direful room with his own cool, fresh dining room at home where the white curtains fluttered to and fro, and the china shone on the dainty table, while a sweet little wife poured out tea for him ; when T compared these two rooms I said in undertone : "Old man, whatever you do, be true to yourself." You notice I didn't say it out loud, for behold, examinations A KOLLING STONE 133 were nigh at hand and their proximity makes a lot of difference in a body's manner of speaking to his Prof. Now I think of it, he was exceed- ingly merciful to me on that day of sorrow. He must have been thinking of other things when he examined my paper and marked it ''Passed." When he read about a horse's tail that was t-a-l-e, and when in answer to a ques- tion asking for the exact location of the heart he was informed by that same paper that the heart hasn't any special place of staying but that it beats on one side till it gets tired and then flops over to the other. No doubt his conscience pricked him for passing me, and yet he was being true to himself — to his best self you understand. Which doesn't care a picayune where a body's heart maybe just so it's good and true, and beats in sympathy with some poor flunking student. But I've no doubt that will be among the first sins he confesses on 134 MOSSES FROM the Great Day. I wouldn't be a bit surprised But just as he's telling how sorry he is for it, wouldn't it be a joke if the ones who are running the thing then should tell him it was one of the very best things he ever did? There'll be lots of jokes that day I expect — lots of things going on that will make the angels hide behind their wings and smile. Wouldn't it be odd if while I'm confessing how I ate that wicked sinner's rolls, and telling how sorry I am I treated her nice and pleasant, if then they'd tell me that was one of my best deeds? And when I'm telling about the day I got lost and wandered about till I strayed into the slums — but per- haps I'd better tell the reader about it first. I got lost one day before I had thoroughly learned the lay of the city in which I dwelt, and as lost folks always do, I strayed into the very worst place. But I wasn't at all worried. I was too much interested. A ROLLING STOKE 135- I was remembering all I had ever read about Slums, 'specially Dickens' slums. I forgot all about being a young lady : ] forgot to hold up my skirt and to pick my way — I even for- got that I had on a beautiful new pair of shoes. 1 ambled along. On a. corner stood an old man. He was swearing — he didn't tell me why but I knew. 1 knew 'twas just because he was miserable and wicked and poverty stricken. How I wished E could smile as some girls can, theni maybe I could have cheered his- weary old soul and made him forget to swear for a moment. As it was, my mouth made a pitiful stagger at a smile which ended in a woebegone pucker and my eyes grew watery and I've no doubt the poor old fellow thought I too, was in trouble, for he- swore all the harder at the world pres- ent and the world to come and all the inhabitants thereof. I stumbled om till I almost fell over a little — baby ( ?) I don't know\ It might have been a. 136 MOSSES FEOM baby if I could have gotten a glimpse of it. Anyhow it had a baby's eyes : pitiful, beseeching. I didn't try to smile for I was beyond even a meager grin. I longed to be a big strong man so I could put the little creature bodily into my coat pocket and carry it home to my wife and have her clean it all up and feed it and then — what then? Oh, surely there'd be room somewhere in this world for a sweet clean baby ! I stood there perfectly helpless. My hands weren't strong nor my heart wasn't strong, and then besides, mis- sionaries are born not made. Then by mere chance I staggered into the light of day and the bustle and noise of a civilized street. I held up my skirt from the dust in a hurry, and straightened my hat and looked with chagrin at the mire on my shoes. I reached my room feeling very much ashamed and I sent up a prayer for forgiveness then and -there. I prom- ised to cleanse my linen skirt from A ROLLING STONE 137 mud and my new tan shoes from con- taminating clay. I wonder if the angels laughed in heaven and if,on the Day when we're all there — not in heav- en, I don't mean — I Avonder if they'll tell me that they don't deal in young la- dies and linen skirts and new tan shoes, and the only prayer they renj ember of hearing from me that day was the one I prayed unconsciously, a prayer without words that came straight from my heart as I passed the old man in the slums, and the little baby, having forgotten myself for just one little rtioment. I only wish 1 knew how to read a newspaper. One is delivered every evening at my domicile door but to save my life I can't get into it. Just as i'm beginning to be a little bit interested in some harmless advertisement sud- denly a great heavy line of brazen let- ters rises up before me and startles me so I can hardly make out its meaning. After gazing intently at it for half an hour I discover its purpose to be, 138 MOSSES FROM '■''She shot her husband and then killed herself. Jealously the alleged mo- tive:' These heavy lines are called"head- ers" 1 think, and they make me feel as I do when a hot-tamalie fiend yells in my ear. Generally newspapers do not ac- quire pulpit methods, but they evi- dently have adopted the custom of ancient ecclesiastics who were wont to talk softly and g'^ntly in a low under- tone for about fifteen minutes, and then suddenly, without any warning whatever, begin roaring, stamping and waving their arms till anybody would think they were trying to shout down the walls of Jericho. "A man died in Philadelphia," last night's paper stated. I wondered why — not why the man died, but why the paper mentioned it, and since it did see fit to do so why it didn't like- wise mention that a man ate his breakfast in New York yesterday morning, or that the sun set in Lon- A ROLLING STONE 139 don the other night, or any other likely fact. If Philadelphia wasn't so far away from here, or if this de- parted man had been a great general or an oil magnate or the owner of a brewery or even a mere poet, I could have understood better why his depar- ture should be recorded — but no, he was just a man named Jonas Brown who died suddenly at his home in Philadelphia. Maybe 'twas the idea of suddenness the paper wished to call attention to as a sort of a warning to us, a re- minder that you or I or anybody, either in this city or in Philadelphia, or in London, are liable to pass sud- denly away if we don't watch out. There's only one newspaper I ever really enjoyed. It is yellow and old, and the news in it has been stale these sixty years. Always just at the study hour, when my brother and I were settling down to our books I felt called upon to bring forth this paper. I simply 140 MOSSES FROM couldn't endure to see that dear, hu- morous, don't give a darn, expression on Ted's face give way to one of serious contemplation. I would read in a solemn voice : "iVewj York Evening Post, Saturday, Jan. 27, ISJ^Or My brother v/ould grin with relief, shove his algebra to one side and prepare to listen. Iread, while Ted interrupted with comment and exclamation as follows : '•The second course of lectures be- fore the Mercantile Society has al- ready commenced. Mr. Longfellow, the poet, w^ili deliver two lectures on the life and writings of Dante; and one on the writings of John Paul Richter, one of the most remarkable and eccentric of the German authors. "Professor Torrey, w^hose diligence in the pursuit of natural sciences has been rewarded with deserved reputa- tion, will give a course of ten lectures on the chemistry of nature. "Two lectures on the battle of Chip- A ROLLING STONE 141 pewa and other engagements on our northwestern frontier during the late war, will be delivered by Pro- fessor Douglass, who was present in them. • "R. W. Emerson, an impressive speaker^ possessing a peculiar style and mode of thinking, will lecture on the Philosophy of History. "Professor Longfellow lectures this evening on the life and writings of Dante, at Clinton Hall. If his spec- ulations on this subject be as inter- esting as his Psalm of Life, it will be well worth attending." "Sis, we must go to that,'' Ted in- terrupted. "That Longfellow is a pretty smart fellow. It isn't every one who could write a Psalm." And he repeats w^ith a dreamy look in his eye: "Tell me not in mournful numbers Life was made fer you 'n me ; Rudyard Kip has run a corner On the things I'd like to be. 142 MOSSES FROM Lives of great Profs, all remind us We can make our lives so pat, And departing leave behind us Fossil prints of where we sat." I silence him. "Listen," I say, * 'Maggie Beeswax is dead. Ted hops from his chair. "No, impossible ! What, my little Maggie gone } When, oh when did this direful thing occur? Last evening! Even while I slept. But where, Sis, where?" "At her home in Philadelphia," I read. This is the climax. As I glance at the agonized look on my brother's face I am forced to stuff my handkerchief down my throat, for gravity is essential to the spirit of such a play. Poor little Maggie Beeswax! If you only had had some other name we never should have been so irreverent. I proceed. "Married. On the twenty-first inst. by the Rev. H. Chase, Mr. Benj. B. Henrich, to Miss Angelina J., daughter of Orick Fisher, Esq., of this city." A ROLLING STONE 143 I hear Ted crying out, '^Oh, my little Angelina J. how could you be so per- ^dious ! I thought you were all mine -own, but alas, you are hisn ! How am I to bear my pain? Sis," he adds, ^^donH tell me she was married in Vhi\2i.— don't do it!" Then follows a very sarcastic cut- ting paragraph written by a certain John Smith who claimed to be related to the John Smith who cut off Poca- hontas' head — no, she cut off his head or else she didn' t cut it off, anyhow there was a head mixed up in it somewhere. This John Smith said a great many cutting bitter things about Henry Clay's speech that was delivered in the Senate day before yesterday, Jan. ^5, 1840. It made Ted horrible mad at Smith and he paced the floor in anger. *'Do you think I'll have my old chum, Henry, abused in that manner? Why, Henry and I were schoolmates, and I 144 MOSSES FROM remember well the day he spoke 'Twinkle, twinkle little star.' " "On Friday eve," I proceed, "the Rev. and Honorable Henry Clay de- livered an oration over the body of Judge White. Deacon Daniel Web- ster, the great constitutional humbug, was not present. It is said that he vs^as invited to attend, but that, whilst sojourning in England with his 'dear Duke of Rutland,' he actually forgot that such a being as Judge White existed. It is also said that he has scarcely smj recollection of such a man as one Henry Clay. Yours, etc." This made w/e mad. The idea of calling Webster a "great constitu- tional humbug!" Ted and I discussed that paragraph at length, sandwiching in many little anecdotes of these great men who had been our schoolmates years before. "Nonsense !" you say? Of course ! And blessed be nonsense! It kept our home in a hubbub of fuu, it kept A ROLLING STONE 145 my mother from "blues" and my brother from algebra and me from ever going to Vassar and graduating with highest honors out of a class of one hundred and seventy-five. Blessed be Nonsense ! THE END.