'ORNl/i 
 
 US 
 LIBRARY
 
 [See page 187 
 
 WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DREAM I'"
 
 IN THE 
 MORNING GLOW 
 
 by 
 
 ROY ROLFE GILSON 
 
 AVTHOR OF "WHEN LOVE IS YOUNG" 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 HARPER r BROTHERS 
 
 PUBLISHERS 1902 
 
 107825
 
 Copyright, 1902, by HARPER & BROTHERS. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 Published October, 1902.
 
 -PS 
 
 TO 
 
 MY WIFE
 
 Contents 
 
 V> PAGE 
 
 -\ GRANDFATHER 3 
 
 *v 
 
 'i~ GRANDMOTHER 33 
 
 WHILE AUNT JANE PLAYED 51 
 
 LITTLE SISTER 61 
 
 ^ OUR YARD 85 
 
 THE TOY GRENADIER 107 
 
 FATHER 127 
 
 MOTHER 165
 
 Illustrations 
 
 'WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DREAM!'" . Frontispiece 
 
 WHEN GRANDFATHER WORE HIS 
 WHITE VEST YOU WALKED LIKE 
 OTHER FOLKS" Facing p. 4 
 
 YOU STOLE SOFTLY TO HIS SIDE " . " 8 
 
 WATCHED HIM MAKE THE BLUE 
 FRAGMENTS INTO THE BLUE 
 PITCHER AGAIN " " 20 
 
 THE SAIL-BOATS HE WHITTLED FOR 
 
 YOU ON RAINY DAYS "...." 24 
 
 YOU CLUNG TO HER APRON FOR 
 
 SUPPORT IN YOUR MUTE AGONY " " 36 
 
 YOU WATCHED THEM AS THEY 
 WENT DOWN THE WALK TO 
 GETHER " " 42 
 
 TO AND FRO GRANDMOTHER ROCK 
 ED YOU " " 46 
 
 YOU SAID ' NOW I LAY ME ' IN 
 
 UNISON " . " 62
 
 Illustrations 
 
 " MOTHER TUCKED YOU BOTH INTO 
 
 BED AND KISSED YOU" . . . . Facing p. 68 
 
 " THEY TOOK YOU AS FAR AS THE 
 
 BEDROOM DOOR TO SEE HER ". . " 78 
 
 " ' BAD DREAM, WAS IT, LITTLE 
 
 CHAP?'" " 136 
 
 " ' FATHER, WHAT DO YOU THINK 
 WHEN YOU DON'T SAY ANYTHING, 
 BUT JUST LOOK?' " " 150 
 
 " ' MOTHER,' YOU SAID, SOFTLY " . " 162 
 
 " THE PICTURE-BOOK " " 166 
 
 " BEFORE YOU WENT TO BED ". " 168
 
 Grandfather
 
 Grandfather 
 
 HEN you gave Grandfather 
 both your hands and put one 
 foot against his knee and the 
 other against his vest, you 
 could walk right up to his white beard 
 like a fly but you had to hold tight. 
 Sometimes your foot slipped on the knee, 
 but the vest was wider and not so hard, 
 so that when you were that far you were 
 safe. And when you had both feet in the 
 soft middle of the vest, and your body 
 was stiff, and your face was looking right 
 up at the ceiling, Grandfather groaned 
 down deep inside, and that was the sign 
 3
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 that your walk was ended. Then Grand 
 father crumpled you up in his arms. But 
 on Sunday, when Grandfather wore his 
 white vest, you walked like other folks. 
 
 In the morning Grandfather sat in the 
 sun by the wall the stone wall at the 
 back of the garden, where the golden-rod 
 grew. Grandfather read the paper and 
 smoked. When it was afternoon and Moth 
 er was taking her nap, Grandfather was 
 around the corner of the house, on the 
 porch, in the sun always in the sun, for 
 the sun followed Grandfather wherever he 
 went, till he passed into the house at sup 
 per-time. Then the sun went down and it 
 was night. 
 
 Grandfather walked with a cane; but 
 even then, with all the three legs he boast 
 ed of, you could run the meadow to the 
 big rock before Grandfather had gone half 
 way. Grandfather's pipe was corn-cob, 
 4
 
 WHEN GRANDFATHER WORE HIS WHITE VEST 
 YOU WALKED LIKE OTHER FOLKS "
 
 Grandfather 
 
 and every week he had a new one, for the 
 little brown juice that cuddled down in 
 the bottom of the bowl, and wouldn't come 
 out without a straw, wasn't good for folks, 
 Grandfather said. Old Man Stubbs, who 
 came across the road to see Grandfather, 
 chewed his tobacco, yet the little brown 
 juice did not hurt him at all, he said. Still 
 it was not pleasant to kiss Old Man Stubbs, 
 and Mother said that chewing tobacco 
 was a filthy habit, and that only very 
 old men ever did it nowadays, because 
 lots of people used to do it when Grand 
 father and Old Man Stubbs were little 
 boys. Probably, you thought, people did 
 not kiss other folks so often then. 
 
 One morning Grandfather was reading 
 by the wall, in the sun. You were on 
 the ground, flat, peeping under the grass, 
 and you were so still that a cricket came 
 and teetered on a grass-stalk near at hand. 
 5
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Two red ants climbed your hat as it lay 
 beside you, and a white worm swung 
 itself from one grass -blade to another, 
 like a monkey. The ground under the 
 apple-trees was broken out with sun-spots. 
 Bees were humming in the red clover. 
 Butterflies lazily flapped their wings and 
 sailed like little boats in a sea of golden- 
 rod and Queen Anne's lace. 
 
 "Dee, dee-dee, dee-dee," you sang, and 
 Mr. Cricket sneaked under a plantain 
 leaf. You tracked him to his lair with 
 your ringer, and he scuttled away. 
 
 "Grandfather." 
 
 No reply. 
 
 "Grandfather." 
 
 Not a word. Then you looked. Grand 
 father's paper had slipped to the ground, 
 and his glasses to his lap. He was fast 
 asleep in the sunshine with his head upon 
 his breast. You stole softly to his side 
 6
 
 Grandfather 
 
 With a long grass you tickled his ear. 
 With a jump he awoke, and you tumbled, 
 laughing, on the grass. 
 
 "Ain't you 'shamed?" cried Lizzie-in- 
 the-kitchen, who was hanging out the 
 clothes. 
 
 "Huh! Grandfather don't care." 
 
 Grandfather never cared. That is one 
 of the things which made him Grand 
 father. If he had scolded he might have 
 been Father, or even Uncle Ned but he 
 would not have been Grandfather. So 
 when you spoiled his nap he only said, 
 "H'm," deep in his beard, put on his 
 glasses, and read his paper again. 
 
 When it was afternoon, and the sun 
 followed Grandfather to the porch, and 
 you were tired of playing House, or Hop- 
 Toad, or Indian, or the Three Bears, it 
 was only a step from Grandfather's foot 
 to Grandfather's lap. When you sat back 
 7
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 and curled your legs, your head lay in 
 the hollow of Grandfather's shoulder, in 
 the shadow of his white beard. Then 
 Grandfather would say, 
 
 " Once upon a time there was a bear . . ." 
 
 Or, better still, 
 
 "Once, when I was a little boy . . ." 
 
 Or, best of all, 
 
 " When Grandfather went to the war . . ." 
 
 That was the story where Grandfather 
 lay all day in the tall grass watching 
 for Johnny Reb, and Johnny Reb was 
 watching for Grandfather. When it came 
 to the exciting part, you sat straight up 
 to see Grandfather squint one eye and 
 look along his outstretched arm, as though 
 it were his gun, and say, "Bang!" 
 
 But Johnny Reb saw the tip of Grand 
 father's blue cap just peeping over the 
 tops of the tall grass, and so he, too, went 
 "Bang!" 
 
 8
 
 YOU STOLE SOFTLY TO HIS SIDE "
 
 Grandfather 
 
 And ever afterwards Grandfather walked 
 with a cane. 
 
 "Did Johnny Reb have to walk with a 
 cane, too, Grandfather?" 
 
 "Johnny Reb, he just lay in the tall 
 grass, all doubled up, and says he, ' Gimme 
 a chaw o' terbaccer afore I die." 
 
 "Did you give it to him, Grandfather?" 
 
 "He died 'fore I could get the plug out 
 o' my pocket/' 
 
 Then Mother would say: 
 
 "I wouldn't, Father such stories to a 
 child!" 
 
 Then Grandfather would smoke grimly, 
 and would not tell you any more, and you 
 would play Grandfather and Johnny Reb 
 in the tall grass. Lizzie-in-the-kitchen 
 would give you a piece of brown -bread 
 for the chaw of tobacco, and when Johnny 
 Reb died too soon you ate it yourself, 
 to save it. You wondered what would 
 9
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 have happened if Johnny Reb had not 
 died too soon. Standing over Johnny 
 Reb's prostrate but still animate form in 
 the tall grass, with the brown-bread to 
 bacco in your hand, you even contem 
 plated playing -that your adversary lived 
 to tell the tale, but the awful thought 
 that in that case you would have to give 
 up the chaw (the brown -bread was fresh 
 that day) kept you to the letter of Grand 
 father's story. Once only did you play 
 that Johnny Reb lived but the brown- 
 bread was hard that day, and you were 
 not hungry. 
 
 Grandfather wore the blue, and on his 
 breast were the star and flag of the Grand 
 Army. Every May he straightened his 
 bent shoulders and marched to the music 
 of fife and drum to the cemetery on the 
 hill. So once a year there were tears in 
 Grandfather's eyes. All the rest of that 
 10
 
 Grandfather 
 
 solemn May day he marched in the gar 
 den with his hands behind him, and a 
 far-away look in his eyes, and once in a 
 while his steps quickened as he hummed 
 to himself, 
 
 " Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching." 
 
 And if it so happened that he told you 
 the story of Johnny Reb that day, he 
 would always have a new ending : 
 
 "Then we went into battle. The Rebs 
 were on a tarnal big hill, and as we charged 
 up the side, 'Boys/ says the Colonel 
 'boys, give 'em hell!' says he. And, sir, 
 we just did, I tell you." 
 
 "Oh, Father, Father don't! such lan 
 guage before the child!" Mother would 
 cry, and that would be the end of the new 
 end of Grandfather's story. 
 
 On a soap-box in Abe Jones's corner 
 grocery, Grandfather argued politics with 
 ii
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Old Man Stubbs and the rest of the 
 boys. 
 
 "I've voted the straight Republican 
 ticket all my life/' he would say, proudly, 
 when the fray was at its height, "and, by 
 George! I'll not make a darned old fool o' 
 myself by turning coat now. Pesky few 
 Democrats ever I see who " 
 
 Here Old Man Stubbs would rise from 
 the cracker-barrel. 
 
 "If I understand you correctly, sir, you 
 have called me a darned old fool." 
 
 "Not at all, Stubbs," Grandfather would 
 reply, soothingly. " Not by a jugful. Now 
 you're a Democrat " 
 
 "And proud of it, sir," Old Man Stubbs 
 would break in. 
 
 "You're a Democrat, Stubbs, and as 
 such you are not responsible; but if I was 
 to turn Democrat, Stubbs, I'd be a darned 
 old fool." 
 
 12
 
 Grandfather 
 
 And in the roar that followed, Old Man 
 Stubbs would subside to the cracker-barrel 
 and smoke furiously. Then Grandfather 
 would say: 
 
 "Stubbs, do you remember old Mose 
 Gray?" That was to clear the battle-field 
 of the political carnage, so to speak so 
 that Old Man Stubbs would forget his 
 grievance and walk home with Grand 
 father peaceably when the grocery closed 
 for the night. 
 
 If it was winter-time, and the snow 
 drifts were too deep for grandfathers and 
 little boys, you sat before the fireplace, 
 Grandfather in his arm-chair, you flat 
 on the rug, your face between your hands, 
 gazing into the flames. 
 
 "Who was the greatest man that ever 
 lived, Grandfather?" 
 
 "Jesus of Nazareth, boy." 
 
 "And who was the greatest soldier?" 
 13
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "Ulysses S. Grant." 
 
 "And the next greatest?" 
 
 " George Washington.' 
 
 "But Old Man Stubbs says Napoleon 
 was the greatest soldier." 
 
 "Old Man Stubbs? Old Man Stubbs? 
 What does he know about it, I'd like to 
 know ? He wasn't in the war. He's 
 afraid of his own shadder. U. S. Grant 
 was the greatest general that ever lived. 
 I guess I know. I was there, wasn't I? 
 Napoleon ! Old Man Stubbs ! Fiddle 
 sticks!" 
 
 And Grandfather would sink back into 
 his chair, smoking wrath and weed in 
 his trembling corn-cob, and scowling at 
 the blazing fagots and the curling hick 
 ory smoke. By-and-by 
 
 "Who was the greatest woman that 
 ever lived, Grandfather?" 
 
 "Your mother, boy." 
 14
 
 Grandfather 
 
 "Oh, Father" it was Mother's voice 
 "you forget/' 
 
 "Forget nothing," cried Grandfather, 
 fiercely. "Boy, your mother is the best 
 woman that ever lived, and mind you 
 remember it, too. Every boy's mother is 
 the best woman that ever lived." 
 
 And when Grandfather leaned forward 
 in his chair and waved his pipe, there 
 was no denying Grandfather. 
 
 At night, after supper, when your clothes 
 were in a little heap on the chair, and 
 you had your nighty on, and you had 
 said your prayers, Mother tucked you 
 in bed and kissed you and called Grand 
 father. Then Grandfather came stump 
 ing up the stairs with his cane. Sitting 
 on the edge of your bed, he sang to 
 you, 
 
 " The wild gazelle with the silvery feet 
 I'll give thee for a playmate sweet." 
 
 15
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 And after Grandfather went away the 
 wild gazelle came and stood beside you, 
 and put his cold little nose against your 
 cheek, and licked your face with his tongue. 
 It was rough at first, but by-and-by it got 
 softer and softer, till you woke up and 
 wanted a drink, and found beside you, 
 in place of the wild gazelle, a white mother 
 with a brimming cup in her hand. She 
 covered you up when you were through, 
 and kissed you, and then you went look 
 ing for the wild gazelle, and sometimes 
 you found him; but sometimes, when 
 you had just caught up to him and 
 his silvery feet were shining like stars, 
 he turned into Grandfather with his 
 cane. 
 
 "Hi, sleepy-head! The dicky-birds are 
 waitin' for you." 
 
 And then Grandfather would tickle you 
 in the ribs, and help you on with your 
 16
 
 Grandfather 
 
 stockings, till it was time for him to sit by 
 the wall in the sun. 
 
 When you were naughty, and Mother 
 used the little brown switch that hung 
 over the wood - shed door, Grandfather 
 tramped up and down in the garden, and 
 the harder you hollered, the harder Grand 
 father tramped. Once when you played 
 the empty flower -pots were not flower 
 pots at all, but just cannon - balls, and 
 you killed a million Indians with them, 
 Mother showed you the pieces, and the 
 switch descended, and the tears fell, and 
 Grandfather tramped and tramped, and 
 lost the garden-path completely, and step 
 ped on the pansies. Then they shut 
 you up in your own room up-stairs, and 
 you cried till the hiccups came. You 
 heard the dishes rattling on the dining- 
 room table below. They would be eating 
 supper soon, and at one end of the table 
 17
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 in a silver dish there would be a choco , 
 late cake, for Lizzie-in-the-kitchen had 
 baked one that afternoon. You had seen 
 it in the pantry window with your own 
 eyes, while you fired the flower-pots. Now 
 chocolate cake was your favorite, so you 
 hated your bread - and - milk, and fasted 
 and wailed defiantly. Now and then you 
 listened to hear if they pitied and came 
 to you, but they came not, and you moaned 
 and sobbed in the twilight, and hoped 
 you would die, to make them sorry. By- 
 and-by, between the hiccups, you heard 
 the door open softly. Then Grandfather's 
 hand came through the crack with a piece 
 of chocolate cake in it. You knew it was 
 Grandfather's hand, because it was all 
 knuckly. So you cried no more, and 
 while the chocolate cake was stopping 
 the hiccups, you heard Grandfather steal 
 down the stairs, softly but it did not 
 18
 
 Grandfather 
 
 sound like Grandfather at all, for you 
 did not hear the stumping of his cane. 
 Next morning, when you asked him about 
 it, his vest shook, and just the tip of his 
 tongue showed between his teeth, for that 
 was the way it did when anything pleased 
 him. And Grandfather said: 
 
 "You won't ever tell?" 
 
 "No, Grandfather." 
 
 "Sure as shootin'?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, then" but Grandfather kept 
 shaking so he could not tell. 
 
 " Oh, Grandfather ! Why didn't the cane 
 sound on the stairs?" 
 
 "Whisht, boy! I just wrapped my old 
 bandanna handkerchief around the end." 
 
 But worse than that time was the awful 
 
 morning when you broke the blue pitcher 
 
 that came over in the Mayflower. An old 
 
 family law said you should never even 
 
 19
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 touch it, where it sat on the shelf by the 
 clock, but the Old Nick said it wouldn't 
 hurt if you looked inside just once. 
 You had been munching bread-and-but 
 ter, and your fingers were slippery, and 
 that is how the pitcher came to fall. Grand 
 father found you sobbing over the pieces, 
 and his face was white. 
 
 "Sonny, Sonny, what have you done?" 
 "I I d-didn't mean to, Grandfather." 
 In trembling fingers Grandfather gath 
 ered up the blue fragments all that was 
 left of the family heirloom, emblem of 
 Mother's ancestral pride. 
 
 "'Sh! Don't cry, Sonny. We'll make 
 it all right again." 
 
 "M-Moth Mother '11 whip me." 
 " 'Sh, boy. No, she won't, We'll take 
 it to the tinker. He'll make it all right 
 again. Come." 
 
 And you and Grandfather slunk guiltily 
 20
 
 WATCHED HIM MAKE THE BLUE FRAGMENTS 
 INTO THE BLUE PITCHER AGAIN"
 
 Grandfather 
 
 to the tinker and watched him make the 
 blue fragments into the blue pitcher again, 
 and then you carried it home, and as 
 Grandfather set it back on the shelf you 
 whispered : 
 
 "Grandfather 1" 
 
 Grandfather bent his ear to you. Very 
 softly you said it: 
 
 "Grandfather, the cracks don't show 
 at all from here." 
 
 Grandfather nodded his head. Then 
 he tramped up and down in the garden. 
 He forgot to smoke. Crime weighed upon 
 his soul. 
 
 "Boy," said he, sternly, stopping in 
 his walk. "You must never be naughty 
 again. Do you hear me?" 
 
 "I won't, Grandfather." 
 
 Grandfather resumed his tramping ; then 
 paused and turned to where you sat on 
 the wheelbarrow. 
 
 21
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "But if you ever are naughty again, 
 you must go at once and tell Mother. Do 
 you understand?" 
 
 "Yes, Grandfather." 
 
 Up and down Grandfather tramped 
 moodily, his head bent, his hands clasped 
 behind him up and down between the 
 verbenas and hollyhocks. He paused irres 
 olutely turned turned again and came 
 back to you. 
 
 "Boy, Grandfather's just as bad and 
 wicked as you are. He ought to have 
 made you tell Mother about the pitcher 
 first, and take it to the tinker afterwards. 
 You must never keep anything from your 
 mother again never. Do you hear?" 
 
 "Yes, Grandfather," you whimpered, 
 hanging your head. 
 
 "Come, boy." 
 
 You gave him your hand. Mother lis 
 tened, wondering, while Grandfather spoke 
 
 22
 
 Grandfather 
 
 out bravely to the very end. You had 
 been bad, but he had been worse, he con 
 fessed; and he asked to be punished for 
 himself and you. 
 
 Mother did not even look at the cracked 
 blue pitcher on the clock-shelf, but her 
 eyes filled, and at the sight of her tears 
 you flung yourself, sobbing, into her 
 arms. 
 
 "Oh, Mother, don't whip Grandfather. 
 Just whip me." 
 
 " It isn't the blue pitcher I care about," 
 she said. "It's only to think that Grand 
 father and my little boy were afraid to 
 tell me." 
 
 And at this she broke out crying with 
 your wet cheek against her wet cheek, 
 and her warm arms crushing you to her 
 breast. And you cried, and Grandfather 
 blew his nose, and Carlo barked and leap 
 ed to lick your face, until by-and-by, when 
 23
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Mother's white handkerchief and Grand 
 father's red one were quite damp, you 
 and Mother smiled through your tears, 
 and she said it did not matter, and Grand 
 father patted one of her hands while you 
 kissed the other. And you and Grand 
 father said you would never be bad again. 
 When you were good, or sick dear 
 Grandfather! It was not what he said, 
 for only Mother could say the love-words. 
 It was the things he did without saying 
 much at all the circus he took you to see, 
 the lessons in A B C while he held the 
 book for you in his hand, the sail-boats 
 he whittled for you on rainy days for 
 Grandfather was a ship-carpenter before 
 he was a grandfather and the willow 
 whistles he made for you, and the soldier 
 swords. It was Grandfather who fished 
 you from the brook. Grandfather saved 
 you from Farmer Tompkins's cow the 
 24
 
 Grandfather 
 
 black one which gave no milk. Grand 
 father snatched you from prowling dogs, 
 and stinging bees, and bad boys and their 
 wiles. That is what grandfathers are for, 
 and so we love them and climb into their 
 laps and beg for sail -boats and tales 
 and that is their reward. 
 
 One day your birthday had just gone 
 by and it was time to think of Thanks 
 giving you walked with Grandfather in 
 the fields. Between the stacked corn the 
 yellow pumpkins lay, and they made you 
 think of Thanksgiving pies. The leaves, 
 red and gold, dropped of old age in the 
 autumn stillness, and you gathered an 
 armful for Mother. 
 
 "Why don't all the people die every 
 year, Grandfather, like the leaves?" 
 
 "Everybody dies when his work's done, 
 little boy. The leaf's work is done in 
 the fall when the frost comes. It takes 
 25
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 longer for a man to do his work, 'cause 
 a man has more to do." 
 
 "When will your work be done, Grand 
 father?" 
 
 "It's almost done now, little boy/' 
 
 "Oh no, Grandfather. There's lots for 
 you to do. You said you'd make me 
 a bob-sled, and a truly engine what goes, 
 when I'm bigger; and when I get to be 
 a grown-up man like Father, you are to 
 come and make willow whistles for my 
 little boys." 
 
 And you were right, for while the frost 
 came again and again for the little leaves, 
 Grandfather stayed on in the sun, and 
 when he had made you the bob-sled he 
 still lingered, for did he not have the truly 
 engine to make for you, and the willow 
 whistles for your own little boys? 
 
 Waking from a nap, you could not re 
 member when you fell asleep. You won- 
 26
 
 Grandfather 
 
 dered what hour it was. Was it morning? 
 Was it afternoon? Dreamily you came 
 down-stairs. Golden sunlight crossed the 
 ivied porch and smiled at you through the 
 open door. The dining-room table was 
 set with blue china, and at every place 
 was a dish of red, red strawberries. Then 
 you knew it was almost supper -time. 
 You were rested with sleep, gentle with 
 dreams of play, happy at the thought 
 of red berries in blue dishes with sugar 
 and cream. You found Grandfather in 
 the garden sitting in the sun. He was 
 not reading or smoking; he was just wait 
 ing. 
 
 "Are you tired waiting for me, Grand 
 father?" 
 
 "No, little boy." 
 
 "I came as soon as I could, Grand 
 father." 
 
 The leaves did not move. The flowers 
 27
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 were motionless. Grandfather sat quite 
 still, his soft, white beard against your 
 cheek, flushed with sleep. You nestled 
 in his lap. And so you sat together, with 
 the sun going down about you, till Mother 
 came and called you to supper. Even 
 now when you are grown, you remember, 
 as though it were yesterday, the long nap 
 and the golden light in the doorway, and 
 the red berries on the table, and Grand 
 father waiting in the sun. 
 
 One. day it was not long afterwards 
 they took you to see Aunt Mary, on the 
 train. When you came home again, Grand 
 father was not waiting for you. 
 
 "Where is Grandfather?" 
 
 " Grandfather isn't here any more, dearie. 
 He has gone 'way up in the sky to see 
 God and the angels." 
 
 "And won't he ever come back to our 
 house?" 
 
 28
 
 Grandfather 
 
 "No, dear; but if you are a good boy, 
 you will go to see him some day." 
 
 "But, oh, Mother, what will Grand 
 father do when he goes to walk with the 
 little boy angels? See he's gone and 
 forgot his cane!"
 
 Grandmother
 
 Grandmother 
 
 N the days when you went 
 into the country to visit her, 
 Grandmother was a gay, spry 
 little lady with velvety cheeks 
 and gold-rimmed spectacles, knitting reins 
 for your hobby-horse, and spreading bread- 
 and-butter and brown sugar for you in 
 the hungry middle of the afternoon. For 
 a bumped head there was nothing in the 
 bottles to compare with the magic of her 
 lips. 
 
 "And what did the floor do to my poor 
 little lamb? See! Grandmother will make 
 the place well again." And when she 
 3 33
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 had kissed it three times, lo! you knew 
 that you were hungry, and on the door- 
 sill of Grandmother's pantry you shed 
 a final tear. 
 
 When you arrived for a visit, and Grand 
 mother had taken off your cap and coat as 
 you sat in her lap, you would say, softly, 
 "Grandmother." Then she would know 
 that you wanted to whisper, and she would 
 lower her ear till it was even with your 
 lips. Through the hollow of your two 
 hands you said it: 
 
 "I think I would like some sugar pie 
 now, Grandmother." 
 
 And then she would laugh till the tears 
 came, and wipe her spectacles, for that 
 was just what she had been waiting for 
 you to say all the time, and if you had 
 not said it but, of course, that was im 
 possible. Always, on the day before you 
 came, she made two little sugar pies in 
 34
 
 Grandmother 
 
 two little round tins with crinkled edges. 
 One was for you, and the other was for 
 Lizbeth. 
 
 After you had eaten your pies you chased 
 the rooster till he dropped you a white 
 tail - feather in token of surrender, and 
 just tucking the feather into your cap 
 made you an Indian. Grandmother stood 
 at the window and watched you while you 
 scalped the sunflowers. The Indians and 
 tigers at Grandmother's were wilder than 
 those in Our Yard at home. 
 
 Being an Indian made you think of 
 tents, and then you remembered Grand 
 mother's old plaid shawl. She never wore 
 it now, for she had a new one, but she 
 kept it for you in the closet beneath the 
 stairs. While you were gone, it hung in 
 the dark alone, dejected, waiting for you 
 to come back and play. When you came, 
 at last, and dragged it forth, it clung to 
 35
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 you warmly, and did everything you said : 
 stretched its frayed length from chair to 
 chair and became a tent for you; swelled 
 proudly in the summer gale till your boat 
 scudded through the surf of waving grass, 
 and you anchored safely, to fish with string 
 and pin, by the Isles of the Red Geraniums. 
 
 "The pirates are coming," you cried 
 to Lizbeth, scanning the horizon of picket 
 fence. 
 
 "The pirates are coming/' she repeated, 
 dutifully. 
 
 " And now we must haul up the anchor," 
 yo& commanded, dragging in the stone. 
 Lizbeth was in terror. "Oh, my poor 
 dolly!" she cried, hushing it in her arms. 
 Gallantly the old plaid shawl caught the 
 breeze; and as it filled, your boat leaped 
 forward through 
 
 "Harry! Lizbeth! Come and be wash 
 ed for dinner!" 
 
 36
 
 YOU CLUNG TO HER APRON FOR SUPPORT IN 
 YOUR MUTE AGONY "
 
 Grandmother 
 
 Grandmother's voice came out to you 
 across the waters. You hesitated. The 
 pirate ship was close behind. You could 
 see the cutlasses flashing in the sun. 
 
 "More sugar pies/' sang the Grand 
 mother siren on the rocks of the front 
 porch, and at those melting words the 
 pirate ship was a mere speck on the hori 
 zon. Seizing Lizbeth by the hand, you 
 ran boldly across the sea. 
 
 By the white bowl Grandmother took 
 your chin in one hand and lifted your 
 face. 
 
 "My, what a dirty boy!" 
 
 With the rough wet rag she mopped the 
 dirt away grime of your long sea-voy 
 age while you squinted your eyes and 
 pursed up your lips to keep out the soap. 
 You clung to her apron for support in your 
 mute agony. 
 
 " Grand " you managed to sputter 
 37 
 
 107825
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 ere the wet rag smothered you. Wari 
 ly you waited till the cloth went higher, 
 to your puckered eyes. Then, "Grand- 
 m-m " But that was all, for with a trail 
 of suds the rag swept down again, and 
 as the half-word slipped out, the soap 
 slipped in. So Grandmother dug and 
 dug till she came to the pink stratum of 
 your cheeks, and then it was wipe, wipe, 
 wipe, till the stratum shone. Then it 
 was your hands' turn, while Grandmother 
 listened to your belated tale, and last 
 of all she kissed you above and gave you 
 a little spank below, and you were done. 
 All through dinner your mind was on 
 the table not on the middle of it, where 
 the meat was, but on the end of it. 
 
 " Harry, why don't you eat your bread?" 
 "Why, I don't feel for bread, Grand 
 mother," you explained, looking at the 
 end of the table. "I just feel for pie." 
 38
 
 Grandmother 
 
 It was hard when you were back home 
 again, for there it was mostly bread, and 
 no sugar pies at all, and very little cake. 
 
 "Grandmother lets me have two pieces," 
 you would urge to Mother, but the argu 
 ment was of no avail. Two pieces, she 
 said, were not good for little boys. 
 
 "Then why does Grandmother let me 
 have them?" you would demand, sullenly, 
 kicking the table leg; but Mother could 
 not hear you unless you kicked hard, 
 and then it was naughty boys, not Grand 
 mothers, that she talked about. And if 
 that happened which sometimes does to 
 naughty little boys 
 
 "Grandmother don't hurt at all when 
 she spanks," you said. 
 
 So there were wrathful moments when 
 
 you wished you might live always with 
 
 Grandmother. It was so easy to be good 
 
 at her house so easy, that is, to get two 
 
 39
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 pieces of cake. And when God made little 
 boys, you thought, He must have made 
 Grandmothers to bake sugar pies for them. 
 
 "Suppose you were a little boy like me, 
 Grandmother?" you once said to her. 
 
 "That would be fine/' she admitted; 
 "but suppose you were a little grand 
 mother like me?" 
 
 "Well," you replied, with candor, "I 
 think I would rather be like Grandfather, 
 'cause he was a soldier, and fought Johnny 
 Reb." 
 
 " And if you were a grandfather," Grand 
 mother asked, " what would you do?" 
 
 "Why, if I were a grandfather," you 
 said "why " 
 
 "Well, what would you do?" 
 
 "Why, if I were a grandfather," you 
 said, " I should want you to come and be 
 a grandmother with me." And Grand 
 mother kissed you for that. 
 40
 
 Grandmother 
 
 "But I like you best as a little boy," 
 she said. " Once Grandmother had a little 
 boy just like you, and he used to climb 
 into her lap and put his arms around her. 
 Oh, he was a beautiful little boy, and 
 sometimes Grandmother gets very lone 
 some without him till you come, and 
 then it's like having him back again. 
 For you've got his blue eyes and his brown 
 hair and his sweet little ways, and Grand 
 mother loves you once for yourself and 
 once for him." 
 
 " But where is the little boy now, Grand 
 mother?" 
 
 "He's a man now, darling. He's your 
 own father." 
 
 Every Sunday, Grandmother went to 
 church. After breakfast there was a flurry 
 of dressing, with an opening and shutting 
 of doors up-stairs, and Grandfather would 
 be down -stairs in the kitchen, blacking
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 his Sunday boots. On Sunday his beard 
 looked whiter than on other days, but 
 that was because he seemed so much 
 blacker everywhere else. He creaked out 
 to the stable and hitched Peggy to the 
 buggy and led them around to the front 
 gate. Then he would snap his big gold 
 watch and go to the bottom of the stairs 
 and say: 
 
 "Maria! Come! It's ten o'clock." 
 Grandmother's door would open a slen 
 der crack " Yes, John " and Grand 
 father would creak up and down in his 
 Sunday boots, up and down, waiting, till 
 there was a Bustling on the stairs and 
 Grandmother came down to him in a glory 
 of black silk. There was a little frill of 
 white about her neck, fastened with her 
 gold brooch, and above that her gentle 
 Sabbath face. Her face took on a new 
 light when Sunday came, and she never 
 42
 
 " YOU WATCHED THEM AS THEY WENT DOWN THE 
 WALK TOGETHER "
 
 Grandmother 
 
 seemed so near, somehow, as on other 
 days. There was a look in her eyes that 
 did not speak of sugar pies or play. There 
 was a little pressure of the thin lips and 
 a silence, as though she had no time for 
 fairy-tales or lullabies. When she set 
 her little black bonnet on her gray hair 
 and lifted up her chin to tie the ribbon 
 strings beneath, you stopped your game 
 to watch, wondering at her awesomeness; 
 and when in her black-gloved fingers she 
 clasped her worn Bible and stooped and 
 kissed you good-bye, you never thought 
 of putting your arms around her. She 
 was too wonderful this little Sabbath 
 Grandmother for that. 
 
 Through the window you watched them 
 as they went down the walk together to 
 the front gate, Grandmother and Grand 
 father, the tips of her gloved fingers laid 
 in the hollow of his arm. Solemn was 
 43
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 the steady stumping of his cane. Solemn 
 was the day. Even the roosters knew 
 it was Sunday, somehow, and crowed 
 dismally; and the bells the church-bells 
 tolling through the quiet air made you 
 lonesome and cross with Lizbeth. Your 
 collar was very stiff, and your Sunday 
 trousers were very tight, and there was 
 nothing to do, and you were dreary. 
 
 After dinner Grandfather went to sleep 
 on the sofa, with a newspaper over his 
 face. Then Grandmother took you up into 
 her black silk lap and read you Bible 
 stories and taught you the Twenty-third 
 Psalm and the golden text. And every 
 one of the golden texts meant the same 
 thing that little boys should be very 
 good and do as they are told. 
 
 Grandmother's Sunday lap was not so 
 fine as her other ones to lie in. Her Mon 
 day lap, for instance, was soft and gray, 
 44
 
 Grandmother 
 
 and there were no texts to disturb your 
 reverie. Then Grandmother would stop 
 her knitting to pinch your cheek and say, 
 "You don't love Grandmother/' 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "More'n tonguecantell. What is a 
 tonguecantell, Grandmother?" 
 
 And while she was telling you she would 
 be poking the tip of her finger into the 
 soft of your jacket, so that you doubled 
 up suddenly with your knees to your 
 chin; and while you guarded your ribs a 
 funny spider would crawl down the back 
 of your neck; and when you chased the 
 spider out of your collar it would sud 
 denly creep under your chin, or there 
 would be a panic in the ribs again. By 
 that time you were nothing but wriggles 
 and giggles and little cries. 
 
 " Don't, Grandmother ; you tickle. " And 
 45
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Grandmother would pause, breathless as 
 yourself, and say, "Oh, my!" 
 
 " Now you must do it some more, Grand 
 mother," you would urge, but she would 
 shake her head at you and go back to her 
 knitting again. 
 
 "Grandmother's tired," she would say. 
 
 You were tired, too, so you lay with 
 your head on her shoulder, sucking your 
 thumb. To and fro Grandmother rocked 
 you, to and fro, while the kitten played 
 with the ball of yarn on the floor. The 
 afternoon sunshine fell warmly through 
 the open window. Bees and butterflies hov 
 ered in the honeysuckles. Birds were sing 
 ing. Your mind went a-wandering out 
 through the yard and the front gate and 
 across the road. On it went past the Tay 
 lors' big dog and up by Aunty Green's, 
 where the crullers lived, all brown and 
 crusty, in the high stone crock. It 
 46
 
 " TO AND FRO GRANDMOTHER ROCKED YOU
 
 Grandmother 
 
 scrambled down by the brook where the 
 little green frogs were hopping into the 
 water, leaving behind them trembling rings 
 that grew wider and wider and wider, till 
 pretty soon they were the ocean. That was 
 a big thought, and you roused yourself. 
 "How big is the ocean, Grandmother?" 
 "As big oh, as big as all out-doors/' 
 Your mind waded out into the ocean 
 till the water was up to its knees. Then 
 it scrambled back again and lay in the 
 warm sand and looked up at the sky. 
 And the sand rocked to and fro, to and 
 fro, as your mind lay there, all curled up 
 and warm, by the ocean, watching the 
 butterflies in the honeysuckles and the 
 crullers in the crock. And all the people 
 were singing ... all the people in the 
 world, almost . . . and the little green 
 frogs. . . . "Bye bye, bye bye," they 
 were singing, in time to the rocking of 
 47
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 the sand . . . "Bye bye" . . . "Bye" 
 . . . "Bye" . . . 
 
 And when you awoke you were on the 
 sofa, all covered up with Grandmother's 
 shawl. 
 
 So you liked the gay week-day Grand 
 mother best, with her soft lap and her 
 lullabies. Grandfather must have liked 
 her best too, you thought, for when he 
 went away forever and forgot his cane, it 
 was the Sunday Grandmother he left be 
 hind a little, gray Grandmother sitting 
 by the window and gazing silently through 
 the panes. 
 
 What she saw there you never knew 
 but it was not the trees, or the distant 
 hills, or the people passing in the road.
 
 While Aunt Jane Played
 
 While Aunt Jane Played 
 
 fUNT JANE played the piano 
 in the parlor. You could 
 play, too " Peter, Peter, Pun- 
 kin-eater/' with your fore 
 finger, Aunt Jane holding it in her hand 
 so that you would strike the right notes. 
 But when Aunt Jane played she used 
 both hands. Sometimes the music was so 
 fast and stirring that it made you dance, 
 or romp, or sing, or play that you were 
 not a little boy at all, but a soldier like 
 Grandfather or George Washington; and 
 sometimes the music was so soft and beau 
 tiful that you wanted to be a prince in a
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 fairy tale; and then again it was so slow 
 and grim that you wished it were not Sun 
 day, for the Sunday tunes, like your tight, 
 black, Sunday shoes, had all their buttons 
 on, and so were not comfy or made for 
 fun. You could not march to them, or 
 fight to them, or be a grown-up man to 
 them. Somehow they always reminded 
 you that you were only a pouting, naughty 
 little boy. 
 
 The sound of the piano came out to 
 you as you lingered by the table where 
 Lizzie-in-the-kitchen was making pies. You 
 ran into the parlor and sat on a hassock 
 by Aunt Jane, watching her as she played. 
 It was not a fast piece that day, nor yet 
 a slow one, but just in-between, so that 
 as you sat by the piano you wondered if 
 the snow and sloppy little puddles would 
 ever go and leave Our Yard green again. 
 Even with rubber boots now Mother made 
 52
 
 While Aunt Jane Played 
 
 you keep the paths, and mostly you had 
 to stay in the house. Through the window 
 you could see the maple boughs still bare, 
 but between them the sky was warm and 
 blue. Pretty soon the leaves would be 
 coming, hiding the sky. 
 
 "Auntie/' 
 
 "Yes," though she did not stop playing. 
 
 "Where do the leaves come from?" 
 
 "From the little buds on the twigs, 
 dearie." 
 
 "But how do they know when it's time 
 to come, Auntie Jane? 'Cause if they 
 came too soon, they might catch cold and 
 die." 
 
 "Well, the sun tells them when." 
 
 "How does the sun tell them, Auntie?" 
 
 "Why, he makes the trees all warm, 
 and when the buds feel it, out they come." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 Your eyes were very wide. They were 
 53
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 always wide when you wondered; and 
 sometimes when you were not wondering 
 at all, just hearing Aunt Jane play would 
 make you, and then your eyes would grow 
 bigger and bigger as you sat on the has 
 sock by the piano, looking at the maple 
 boughs and hearing the music and being 
 a little boy. 
 
 It was a beautiful piece that Aunt Jane 
 was playing that March morning. The 
 sun came and shone on the maple boughs. 
 
 "And now the sun is telling the little 
 buds/' you said to yourself in time to 
 Aunt Jane's music, but so softly that she 
 did not hear. 
 
 "And now the little buds are saying 
 'All right/" you whispered, more softly 
 still, for the bigger your eyes got, the 
 smaller, always, was your voice. 
 
 A little song-sparrow came and teetered 
 on a twig. 
 
 54
 
 While Aunt Jane Played 
 
 "Oh, Auntie, see! The birdie's come, 
 too, to tell the buds, I guess." 
 
 Aunt Jane turned her head and smiled 
 at the sparrow, but she did not stop play 
 ing. Your heart was beating in time to 
 the music, as you sat on the hassock by 
 the piano, watching the bird and the sun. 
 The sparrow danced like Aunt Jane's fin 
 gers, and put up his little open bill. He 
 was singing, though you could not 
 hear. 
 
 "But, Auntie." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Who told the little bird?" 
 
 "God told the little bird, dearie away 
 down South where the oranges and roses 
 grow in the winter, and there isn't any 
 snow. And the little bird flew up here 
 to Ourtown to build his nest and sing in 
 our maple-tree." 
 
 Your eyes were so wide now that you 
 55
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 had no voice at all. You just sat there 
 on the hassock while Aunt Jane played. 
 
 Away down South . . . away down 
 South, singing in an orange-tree, you saw 
 the little bird . . . but now he stopped to 
 listen with his head on one side, and his 
 bright eye shining, while the warm wind 
 rustled in the leaves . . . God was telling 
 him ... So the little bird spread his 
 wings and flew . . . away up in the blue 
 sky, above the trees, above the steeples, 
 over the hills and running brooks . . . 
 miles and miles and miles . . . till he 
 came to Our Yard, in the sun. 
 
 "And here he is now," you ended aloud 
 your little story, for you had found your 
 voice again. 
 
 "Who is here, dearie?" asked Aunt 
 Jane, still playing. 
 
 "Why, the little bird," you said. 
 
 The sparrow flew away. The sun came 
 56
 
 While Aunt Jane Played 
 
 through the window to where you sat on 
 the hassock, by the piano. It warmed 
 your knees and told you what it told the 
 buds, what God told the little bird in the 
 orange-tree. Like the little bird you could 
 stay no longer. You ran out-of-doors 
 into the soft, sweet wind and the morning. 
 
 Aunt Jane gave the keys a last caress. 
 Grandmother turned in her chair by the 
 sitting-room window. 
 
 "What were you playing, Janey?" 
 
 " Mendelssohn's ' Spring Song/ Mother/' 
 
 The little gray Grandmother looked 
 out-of-doors again to where you played, 
 singing, in the sun. 
 
 "Isn't it beautiful?" she murmured. 
 
 You waved your hand to her and laugh 
 ed, and she nodded back at you, smiling 
 at your fun. 
 
 " Bless his heart, he's playing the music, 
 too/' she said. 
 
 57
 
 Little Sister
 
 Little Sister 
 
 [N the daytime she played 
 with you, and believed all 
 you said, and was always 
 ready to cry. At night she 
 slept with you and the four dolls. She 
 was your little sister, Lizbeth. 
 
 "Whose little girl are you?" they would 
 ask her. If she were sitting in Father's 
 lap, she would doubtless reply 
 "Father's little girl." 
 But 
 
 " Oh, Lizbeth !" Mother would cry. 
 "and Mother's," Lizbeth would add, 
 to keep peace in the family. Though she 
 61
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 never mentioned you at such times, she 
 told you privately that she would marry 
 you when you grew to be a man, and 
 publicly she remembered you in her pray 
 ers. Kneeling down at Mother's knee, you 
 and Lizbeth, in your little white nighties, 
 before you went to bed, you said "Now 
 I lay me" in unison, and ended with bless 
 ing every one, only at the very end you 
 said: 
 
 " and God bless Captain Jinks/' for 
 even a wooden soldier needed God in those 
 long, dark nights of childhood, while Liz 
 beth said: 
 
 " and God bless all my dollies, and 
 send my Sally doll a new leg." 
 
 But though God sent three new legs in 
 turn, Sally was always losing them, so 
 that finally Lizbeth confided in Mother : 
 
 "Pretty soon God '11 be tired of send 
 ing Sally new legs, I guess, You speak 
 62
 
 " YOU SAID ' NOW I LAY ME ' IN UNISON
 
 Little Sister 
 
 to Him next time, Mother, 'cause I'm 
 'shamed to any more." 
 
 And when Mother asked Him, He sent 
 a new Sally instead of a new leg. It would 
 be cheaper, Mother told Father, in the 
 long-run. 
 
 In the diplomatic precedence of Liz- 
 beth's prayers, Father and Mother were 
 blessed first, and you came between 
 "Grandfather and Grandmother" and 
 "God bless my dollies." Thus was your 
 family rank established for all time by 
 a little girl in a white night-gown. You 
 were a little lower than your elders, it is 
 true, but you were higher than the leg 
 less Sally or the waxen blonde. 
 
 When Lizbeth and you were good, you 
 loved each other, and when you were bad, 
 both of you at the same time, you loved 
 each other too, very dearly. But some 
 times it happened that Lizbeth was good 
 63
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 and you were bad, and then she only loved 
 Mother, and ran and told tales on you. 
 And you well, you did not love anybody 
 at all. 
 
 When your insides said it would be a 
 long time before dinner, and your mouth 
 watered, and you stood on a chair by the 
 pantry shelf with your hand in a brown 
 jar, and when Lizbeth found you there, 
 you could tell by just looking at her face 
 that she was very good that day, and that 
 she loved Mother better than she did you. 
 So you knew without even thinking about 
 it that you were very bad, and you did not 
 love anybody at all, and your heart quaked 
 within you at Lizbeth's sanctity. But 
 there was always a last resort. 
 
 "Lizbeth, if you tell" you mumbled 
 awfully, pointing at her an uncanny fore 
 finger dripping preserves "if you tell, a 
 great big black Gummy-gum '11 get you 
 64
 
 Little Sister 
 
 when it's dark, and he'll pick out your eyes 
 and gnaw your ears off, and he'll keep 
 one paw over your mouth, so you can't 
 holler, and when the blood comes " 
 
 Lizbeth quailed before you. She began 
 to cry. 
 
 " You won't tell, will you?" you de 
 manded, fiercely, making eyes like a 
 Gummy-gum and showing your white 
 teeth. 
 
 "No oo," wailed Lizbeth. 
 
 "Well, stop crying, then/' you com 
 manded, sucking your syrupy fingers. 
 "If you cry, the Gummy-gum '11 come 
 and get you now." 
 
 Lizbeth looked fearfully over her shoulder 
 and stopped. By that time your fingers 
 were all sucked, and the cover was back 
 on the jar, and you were saved. But that 
 night, when Mother and Father came home, 
 you watched Lizbeth, and lest she should 
 * 65
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 forget, you made the eyes of a Gummy- 
 gum, when no one but Lizbeth saw. Moth 
 er tucked you both into bed and kissed 
 you and put out the light. Then Lizbeth 
 whimpered. 
 
 "Why, Lizbeth/' said Mother from the 
 dark. 
 
 Quick as a flash you snuggled up to 
 Lizbeth's side. "The Gummy-gum '11 get 
 you if you don't stop," you whispered, 
 warningly but with one dismal wail Liz 
 beth was out of bed and in Mother's arms. 
 Then you knew all was over. Desperately 
 you awaited retribution, humming a little 
 song, and so it was to the tune of " I want 
 to be an angel" that you heard Lizbeth 
 sob out her awful tale: 
 
 "Harry ... he ... he said the Gum 
 my-gum 'd get me ... if I told about the 
 p'serves." 
 
 And it was you the Gummy-gum got 
 66
 
 Little Sister 
 
 that time, and your blood, you thought, 
 almost came. 
 
 But other nights when you went to 
 bed nights after days when you had 
 both been good and loved each other it 
 was fine to lie there in the dark with Liz- 
 beth, playing Make-Believe before you fell 
 asleep. 
 
 "I tell you," you said, putting up your 
 foot so that the covers rose upon it, making 
 a little tent" I tell you; let's be Indians." 
 
 "Let's," said Lizbeth. 
 
 "And this is our little tent, and there's 
 bears outside what '11 eat you up if you 
 don't look out." 
 
 Lizbeth shivered and drew her knees 
 up to her chin, so that she was nothing 
 but a little warm roll under the wigwam. 
 
 "And now the bears are coming wow! 
 wow! wow!" 
 
 And as the great hungry beasts push- 
 67
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 ed their snouts under the canvas and 
 growled and gnashed their teeth, Lizbeth, 
 little squaw, squealed with terror, and 
 seized you as you lay there helpless in 
 your triple role of tent and bears and Ind 
 ian brave; seized you in the ticklish ribs 
 so that the wigwam came tumbling about 
 your ears, and the Indian brave rolled 
 and shrieked with laughter, and the brute 
 bears fled to their mountain caves. 
 
 "Children!" 
 
 "W what?" 
 
 "Stop that noise and go right to sleep. 
 Do you hear me?" 
 
 Was it not the voice of the mamma bear? 
 Stealthily you crept under the fallen can 
 vas, which had grown smaller, somehow, 
 in the meUe, so that when you pulled it 
 up to your chin and tucked it in around 
 you, Lizbeth was out in the cold; and 
 when Lizbeth tucked herself in, then you 
 68
 
 " MOTHER TUCKED YOU BOTH INTO BED AND 
 KISSED YOU "
 
 Little Sister 
 
 were shivering. But by-and-by you hud 
 dled close in the twisted sheets and talked 
 low beneath the edge of the coverlet, so that 
 no one heard you not even the Gummy- 
 gum, who spent his nights on the back 
 stairs. 
 
 "Does the Gummy-gum eat little folks 
 while they're asleep?" asked Lizbeth, with 
 a precautionary snuggle-up. 
 
 "No; 'cause the Gummy-gum is afraid 
 of the little black gnomes what live in 
 the pillows." 
 
 "Well, if the little black gnomes live 
 in the pillows, why can't you feel them 
 then?" 
 
 "'Cause, now, they're so teenty-weenty 
 and so soft." 
 
 "And can't you ever see them at all?" 
 
 "No; 'cause they don't come out till 
 you're asleep." 
 
 "Oh . . . Well, Harry now if a 
 69
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Gummy-gum had a head like a horse, 
 and a tail like a cow, and a bill like a 
 duck, what?" 
 
 " Why why, he wouldn't, 'cause he 
 isn't." 
 
 " Oh . . . Well, is the Gummy-gum just 
 afraid of the little gnomes, and that's all?" 
 
 "Um-hm; 'cause the little gnomes have 
 little knives, all sharp and shiny, what 
 they got on the Christmas-tree." 
 
 " Our Christmas-tree?" 
 
 " No; the little gnomes's Christmas-tree." 
 
 "The little gnomes's Christmas-tree?" 
 
 "Um-hm." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " 'Cause . . . why, there ain't any why 
 . . . just Christmas-tree." 
 
 "Just . . . just Christmas-tree?" 
 
 "Urn." 
 
 "Why ... I thought ... I ..." 
 
 And you and Lizbeth never felt Mother 
 70
 
 Little Sister 
 
 smooth out the covers at all, though she 
 lifted you up to straighten them; and so 
 you slept, spoon-fashion, warm as toast, 
 with the little black gnomes watching in 
 the pillows, and the Gummy-gum, hungry 
 but afraid, in the dark of the back stairs. 
 
 The pear-tree on the edge of the en 
 chanted garden, green with summer and 
 tremulous with breeze, sheltered a little 
 girl and her dolls. On the cool turf she 
 sat alone, preoccupied, her dress starched 
 and white like the frill of a valentine, her 
 fat little legs straight out before her, her 
 bright little curls straight down behind, 
 her lips parted, her eyes gentle with a 
 dream of motherhood Mamma Lizbeth 
 crooning lullabies to her four children 
 cradled in the soft grass. 
 
 "I'll tell you just one more story/' she 
 was saying, "just one, and that's all, and 
 then you children must go to sleep. Sally, 
 71
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 lie still! Ain't you 'shamed, kicking all 
 the covers off and catching cold? Naughty 
 girl. Now you must listen. Well . . . 
 Once upon a time there was a fairy what 
 lived in a rose, and she had beautiful wings 
 oh, all colors and she could go wherever 
 she wanted to without anybody ever seeing 
 her, 'cause she was iwisible, which is when 
 you can't see anybody at all. Well, one 
 day the fairy saw a little girl carrying 
 her father's dinner, and she turned her 
 self into an old witch and said to the little 
 girl, 'Come to me, pretty one, and I will 
 give thee a stick of peppermint candy.' 
 Now the little girl, she just loved candy, 
 and peppermint was her favorite, but she 
 was a good little girl and minded her moth 
 er most dut'fly, and never told any lies or 
 anything ; so she courtesied to the old witch 
 and said, 'Thank you kindly, but I must 
 hurry with my father's dinner, or he will 
 72
 
 Little Sister 
 
 be hungry waiting/ And what do you 
 think ? Just then the old witch turned into 
 the beautiful fairy again, and she kissed 
 the little girl, and gave her a whole bag of 
 peppermint candy, and a doll what talked, 
 and a velocipede for her little brother. 
 And what does this story teach us, children? 
 . . . Yes. That's right. It teaches us to 
 be good little boys and girls and mind our 
 parents. And that's all." 
 
 The dolls fell asleep. Lizbeth whispered 
 lest they should awake, and tiptoed through 
 the grass. A blue-jay called harshly from 
 a neighboring tree. Lizbeth frowned and 
 glanced anxiously at the grassy trundle- 
 bed. '"Sh!" she said, warningly, her fin 
 ger on her lip, whenever you came near. 
 
 Suddenly there was a rustle in the leaves 
 above, and out of their greenness a little 
 pear dropped to the grass at Lizbeth's 
 feet. 
 
 73
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "It's mine," you cried, reaching out 
 your hand. 
 
 "No o," screamed Lizbeth. "It's for 
 my dollies' breakfast," and she hugged 
 the stunted, speckled fruit to her bosom 
 so tightly that its brown, soft side was 
 crushed in her hands. You tried to snatch 
 it from her, but she struck you with her 
 little clinched fist. 
 
 "No o," she cried again. "It's my 
 dollies' pear." Her lip quivered. Tears 
 sprang into her eyes. You straightened 
 yourself. 
 
 " All right," you muttered, fiercely. " All 
 right for you. I'll run away, I will, and 
 I'll never come back never /" 
 
 You climbed the stone wall. 
 
 "No," cried Lizbeth. 
 
 "I'll never come back," you called, de 
 fiantly, as you stood on the top. 
 
 "No," Lizbeth screamed, scrambling to 
 74
 
 Little Sister 
 
 her feet and turning to you a face wet 
 with tears and white with terror. 
 
 "Never, never!" was your farewell to 
 her as you jumped. Deaf to the pitiful 
 'wail behind you, you ran out across the 
 meadow, muttering to yourself your fate 
 ful, parting cry. 
 
 Lizbeth looked for a moment at the wall 
 where you had stood. Then she ran sob 
 bing after you, around through the gate, 
 for the wall was too high for her, and out 
 into the field, where to her blurred vision 
 you were only a distant figure now, never, 
 never to return. 
 
 "Harry!" she screamed, and the wind 
 blew her cry to you across the meadow, 
 but you ran on, unheeding. She strug 
 gled after you. The daisies brushed her 
 skirt. Creeping vines caught at her little 
 shoes and she fell. Scratched by briers, 
 she scrambled to her feet again and stum- 
 75
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 bled on, blind with tears, crying ever 
 "Harry, Harry!" but so faintly now in her 
 sobs and breathlessness that you did not 
 hear. At the top of a weary, weary slope 
 she sank helpless and heartbroken in the 
 grass, a little huddle of curls and pinafore, 
 so that your conscience smote you as you 
 stood waiting, half hidden by the hedge. 
 
 "Don't be a cry-baby. I was only fool 
 ing/' you said, and at the sound of your 
 voice Lizbeth lifted her face from the grass 
 es and put out her arms to you with a cry. 
 In one hand was the little pear. 
 
 "Oh, I don't want the old thing," you 
 cried, throwing yourself beside her on the 
 turf. Smiling again through her tears, 
 Lizbeth reached out a little hand scratched 
 by briers, and patted your cheek. 
 
 "Harry," she said, "you can have all 
 my animal crackers for your m'nagerie, 
 if you want to, and my little brown don- 
 76
 
 Little Sister 
 
 key; and I'll play horse with you any 
 time you want me to, Harry, I will." 
 
 So, after all, you did not run away, 
 and you and Lizbeth went home at last 
 across the meadow, hand in hand. Be 
 hind you, hidden and forgotten in the 
 red clover, lay your quarrel and the little 
 pear. 
 
 When Lizbeth loved you, there were 
 stars in her brown eyes; when you looked 
 more closely, so that you were very near 
 their shining, you saw in their round, black 
 pupils, smiling back at you, the face of a 
 little boy; and then in your own eyes, 
 Lizbeth, holding your cheeks between her 
 hands, found the face of a little girl. 
 
 " Why, it's me !" she cried. 
 
 And when you looked again into Liz- 
 
 beth's eyes, you saw yourself; and "Oh, 
 
 Mother," you said afterwards, for you had 
 
 thought deeply, "I think it's the good 
 
 77
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Harry that's in Lizbeth's eyes, 'cause 
 when I look at him, he's always smiling." 
 That was as far as you thought about it 
 then; but once, long afterwards, it came to 
 you that little boys never find their pict 
 ures in a sister's eyes unless they are 
 good, and love her, and hold her cheeks 
 between their hands. 
 
 Lizbeth's cheeks were softer than yours, 
 and when she played horse, or the day 
 was windy, so that the grass rippled and 
 the trees sang, or when it was tub-day with 
 soap and towels up-stairs, her cheeks were 
 pink as the roses in Mother's garden. That 
 is how you came to tell Mother a great 
 secret, one evening in summer, as you sat 
 with her and Lizbeth on the front steps 
 watching the sun go down. 
 
 " I guess it's tub-day in the sky, Mother. " 
 
 "Tub-day?" 
 
 "Why, yes. All the little clouds have 
 78
 
 THEY TOOK YOU AS FAR AS THE BEDROOM 
 DOOR TO SEE HER "
 
 Little Sister 
 
 been having their bath, I think, 'cause 
 they're all pink and shiny, like Lizbeth." 
 
 But once Lizbeth' s cheeks were white, 
 and she stayed in bed every day, and you 
 played by yourself. Twice a day they 
 took you as far as the bedroom door to 
 see her. 
 
 "H'lo," you said, as you peeked. 
 
 "H'lo," she whispered back, very softly, 
 for she was almost asleep, and she did 
 not even smile at you, and before you 
 could tell her what the Pussy-cat did they 
 took you away but not till you had seen 
 the two glasses on the table with the silver 
 spoon on top. 
 
 There was no noise in the days then. 
 Even the trees stopped singing, and the 
 wind walked on tiptoe and whispered into 
 people's ears, like you. 
 
 " Is it to-day Lizbeth comes down-stairs?" 
 you asked every morning. 
 79
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "Do you think Lizbeth will play with 
 me to-morrow?" you asked every night. 
 Night came a long time after morning 
 in the days when Lizbeth could not 
 play. 
 
 " Oh, dear, I don't think I feel very well," 
 you told Mother. Tears spilled out of 
 your eyes and rolled down your cheeks. 
 Mother felt your brow and looked at your 
 tongue. 
 
 "I know what's the matter with my 
 little boy," she said, and kissed you; but 
 she did not put you to bed. 
 
 One day, when no one was near, you 
 peeked and saw Lizbeth. She was alone 
 and very little and very white. 
 
 "H'lo," you said. 
 
 "H'lo," she whispered back, and smiled 
 
 at you, and when she smiled you could 
 
 not wait any longer. You went in very 
 
 softly and kissed her where she lay and 
 
 80
 
 Little Sister 
 
 gave her a little hug. She patted your 
 cheek. 
 
 "I'd like my dollies/' she whispered. 
 You brought them to her, all four the 
 two china ones and the rag brunette and 
 the waxen blonde. 
 
 "Dollies are sick," she said. "They 
 'most died, I guess. Play you're sick, 
 too." 
 
 Mother found you there Lizbeth and 
 you and the four dolls, side by side on the 
 bed, all in a little sick row. And from 
 the very moment that you kissed Lizbeth 
 and gave her the little hug, she grew bet 
 ter, so that by-and-by the wind blew louder 
 and the trees sang lustily, and all Our 
 Yard was bright with flowers and sun and 
 voices and play, for you and Lizbeth and 
 the four dolls were well again.
 
 Our Yard
 
 Our Yard 
 
 ff|HE breadth of Our Yard used 
 to be from the beehives to 
 the red geraniums. When 
 the beehives were New York, 
 the geraniums were Japan, so the dis 
 tance is easy to calculate. The apple- 
 tree Alps overshadowed New York then, 
 which seems strange now, but geography 
 is not what it used to be. In the lapse 
 of years the Manhattan hives have crum 
 bled in the Alpine shade, an earthquake 
 of garden spade has wiped Japan from 
 the map, and where the scarlet islands 
 lay in the sun there are green billows now, 
 and other little boys in the grass, at play. 
 85
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 In the old days when you sailed away 
 on the front gate, which swung and creak 
 ed through storms, to the other side of 
 the sea, you could just descry through 
 a fog of foliage the rocky shores of the 
 back-yard fence, washed by a surf of 
 golden-rod. If you moored your ship 
 for an unlatched gate meant prowling 
 dogs in the garden, and Mother was cross 
 at that if you anchored your gate-craft 
 dutifully to become a soldier, you could 
 march to the back fence, but it was a long 
 journey. Starting, a drummer -boy, you 
 could never foretell your end, for the future 
 was vague, even with the fence in view, 
 and your cocked hat on your curls, and 
 your drumsticks in your hand. Lizbeth 
 and the dolls might halt you at the front 
 steps and muster you out of service to 
 become a doctor with Grandmother's spec 
 tacles and Grandfather's cane. And if 
 86
 
 Our Yard 
 
 the dolls were well that day, with normal 
 pulses and unflushed cheeks, and you 
 marched by with martial melody, there 
 was your stalled hobby-horse on the side 
 porch, neighing to you for clover hay; 
 and stopping to feed him meant desertion 
 from the ranks, to become a farmer, tilling 
 the soil and bartering acorn eggs and 
 clean sand butter on market-day. And 
 even though you marched untempted by 
 bucolic joys, there lay in wait for you the 
 kitchen door, breathing a scent of crullers, 
 or gingerbread, or apple-pies, or leading 
 your feet astray to the unscraped frosting- 
 bowl or the remnant cookies burned on 
 one side, and so not good for supper, but 
 fine for weary drummer-boys. So wheth 
 er you reached the fence that day was 
 a question for you and the day and the 
 sirens that beckoned to you along your 
 play. 
 
 87
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Across the clover prairie the trellis 
 mountains reared their vine-clad heights. 
 Through their morning-glories ran a little 
 pass, which led to the enchanted garden 
 on the other side, but the pass was so narrow 
 and overhung with vines that when Grand 
 father was a pack-horse and carried you 
 through on his back, your outstretched 
 feet would catch on the trellis sides. Then 
 the pack-horse would pick his way cau 
 tiously and you would dig your heels 
 into his sides and hold fast, and so you 
 got through. Once inside the garden, oh, 
 wonder of pansies and hollyhocks and 
 bachelor's - buttons and roses and sweet 
 smells! The sun shone warmest there, 
 and the fairies lived there, Mother said. 
 
 "But when it rains, Mother?" 
 
 "Oh, then they hide beneath the trellis, 
 under the honeysuckles." 
 
 Mother wore an apron and sun-bonnet, 
 88
 
 Our Yard 
 
 and knelt in the little path, digging with 
 a trowel in the moist, brown earth. You 
 helped her with your little spade. Under 
 a lilac-bush Lizbeth made mud-pies, and 
 the pies of the enchanted garden were the 
 brownest and richest in all Our Yard. 
 They were the most like Mother's, Liz 
 beth said. Grandfather sat on the wheel 
 barrow-ship and smoked. 
 
 "Do fairies smoke, Grandfather?" 
 
 "The old grandfather fairies do," he 
 said. 
 
 Of all the flowers in the enchanted gar 
 den you liked the roses best, and of all 
 the roses you liked the red. There was a 
 big one that hung on the wall above your 
 head. You could just reach it when you 
 stood on tiptoe, and pulling it down to 
 you then, you would bury your face in 
 its petals and take a long snuff, and say, 
 
 "Um-m-m."
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 And when you let it go, it bobbed and 
 courtesied on its prickly stem. But one 
 morning, very early, when you pulled it 
 down to you, you were rough with it, and 
 it sprinkled your face with dew. 
 
 "The rose is crying/' Lizbeth said. 
 
 "You should be very gentle with roses," 
 Mother told you. "Sometimes when folks 
 are sick or cross, just the sight of a red 
 rose cheers them and makes them smile 
 again." 
 
 That was a beautiful thought, and it 
 came back to you the day you left Our 
 Yard and ran away. You were gone a 
 long time. It was late in the afternoon 
 when you trudged guiltily back again, 
 and when you were still a long way off 
 you could see Mother waiting for you at 
 the gate. The brown switch, doubtless, 
 was waiting too. So you stole into Our 
 Yard through the back fence, and hid 
 90
 
 Our Yard 
 
 in the enchanted garden, crying and afraid. 
 It began to rain, a gentle summer shower, 
 and like the fairies you hid beneath the 
 honeysuckles. Looking up through your 
 tears, you saw the red rose and remem 
 bered. The rain stopped. You climbed 
 upon the wheelbarrow - ship and pulled 
 the rose from the vine. Trembling, you 
 approached the house. Softly you opened 
 the front door. At the sight of you Mother 
 gave a little cry. Your lip quivered; the 
 tears rolled down your cheeks; for you 
 were cold and wet and dreary. 
 
 "M-mother," you said, with outstretch 
 ed hand, " here's a r-rose I brought you " ; 
 and she folded you and the flower in her" 
 arms. It was true, then, what she had 
 told you that when people are cross there 
 is sometimes nothing in the world like 
 the sight of a sweet red rose to cheer them 
 and make them smile again.
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Once in Our Yard, you were safe from 
 bad boys and their fists, from bad dogs 
 and their bites, and all the other perils 
 of the road. Yet Our Yard had its dangers 
 too. Through the rhubarb thicket in the 
 corner of the fence stalked a black bear. 
 You had heard him growl. You had 
 seen the flash of his white teeth. You 
 had tracked him to his lair. Just behind 
 you, one hand upon your coat, came Liz- 
 beth. 
 
 "'Sh! I see him/' you whispered, as 
 you raised your wooden gun. 
 
 Bang ! Bang ! 
 
 And the bear fell dead. 
 
 "Don't hurt Pussy," said Mother, warn- 
 ingly. 
 
 "No," you said, and the dead bear 
 
 purred and rubbed his head against your 
 
 legs. Once, after you had killed and 
 
 eaten him, he mewed and ran before you 
 
 92
 
 Our Yard 
 
 to his basket-cave; and there were five 
 little bears, all blind and crying, and you 
 took them home and tamed them by the 
 kitchen fire. 
 
 But the bear was nothing to the Wild 
 Man who lived next door. In the barn, 
 close to your fence, he lay in wait for little 
 girls and boys to eat them and drink their 
 blood and gnaw their bones. Oh, you 
 had seen him once yourself, as you peered 
 through a knot-hole in the barn-side. He 
 was sitting on an upturned water-pail, 
 smoking a pipe and muttering. 
 
 You and Lizbeth stole out to look at 
 him. Hand in hand you tiptoed across the 
 clover prairie where the red Indians roved. 
 You scanned the horizon, but there was 
 not a feather or painted face in sight to 
 day though they always came when 
 you least expected them, popping up from 
 the tall grass with wild, blood-curdling 
 93
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 yells, and scalping you when you didn't 
 watch out. Across the prairie, then, you 
 went, silently, hand in hand. The sun 
 fell warm and golden in the open. Birds 
 were singing in the sky, unmindful of the 
 lurking perils among the tall grass and be 
 yond the fence. Back of you were home 
 and Mother's arms, and in the pantry win 
 dow, cooling, two juicy pies. Before you, 
 across the clover, a great gray dungeon 
 frowned upon you ; within its walls a creat 
 ure of blood and mystery waiting with hun 
 gry jaws. Hushed and timorous, you ap 
 proached. 
 
 "Oh, I'm afraid," Lizbeth whimpered. 
 Savagely you caught her arm. 
 
 "'Sh! He'll hear you," you hissed 
 through chattering teeth. A cloud hid the 
 sun, and the ominous shadow fell upon 
 you as you crouched, trembling, on the 
 edge of the raspberry wood. 
 94
 
 Our Yard 
 
 "Sh!" you said. Under cover of the 
 forest shade you crept with bated breath, 
 on all - fours, stealthily. Oh, what was 
 that? That awful sound, that hideous 
 groan? From the barn it came, with a 
 crunching of teeth and a rattle of chain. 
 Lizbeth gave a little cry, seized you, and 
 hid her face against your coat. 
 
 '"Shi" you said. "That's him! Hear 
 him!" 
 
 Through wood and prairie rang a pierc 
 ing cry 
 
 "Mother! I want my mother!" 
 
 And Lizbeth fled, wailing, across the 
 plain. You followed to cheer her. 
 
 "Cowardy Calf!" you said, but you 
 did not say it till you had reached the 
 kitchen door. And in hunting the Wild 
 Man you never got farther than his groan. 
 
 Mornings in Our Yard the clover prairie 
 sparkled with a million gems. The fairies 
 95
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 had dropped them, dancing in the moon 
 beams, while you slept. Strung on a 
 blade of grass you found a necklace of 
 diamonds left by the queen herself in her 
 flight at dawn, but when you plucked it, 
 the quivering brilliants melted into water 
 drops and trickled down your hand. Then 
 the warm sun came and took the diamonds 
 back to the fairies again but your shoes 
 were still damp with dew. And by-and- 
 by you would be sneezing, and Mother 
 would be taking down bottles for you, 
 for the things that fairies wear are not 
 good for little boys. And if ever you 
 squash the fairies' diamonds beneath your 
 feet, and don't change your shoes, the 
 fairies will be angry with you, and you 
 will be catching cold; and if you take the 
 queen's necklace oh, then watch out, for 
 they will be putting a necklace of red flan 
 nel on you! 
 
 96
 
 Our Yard 
 
 Wide-awake was Our Yard in the morn 
 ing with its birds and wind and sunshine 
 and your play, but when noonday dinner 
 was over there was a yawning in the trees. 
 The birds hushed their songs. Grand 
 father dozed in his chair on the porch. 
 The green grass dozed in the sun. And 
 as the shadows lengthened even the perils 
 slept Indians on the clover prairie, bear 
 in the rhubarb thicket, Wild Man in the 
 barn. In the apple-tree shade you lay 
 wondering, looking up at the sky won 
 dering why bees purred like pussy-cats, 
 why the sparrows bowed to you as they 
 eyed you sidewise, what they twittered 
 in the leaves, where the clouds went when 
 they sailed to the end of the sky. Three 
 clouds there were, floating above the ap 
 ple-tree, and two were big and one was 
 little. 
 
 "The big clouds are the Mother and 
 7 97
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Father clouds," you told yourself, for no 
 one was there to hear, "and the little one 
 is the Little Boy cloud, and they are out 
 walking in the sky. And now the Mother 
 cloud is talking to the Little Boy cloud. 
 'Hurry up/ she says; 'why do you walk 
 so slow?' And the Little Boy cloud says, 
 'I can't go any faster 'cause my legs are 
 so short/ And then the Father cloud 
 laughs and says, 'Let's have some ice 
 cream soda/ Then the Little Boy cloud 
 says, ' I'll take vaniller, and make it sweet/ 
 and they all drink. And by-and-by they 
 all go home and have supper, and after 
 supper the Mother cloud undresses the 
 Little Boy cloud, and puts on his nighty, 
 and he kneels down and says, 'Now I 
 lay me down to sleep/ And then the 
 Mother cloud kisses the Little Boy cloud 
 on both cheeks and on his eyes and on 
 his curls and on his mouth twice, and 
 98
 
 Our Yard 
 
 he cuddles down under the moon and goes 
 to sleep. And that's all." 
 
 Far beyond the apple-tree, far beyond 
 your ken, the three clouds floated Father 
 and Mother and Little Son else your 
 story had been longer; and in the float 
 ing of little clouds, in the making of little 
 stories, in the sleeping of little boys, it was 
 always easiest when Our Yard slumbered 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 When supper was over a bonfire blazed 
 in the western sky, just over the back 
 fence. The clouds built it, you explained 
 to Lizbeth, to keep themselves warm at 
 night. It was a beautiful fire, all gold 
 and red, but as Our Yard darkened, the 
 fire sank lower till only the sparks re 
 mained, and sometimes the clouds came 
 and put the sparks out too. When the 
 moon shone you could see, through the 
 window by your bed, the clover prairie 
 99
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 and the trellis mountains, silver with 
 fairies, and you longed to hold one in 
 your hand. But when the night fell 
 moonless and starless, the fairies in Our 
 Yard groped their way you could see 
 their lanterns twinkling in the trees 
 and there were goblins under every bush, 
 and, crouching in the black shadows, was 
 the Wild Man, gnawing a little boy's bone. 
 Oh, Our Yard was awful on a dark night, 
 and when you were tucked in bed and 
 the lamp was out and Mother away down 
 stairs, you could hear the Wild Man crunch 
 ing his bone beneath your window, and 
 you pulled the covers over your head. 
 But always, when you woke, Our Yard 
 was bright and green again, for though 
 the moon ran away some nights, the sun 
 came every day. 
 
 With all its greenness and its bright 
 ness and its vastness and its enchanted 
 100
 
 Our Yard 
 
 garden, Our Yard bore a heavy yoke. 
 You were not quite sure what the bur 
 den was, but it was something about tea. 
 Men, painted and feathered like the red 
 Indians, had gone one night to a ship in 
 the harbor and poured the tea into the sea. 
 That you knew ; and you had listened and 
 heard of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. 
 Through the window you saw Our Yard 
 smiling in the morning sun; trees green 
 with summer; flight of white clouds in 
 the sky ; flight of brown birds in the bush. 
 Wondering, you saw it there, a fair land 
 manacled by a tyrant's hand, and the 
 blood mounted to your cheeks. 
 "Mother, I want my sword." 
 "It is where you left it, my boy." 
 "And my soldier-hat and drum." 
 "They are under the stairs." 
 Over your shoulder you slung your 
 drum. With her own hands Mother belt- 
 101
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 ed your sword around you and set your 
 cocked hat on your curls. Then twice 
 she kissed you, and you marched away to 
 the music of your drum. She watched 
 you from the open door. 
 
 It was a windy morning, and you were 
 bravest in the wind. From the back fence 
 to the front gate, from the beehives to the 
 red geraniums, there was a scent and 
 stir of battle in the air. Rhubarb thicket 
 and raspberry wood re-echoed with the 
 beat of drums and the tramp of marching 
 feet. Far away beyond the wood - pile 
 hills, behind the trellis mountains where 
 the morning-glories clung, tremulous, in 
 the gale, even the enchanted garden woke 
 from slumber and the flowers shuddered 
 in their peaceful beds. On you marched, 
 through the wind and the morning, on 
 through Middlesex, village and farm, till 
 you heard the cannon and the battle-cries. 
 102
 
 Our Yard 
 
 "Halt!" 
 
 You unslung your drum. Mounting 
 your charger, you galloped down the line. 
 
 "Forward!" 
 
 And you rode across the blood-stained 
 clover. Into the battle you led them, 
 sword in hand into the thickest of the 
 fight while all about you, thundering in 
 the apple - boughs, reverberating in the 
 wood-pile hills, roared the guns of the 
 west wind. Fair in the face of that can 
 nonade you flung the flower of your army. 
 Around you lay the wounded, the dead, 
 the dying. Beneath you your charger 
 fell, blood gushing from his torn side. 
 A thrust bayonet swept off your cocked 
 hat. You were down yourself. Tut! 
 'Twas a mere scratch and you struggled 
 on. Repulsed, you rallied and charged 
 again . . . again . . . again, across the 
 clover, to the mouths of the smoking guns. 
 103
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Afoot, covered with blood, your shattered 
 sword gleaming in the morning sun, you 
 stood at last on the scorched heights. 
 Before your flashing eyes, a rout of red 
 coats in retreat ; behind your tossing curls, 
 the buff and blue. 
 
 A cry of triumph came down the beaten 
 wind: 
 
 "Mother! Mother! We licked ' 
 
 "Whom?" 
 
 "The Briddish!" 
 
 And Our Yard was free.
 
 The Toy Grenadier
 
 The Toy Grenadier 
 
 \T was a misnomer. He was 
 not a captain at all, nor 
 was he of the Horse Marines. 
 He was a mere private in 
 the Grenadier Guards, with his musket 
 at a carry and his heels together, and his 
 little fingers touching the seams of his 
 pantaloons. Still, Captain Jinks was the 
 name he went by when he first came to 
 Our House, years ago, and Captain Jinks 
 he will be always in your memory the 
 only original Captain Jinks, the ballad 
 to the contrary notwithstanding. 
 It was Christmas Eve when you first 
 107
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 saw him. He was stationed on sentry 
 duty beneath a fir-tree, guarding a pile 
 of commissary stores. He looked neither 
 to the left nor to the right, but straight 
 before him, and not a tremor or blink or 
 sigh disturbed his military bearing. His 
 bearskin was glossy as a pussy-cat's fur; 
 his scarlet coat, with the cross of honor 
 on his heart, fitted him like a glove, and 
 every gilt button of it shone in the candle 
 light; and oh, the loveliness, the spot 
 less loveliness, of his sky-blue panta 
 loons! 
 
 "My boy/' said Father, "allow me to 
 present Captain Jinks. Captain Jinks, 
 my son/' 
 
 " Oh!" you cried, the moment you clapped 
 eyes on him. " Oh, Father ! What a beau 
 tiful soldier!" 
 
 And at your praise the Captain's checks 
 were scarlet. He would have saluted, no 
 108
 
 The Toy Grenadier 
 
 doubt, had you been a military man, but 
 you were only a civilian then. 
 
 "Take him/' said Father, "and give 
 him some rations. He's about starved, I 
 guess, guarding those chocolates." 
 
 So you relieved the Captain of his stern 
 vigil or, rather, the Captain and his 
 gun, for he refused to lay down his arms 
 even for mess call, without orders from 
 the officer of the guard, though he did 
 desert his post, which was inconsistent 
 from a military point of view, and deserved 
 court - martial. And while he was gone 
 the commissary stores were plundered 
 by ruthless, sticky hands. 
 
 Lizbeth brought a new wax doll to mess 
 with the Captain. A beautiful blonde 
 she was, and the Captain was gallantry 
 itself, but she was a little stiff with him, 
 in her silks and laces, preferring, no doubt, 
 a messmate with epaulets and sword. So 
 109
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 the chat lagged till the Rag Doll came 
 an unassuming brunette creature and 
 the Captain got on very well with her. 
 Indeed, when the Wax Doll flounced away, 
 the Captain leaned and whispered in the 
 Rag Doll's ear. What he said you did 
 not hear, but the Rag Doll drew away, 
 shyly 
 
 "Very sudden," she seemed to say. 
 But the Captain leaned nearer, at an angle 
 perilous to both, and kissed her! The 
 Rag Doll fainted to the floor. The Captain 
 was at his wits' end. Without orders he 
 could not lay aside his gun, for he was 
 a sentry, albeit off his post. Yet here 
 was a lady in distress. The gun or the 
 lady? The lady or the gun? The Captain 
 struggled betwixt his honor and his love. 
 In the very stress of his contending emo 
 tions he tottered, and would have fallen 
 to the Rag Doll's side, but you caught 
 no
 
 The Toy Grenadier 
 
 him just in time. Lizbeth applied the 
 smelling-bottle to the Rag Doll's nose, 
 and she revived. Pale, but every inch 
 a rag lady, she rose, leaning on Lizbeth. 
 She gave the Captain a withering glance, 
 and swept towards the open door. The 
 Captain did not flinch. Proudly he drew 
 himself to his full height; his heels click 
 ed together; his gun fell smartly to his 
 side ; and as the lady passed he looked her 
 squarely in her scornful eyes, and bore 
 their conge like a soldier. 
 
 Next morning Christmas morning 
 in the trenches before the Coal Scuttle, 
 the Captain fought with reckless bravery. 
 The earthworks of building-blocks reach 
 ed barely to his cartridge-belt, yet he stood 
 erect in a hail of marble balls. 
 
 "Jinks, you're clean daft," cried Grand 
 father. "Lie down, man!" 
 
 But the Captain would not budge. Com- 
 iii
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 mies and glassies crashed around him. 
 They ploughed up the earthworks before 
 him; they did great execution on the legs 
 of chairs and tables and other non-com 
 batants behind. Yet there he stood, un 
 moved in the midst of the carnage, his 
 heels together, his little fingers just touch 
 ing the seams of his pantaloons. It was 
 for all the world as though he were on 
 dress parade. Perhaps he was for while 
 he stood there, valorous in that Christmas 
 fight, his eyes were on the heights of Rock 
 ing Chair beyond, where, safe from the 
 marble hail, sat the Rag Doll with Lizbeth 
 and the waxen blonde. 
 
 There was a rumble a crash through 
 the torn earthworks a shock a scream 
 from the distant heights and the Cap 
 tain fell. A monstrous glassy had struck 
 him fairly in the legs, and owing to his 
 military habit of standing with them 
 112
 
 The Toy Grenadier 
 
 close together well, it was all too sad, 
 too harrowing, to relate. An ambulance 
 corps of Grandfather and Uncle Ned carried 
 the crippled soldier to the Tool Chest Hos 
 pital. He was just conscious, that was 
 all. The operation he bore with great 
 fortitude, refusing to take chloroform, 
 and insisting on dying with his musket 
 beside him, if die he must. What seemed 
 to give him greatest anguish was his 
 heels, for, separated at last, they would 
 not click together now; and his little fin 
 gers groped nervously for the misplaced 
 seams of his pantaloons. 
 
 Long afterwards, when the Captain had 
 left his cot for active duty again, it was 
 recalled that the very moment when he 
 fell so gallantly in the trenches that day 
 a lady was found unconscious, flat on 
 her face, at the foot of Rocking Chair Hill. 
 
 Captain Jinks was never the same after 
 8 113
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 that. Still holding his gun as smartly 
 as before, there was, on the other hand, 
 a certain carelessness of attire, a certain 
 dulness of gilt buttons, a smudginess 
 of scarlet coat, as though it were thumb- 
 marked; and dark clouds were beginning 
 to lower in the clear azure of his pantaloons. 
 There was, withal, a certain rakishness 
 of bearing not provided for in the regula 
 tions; a little uncertainty as to legs; a 
 tilt and limp, as it were, in sharp contrast 
 to the trim soldier who had guarded the 
 commissary chocolates under the Christmas 
 fir. Moreover though his comrades at 
 arms forbore to mention it, loving him for 
 his gallant service he was found one 
 night, flat on his face, under the dinner- 
 table. Now the Captain had always been 
 abstemious before. Liquor of any kind he 
 had shunned as poison, holding that it 
 spotted his uniform; and once when forced 
 114
 
 The Toy Grenadier 
 
 to drink from Lizbeth's silver cup, at the 
 end of a dusty march, his lips paled at 
 the contaminating touch, his red cheeks 
 blanched, and his black mustache, in a 
 single drink, turned gray. But here he 
 lay beneath the festive board, bedraggled, 
 his nose buried in the soft rug, hopelessly 
 inarticulate though the last symptom was 
 least to be wondered at, since he had al 
 ways been a silent man. 
 
 You shook him where he lay. There 
 was no response. You dragged him forth 
 in his shame and set him on his feet again, 
 but he staggered and fell. Yet as he lay 
 there in his cups oh, mystery of disci 
 pline! his heels were close together, his 
 toes turned out, his musket was at a carry, 
 and his little fingers were just touching 
 the seams of his pantaloons. 
 
 For the good of the service Mother of 
 fered to retire the Captain on half pay,
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 and give him free lodging on the garret 
 stair, but he scorned the proposal, and 
 you backed him in his stand. All his life 
 he had been a soldier. Now, with war 
 and rumors of war rife in the land, should 
 he, Captain Jinks, a private in the Grena 
 dier Guards, lay down his arms for the 
 piping peace of a garret stair? No, by 
 gad, sir! No! And he stayed; and, 
 strangest thing of all, he was yet to fight 
 and stand guard and suffer as he had 
 never done before. 
 
 But while the Captain thus sadly went 
 down hill, the Rag Doll retired to a modest 
 villa in the closet country up-stairs. It 
 was quiet there, and she could rest her 
 shattered nerves. Whether she blamed 
 herself for her rejected lover's downfall, 
 or whether it was mere petulance at the 
 social triumphs of the waxen blonde, is a 
 question open to debate. Sentimentalists 
 116
 
 The Toy Grenadier 
 
 will find the former theory more to their 
 fancy, but the blonde and her friends told 
 a different tale. Be that as it may, the 
 Rag Doll went away. 
 
 January passed in barracks; then Feb 
 ruary and March, with only an occasional 
 scouting after cattle-thieves and brigand 
 bands. The Captain chafed at such in 
 activity. 
 
 "War! You call this war!" his very 
 bristling manner seemed to say. "By 
 gad! sir, when I was in the trenches be 
 fore . . . " 
 
 It was fine then to see the Captain and 
 Grandfather both grizzled veterans with 
 tales to tell side by side before the li 
 brary fire. When Grandfather told the 
 story of Johnny Reb in the tall grass, the 
 Captain was visibly moved. 
 
 "Jinks," Grandfather would say 
 "Jinks, you know how it is yourself 
 117
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 when the bacon's wormy and the coffee's 
 thin, and there's a man with a gun before 
 you and a girl with a tear behind." 
 
 And at the mention of the girl and the 
 tear the Captain would turn away. 
 
 Spring came, and with it the marching 
 orders for which you and the Captain 
 had yearned so long. There was a stir in 
 the barracks that morning. The Captain 
 was drunk again, it is true, but drunk 
 this time with joy. He could not march 
 in the ranks he was too far gone for 
 that so you stationed him on a wagon 
 to guard the commissary stores. 
 
 A blast from the bugle Assembly 
 and you fell into line. 
 
 "Forward March!" 
 
 And you marched away, your drum 
 beating a double-quick, the Captain sway 
 ing ignominiously on the wagon and 
 hugging his old brown gun. As the 
 118
 
 The Toy Grenadier 
 
 Guards swung by the reviewing-stand, 
 their arms flashing in the sun, the Cap 
 tain did not raise his eyes. So he never 
 knew that looking down upon his shame 
 that April day sat his rag lady, with Liz- 
 beth and the waxen blonde. Her cheeks 
 were pale, but her eyes were tearless. 
 She did not utter a sound as her tottering 
 lover passed. She just leaned far out 
 over the flag-hung balcony and watched 
 him as he rode away. 
 
 It was a hard campaign. Clover Plain, 
 Wood-pile Mountain, and the Raspberry 
 Wilderness are names to conjure with. 
 From the back fence to the front gate, from 
 the beehives to the red geraniums, the 
 whole land ran with blood. Brevetted 
 for personal gallantry on the Wood-pile 
 Heights, you laid aside your drum for 
 epaulets and sword. The Guards and the 
 Captain drifted from your ken. When 
 119
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 you last saw him he was valiantly de 
 fending a tulip pass, and defying a regi 
 ment of the Black Ant Brigade to come 
 and take him by gad ! sirs if they dared. 
 
 The war went on. Days grew into 
 weeks, weeks into months, and the sum 
 mer passed. Search in camps and battle 
 fields revealed no trace of Captain Jinks. 
 Sitting by the camp-fire on blustering 
 nights, your thoughts went back to the 
 old comrade of the winter days. 
 
 "Poor Captain Jinks!" you sighed. 
 
 "Jinks?" asked Grandfather, laying 
 down his book. 
 
 "Yes. He's lost. Didn't you know?" 
 
 "Jinks among the missing!" Grand 
 father cried. Then he gazed silently into 
 the fire. 
 
 "Poor old Jinks!" he mused "He 
 was a brave. soldier, Jinks was a brave 
 soldier, sir." He puffed reflectively on his 
 120
 
 The Toy Grenadier 
 
 corn-cob pipe. Presently he spoke again, 
 more sadly than before: 
 
 "But he had one fault, Jinks had 
 just one, sir. He was a leetle too fond o' 
 his bottle on blowy nights." 
 
 November came. The year and the 
 war were drawing to a close. Before 
 Grape Vine Ridge the enemy lay intrench 
 ed for a final desperate stand. To your 
 council of war in the fallen leaves came 
 Grandfather, a scarf around his throat, 
 its loose ends flapping in the gale. He 
 leaned on his cane; you, on your sword. 
 
 "Bring up your guns, boy," he cried. 
 "Bring up your heavy guns. Fling your 
 cavalry to the left, your infantry to the 
 right. 'Up, Guards, and at 'em!' Cold 
 steel, my boy as Jinks used to say." 
 
 Grandfathers for counsel; little boys 
 for war. At five that night the enemy 
 surrendered horse, foot, and a hundred 
 121
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 guns. Declining the General's proffered 
 sword, you rode back across the battle 
 field to your camp in the fallen leaves. 
 The afternoon was waning. In the gath 
 ering twilight your horse stumbled on a 
 prostrate form. You dismounted, knelt, 
 brushed back the leaves, peered into the 
 dimmed eyes and ashen face. 
 
 "' Captain ! ' ' you cried. " Captain Jinks ! ' ' 
 And at your call came Lizbeth, running, 
 dragging the Rag Doll by her hand. 
 Breathless they knelt beside him where 
 he lay. 
 
 "Oh, it's Captain Jinks," said Lizbeth, 
 but softly, when she saw. Prone on the 
 battle-field lay the wounded Grenadier, 
 his uniform gray with service in the wind 
 and rain. 
 
 "Captain!" you cried again, but he did 
 not hear you. Then the Rag Doll bent 
 her face to his, in the twilight, though she 
 
 122
 
 The Toy Grenadier 
 
 could not speak. A glimmer of recogni 
 tion blazed for a moment, but faded in 
 the Captain's eyes. 
 
 "He's tired marching, I guess," said 
 Lizbeth. 
 
 '"Sh!" you said. "He's dying." 
 You bent lower to feel his fluttering 
 pulse. You placed your ear to the cross 
 of honor, rusted, on his breast. His heart 
 was silent. And so he died on the battle 
 field, his musket at his side, his heels 
 together, his little fingers just touching 
 the seams of his pantaloons.
 
 Father
 
 Father 
 
 ^VERY evening at half -past 
 six there was a sound of 
 footsteps on the front porch. 
 You ran, you and Lizbeth, 
 and by the time you had reached the door 
 it opened suddenly from without, and you 
 each had a leg of Father. Mother was 
 just behind you in the race, and though 
 she did not shout or dance, or pull his coat 
 or seize his bundles, she won his first kiss, 
 so that you and Lizbeth came in second 
 after all. 
 
 "Hello, Buster!" he would sing out to 
 you, so that you cried, "My name ain't 
 127
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 Buster it's Harry," at which he would 
 be mightily surprised. But he always 
 called Lizbeth by her right name. 
 
 "Well, Lizbeth/' he would say, kneeling, 
 for you had pulled him down to you, bun 
 dles and all, and Lizbeth would cuddle 
 down into his arms and say: 
 
 "Fa-ther." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Why, Father, now what do you think? 
 My Sally doll has got the measles awful." 
 
 "No! You don't say?" 
 
 And "Father!" you would yell into 
 his other ear, for while Lizbeth used one, 
 you always used the other using one by 
 two persons at the same time being strict 
 ly forbidden. 
 
 "Father." 
 
 " Yes, my son. 
 
 "The Jones boy was here to-day and 
 and and he said why, now, he said " 
 128
 
 Father 
 
 "Fa-iher" (it was Lizbeth talking into 
 her ear now), "do you think my Sally 
 doll" 
 
 It was Mother who rescued Father and 
 his bundles at last and carried you off 
 to supper, and when your mouth was not 
 too full you finished telling him what the 
 Jones boy said, and he listened gravely, 
 and prescribed for the Sally doll. Though 
 he came home like that every night except 
 Sunday in all the year, you always had 
 something new to tell him in both ears, 
 and it was always, to all appearances, the 
 most wonderful thing he had ever heard. 
 
 But now and then there were times 
 when you did not yearn for the sound 
 of Father's footsteps on the porch. 
 
 "Wait till Father comes home and 
 Mother tells him what a bad, bad boy you 
 have beenl" 
 
 " I don't care/' you whispered, defiantly, 
 9 129
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 all to yourself, scowling out of the window, 
 but "Tick-tock, tick-tock" went the clock 
 on the mantel - shelf " Tick - tock, tick- 
 tock" more loudly, more swiftly than 
 you had ever heard it tick before. Still 
 you were brave in the broad light of day, 
 and if sun and breeze and bird-songs but 
 held out long enough, Mother might for 
 get. You flattened your nose against the 
 pane. There was a dicky-bird hopping on 
 the apple-boughs outside. You heard him 
 twittering. If you were only a bird, now, 
 instead of a little boy. Birds were so 
 happy and free. Nobody ever made them 
 stay in-doors on an afternoon made for 
 play. If only a fairy godmother would 
 come in a gold coach and turn you into a 
 bird. Then you would fly away, miles 
 and miles, and when they looked for you, 
 at half-past six, you would be chirping 
 in some cherry-tree. 
 
 130
 
 Father 
 
 "Tick-lock, tick-tock whir-r-r! One! 
 Two! Three! Four! Five!" struck the 
 clock on the mantel - shelf. The bright 
 day was running away from you, leaving 
 you far behind to be caught, at half-past 
 six caught and . . . 
 
 But Father might not come home to 
 supper to-night ! Once he did not. At 
 the thought the sun lay warm upon your 
 cheek, and you rapped on the pane bravely 
 at the dicky-bird outside. The bird flew 
 away. 
 
 "Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick- 
 tock." 
 
 Swiftly the day passed. Terribly fell 
 the black night, fastening its shadows on 
 you and all the world. Grimly Mother 
 passed you, without a look or word. She 
 pulled down the window shades. One 
 by one she lighted the lamps the tall 
 piano -lamp with the red globe, the little
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 green lamp on the library-table, the hang 
 ing lamp in the dining-room. Already 
 the supper-table was set. 
 
 The clock struck six ! 
 
 You watched Mother out of the corners 
 of your eyes. Had she forgotten? 
 
 "Mother," you said, engagingly. "See 
 me stand on one leg." 
 
 " Mother does not care to look at naughty 
 little boys." 
 
 "Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick- 
 tock." 
 
 You were very little to punish. Be 
 sides, you were not feeling very well. It 
 was not your tummy, nor your head, nor 
 yet the pussy-scratch on your finger. It 
 was a deeper pain. 
 
 "Tick-tock, tick-tock." 
 
 If you should die like the Jones boy's 
 little brother and be put in the cemetery 
 on the hill, they would be sorry. 
 132
 
 Father 
 
 "Tick-tock, tick-lock" 
 
 Mother went to the window and peered 
 out. 
 
 "TICK-TOCK!" 
 
 "Whir-r-r " 
 
 And the clock struck half-past sixl 
 
 Steps sounded upon the porch Mother 
 was going to the door it opened! 
 
 "Where's Buster?" 
 
 And Mother told! 
 
 . . . And somehow when Father spank 
 ed it always seemed as if he were med 
 dling. He was an outsider all day. Why, 
 then, did he concern himself so mightily 
 at night? 
 
 After supper Father would sit before 
 the fire with you on one knee and Lizbeth 
 on the other, while Mother sewed, till by- 
 and-by, just when you were most comfy 
 and the talk most charming, he would say : 
 
 "Well, Father must go now." 
 133
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "Oh no, Father. Don't go yet." 
 
 "But Father must. He must go to 
 Council-meeting. " 
 
 "What's a Council - meeting, Father?" 
 you asked, and while he was telling you 
 he would be putting on his coat. 
 
 "Don't sit up for me," he would tell 
 Mother, and the door would shut at half- 
 past seven just as it had opened at half- 
 past six, with the same sound of footsteps 
 on the porch. 
 
 "Oh, dear," you would say. "Father's 
 always going somewhere. I guess he 
 doesn't like to stay home, Mother." 
 
 Then Mother would take you and Liz- 
 beth on her lap. 
 
 "Dearies, Father would love to stay 
 at home and play with you and Mother, 
 but he can't. All day long he has to 
 work to take care of us and buy us bread- 
 and-butter " 
 
 134
 
 Father 
 
 "And chocolate cake, Mother?" 
 "Yes, and chocolate cake. And he 
 goes to the Council to help the other men 
 take care of Ourtown so that the burglars 
 won't get in or the street-lamps go out 
 and leave us in the dark." 
 
 Your eyes were very round. That night 
 after you and Lizbeth were in bed and the 
 lights were out, you thought of the Council 
 and the burglars so that you could not 
 sleep, and while you lay there thinking, 
 the wolf - wind began to howl outside. 
 Then suddenly you heard the patter, patter, 
 patter of its feet upon the roof. You shud 
 dered and drew the bedclothes over your 
 head. What if It got inside? Could It 
 bite through the coverlet with its sharp 
 teeth? Would the Council come and save 
 you just in time? . . . Which would be 
 worse, a wolf or a burglar? A wolf, of 
 course, for a burglar might have a little 
 135
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 boy of his own somewhere, in bed, curled 
 up and shivering, with the covers over his 
 head. . . . But what if the burglar had 
 no little boy? Did burglars ever have 
 little boys? . . . How could a man ever 
 be brave enough to be a burglar, in the 
 dead of night, crawling through windows 
 into pitch-dark rooms, . . . into little boys' 
 rooms, . . . crawling in stealthily with 
 pistols and false-faces and 1-lanterns? . . . 
 
 But That One was crawling in! Right 
 into your room, . . . right in over the win 
 dow-sill, . . . like a cat, . . . with a false- 
 face on, and pistols, loaded and pointed 
 right at you. . . . You tried to call; . . . 
 your voice was dried up in your throat, 
 ... and all the time He was coming 
 nearer, . . . nearer, . . . nearer . . . 
 
 "Bad dream, was it, little chap?" asked 
 the Council, holding you close to his coat, 
 all smoky of cigars, and patting your cheek. 
 136
 
 BAD DREAM, WAS IT, LITTLE CHAP?'
 
 Father 
 
 "F-father, where did he go?" 
 
 "Who go, my boy?" 
 
 "Why, the burglar, Father." 
 
 "There wasn't any burglar, child." 
 
 "Why, yes, Father. I saw him. Right 
 there. Coming through the window." 
 
 And it took Father and Mother and 
 two oatmeal crackers and a drink of water 
 to convince you that it was all a dream. 
 So whether it was in frightening burglars 
 away, or keeping the street-lamps burning, 
 or smoking cigars, or soothing a little boy 
 with a nightmare and a fevered head, the 
 Council was a useful body, and always 
 came just in time. 
 
 On week-day mornings Father had gone 
 to work when you came down-stairs, but 
 on Sunday mornings, when you awoke, a 
 trifle earlier if anything 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 137
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "Father!" a little louder. 
 
 Then a sleepy "Yes/' 
 
 "We want to get up." 
 
 "It isn't time yet. You children go to 
 sleep." 
 
 You waited. Then 
 
 "Father, is it time yet?" 
 
 "No. You children lie still." 
 
 So you and Lizbeth, wide-awake, whis 
 pered together; and then, to while away 
 the time while Father slept, you played 
 Indian, which required two little yells 
 from you to begin with (when the Indian 
 You arrived in your war-paint) and two 
 big yells from Lizbeth to end with (when 
 the Paleface She was being scalped). 
 
 Then Father said it was "no use," and 
 Mother took a hand. You were quiet after 
 that, but it was yawny lying there with 
 the sun so high. You listened. Not a 
 sound came from Father and Mother's 
 138
 
 room. You rose cautiously, you and Liz- 
 beth, in your little bare feet. You stole 
 softly across the floor. The door was a 
 crack open, so you peeked in, your face 
 even with the knob and Lizbeth's just 
 below. And then, at one and the same 
 instant, you both said " Boo!" and grinned ; 
 and the harder you grinned the harder 
 Father tried not to laugh, which was a 
 sign that you could scramble into bed with 
 him, you on one side and Lizbeth on the 
 other, cuddling down close while Mother 
 went to see about breakfast. 
 
 It was very strange, but while it had 
 been so hard to drowse in your own bed, 
 the moment you were in Father's you 
 did not want to get up at all. Indeed, it 
 was Father who wanted to get up first, 
 and it was you who cried that it was not 
 time. 
 
 Week-days were always best for most 
 139
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 things, but for two reasons Sunday was the 
 best day of all. One reason was Sunday 
 dinner. The other was Father. On Sun 
 day the dinner-table was always whitest 
 with clean linen and brightest with silver 
 and blue china and fullest of good things 
 to eat, and sometimes Company came and 
 brought their children with them. On Sun 
 day, too, there was no store to keep, and 
 Father could stay at home all day. 
 
 He came down to breakfast in slippers 
 and a beautiful, wide jacket, which was 
 brown to match the coffee he always took 
 three cups of, and the cigar which he smoked 
 afterwards in a big chair with his feet 
 thrust out on a little one. While he smoked 
 he would read the paper, and sometimes he 
 would laugh and read it out loud to Mother ; 
 and sometimes he would say, "That's so," 
 and lay down his paper and talk to Moth 
 er like the minister's sermon. And once 
 140
 
 Father 
 
 he talked so loudly that he said "Damn/' 
 Mother looked at you, for you were listening, 
 and sent you for her work-basket up-stairs. 
 After that, when you talked loudest to Liz- 
 beth or the Jones boy, you said "Damn," 
 too, like Father, till Mother overheard you 
 and explained that only fathers and grand 
 fathers and bad little boys ever said such 
 things. It wasn't a pretty word, she said, 
 for nice little boys like you. 
 
 "But, Mother, if the bad little boys say 
 it, why do the good fathers say it hm?" 
 
 Mother explained that, too. Little boys 
 should mind their mothers, she said. 
 
 It was easy enough not to say the word 
 when you talked softly, but when you 
 talked loudest it was hard to remember 
 what Mother said. For when you talked 
 softly, somehow, you always remembered 
 Mother, and when you talked loudly it 
 was Father you remembered best. 
 141
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 The sun rose high and warm. It was a 
 long time after breakfast. Fragrance came 
 from the kitchen to where you sat in the 
 library, all dressed-up, looking at picture- 
 books and waiting for dinner, and wonder 
 ing if there would be pie. Father was all 
 dressed-up, too, and while he read silently, 
 you and Lizbeth felt his cheeks softly with 
 your finger - tips. Where the prickers had 
 been at breakfast-time it was as smooth 
 as velvet now. Father's collar was as 
 white as snow. In place of his jacket he 
 wore his long, black Sunday coat, and in 
 his shoes you could almost see your face. 
 
 "Father's beautifulest on Sunday/' Liz 
 beth said. 
 
 "So am I," you said, proudly, looking 
 down your blouse and trousers to the shine 
 of your Sunday shoes. 
 
 "So are you, too," you added kindly to 
 Lizbeth, who was all in white and curls. 
 142
 
 Father 
 
 Then you drew a little chair beside 
 Father's and sat, quiet and very straight, 
 with your legs crossed carelessly like his 
 and an open book like his in your lap. 
 And when Father changed his legs, you 
 changed your legs, too. Lizbeth looked 
 at you two awhile awesomely. Then she 
 brought her little red chair and sat beside 
 you with the Aladdin book on her lap, 
 but she did not cross her legs. And so 
 you sat there, all three, clean and dressed- 
 up and beautiful, by the bay-window, while 
 the sun lay warm and golden on the library 
 rug, and sweeter and sweeter grew the 
 kitchen smells. 
 
 Then dinner came, and the last of it was 
 best because it was sweetest, and if Com 
 pany were not there you cried: 
 
 "It's going to be pie to-day, isn't it, 
 Mother?" 
 
 But Mother would only smile mysterious- 
 143
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 ly while the roast was carried away. Then 
 Lizbeth guessed. 
 
 "It's pudding/' she said. 
 
 " No, pie," you cried again, " 'cause yes 
 terday was pudding." 
 
 "Now, Father, you guess," said Lizbeth. 
 
 "I guess?" 
 
 "Yes, Father." 
 
 And at that Father would knit his brows 
 and put one finger to one side of his nose, 
 so that he could think the harder, and by- 
 and-by he would say : 
 
 "I know. I'll bet it's custard." 
 
 "Oh no, Father," you broke in, for you 
 liked pie best, and even to admit the 
 possibility of custard, aloud, might make 
 it come true. 
 
 "Then it's lemon jelly with cream," 
 said Father, trying another finger to his 
 nose and pondering deeply. 
 
 "Oh, you only have one guess," cried 
 144
 
 Father 
 
 you and Lizbeth together, and Father, cor 
 nered, stuck to the jelly and cream. 
 
 "Oh, dear," Lizbeth said, "I don't see 
 what good it does to brush off the crumbs 
 in the middle of dinner." 
 
 Silence fell upon the table, you and Liz 
 beth holding Father's outstretched hands. 
 Your eyes were wide, the better to see. 
 Your lips were parted, the better, doubt 
 less, to hear. Only Mother was serene, for 
 only Mother knew. And then through the 
 stillness came the sound of rattling plates. 
 
 "Pie," you whispered. 
 
 "Pudding," whispered Lizbeth. 
 
 "Jelly," whispered Father, hoarsely. 
 
 The door swung open. You rose in 
 your seats, you and Lizbeth and Father, 
 craning your necks to see, and, seeing 
 
 "Pie!" you cried, triumphantly. 
 
 "Ah!" said Father, lifting his pie-crust 
 gayly with the tip of his fork. 
 145
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "Apples," you said, peeping under your 
 crust. 
 
 "Apples, my son? Apples? Why, no. 
 Bless my soul ! As I live, this is a robber's 
 cave filled with sacks of gold." 
 
 "Oh, Father!" you cried, incredulous, 
 not knowing how to take him yet; but 
 you peeped again, and under your pie 
 crust it was like a cave, and the little slices 
 of juicy apple lay there like sacks of gold. 
 
 "And see!" said Father, pointing with 
 his fork, "there is the entrance to the 
 cave, and when the policemen chased the 
 robbers pop! they went, right into their 
 hole, like rabbits." 
 
 And sure enough, in the upper crusts 
 were the little cuts through which the 
 robbers popped. Your eyes widened. 
 
 "And oh, Father," you said, "the smoke 
 can come out through the little holes when 
 the robbers build their fire." 
 146
 
 Father 
 
 " Aha ! " cried Father, fiercely. " I'm the 
 policeman breaking into the cave while 
 the robbers are away," and he took a bite. 
 
 " And I'm another policeman/' you cried, 
 catching the spirit of the thing and taking 
 a bigger bite than Father's. 
 
 "And I'm a policeman's wife coming 
 along, too," said Lizbeth, helping herself, 
 so that Mother said: 
 
 "John, John, how am I ever going to 
 teach these children table manners when " 
 
 "But see, Mother, see!" Father explain 
 ed, taking another bite, and ignoring Moth 
 er's eyes. " If we don't get the gold away 
 the robbers will come back and " 
 
 "Kill us!" you broke in. 
 
 "Yes, kill us, Mother!" shouted Father, 
 balancing another sack of gold on the end 
 of his fork. " Yes, yes, Mother, don't you 
 see?" 
 
 "I see," said Mother, just between laugh 
 147
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 and frown, and when the robbers came 
 back around the coffee-pot hill, lo! there 
 was no gold or cave awaiting them only 
 three plates scraped clean, and two jubilant 
 policemen and a policeman's wife, full of 
 gold. 
 
 And when Father was Father again, 
 leaning on the back of Mother's chair, 
 she said to him, "You're nothing but a 
 great big boy," so that Father chuckled, 
 his cheek against hers and his eyes shin 
 ing. That was the way with Father. Six 
 days he found quite long enough to be a 
 man; so on Sunday he became a boy. 
 
 The gate clicked behind you, Father in 
 the middle and you and Lizbeth holding 
 each a hand, and keeping step with him 
 when you could, running a little now and 
 then to catch up again. Your steps were 
 always longest on Sunday when you 
 walked with Father, and even Lizbeth 
 148
 
 Father 
 
 knew you then for a little man, and peeked 
 around Father's legs to see you as you 
 strode along. Father was proud of you, 
 too, though he did not tell you. He just 
 told other people when he thought you 
 could not hear. 
 
 "Little pitchers have big ears/' Mother 
 would warn him then, but you heard quite 
 plainly out of one ear, and it was small 
 at that. 
 
 Everybody looked as you three went 
 down the shady street together, and the 
 nice young ladies gave you smiles and 
 the nice old ladies gave you flowers, hand 
 ing them out to you over their garden walls. 
 
 "Thank you. My name is Harry/' 
 you said. 
 
 "And I'm Lizbeth," said little sister. 
 And as you passed on your stride grew 
 longer and your voice sank bigger and 
 deeper in your throat, like Father's. 
 149
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 But it wasn't the town you liked best 
 to walk in with Father in the long, warm 
 Sunday afternoons. It was the river-side, 
 where the willows drooped over the running 
 waters, and the grass was deepest and 
 greenest and waved in the sun. On the 
 meadow -bank at the water's silver edge 
 you sat down together. 
 
 " Who can hear the most?" asked Father. 
 
 You listened. 
 
 "I hear the river running over the log," 
 you said, softly. 
 
 "And the birds," whispered Lizbeth. 
 
 "And the wind in the willows," said 
 Father. 
 
 "And the cow -bells tinkling way, way 
 off," you added, breathlessly. 
 
 "Oh, and I hear the grass whispering," 
 said Lizbeth. 
 
 "And oh, a bee," you cried. 
 
 "And something else," said Father. 
 150
 
 ' ' FATHER, WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU 
 DON'T SAY ANYTHING, BUT JUST LOOK?' '
 
 Father 
 
 You held your breath and listened. 
 From the distant village the wind blew 
 you faintly the sound of 
 
 "Church-bells/' cried you and Lizbeth 
 together. 
 
 You fell to playing in the long grass. 
 Lizbeth gathered daisies for Mother. You 
 lay with your face just over the river-bank, 
 humming a little song and gazing down 
 into the mirror of the waters. You won 
 dered how it would feel to be a little boy- 
 fish, darting in and out among the river 
 grasses. 
 
 By-and-by you went back to Father and 
 sat beside him with your cheek against his 
 arm. 
 
 "Father." 
 
 "Yes/' 
 
 "What do you think when you don't 
 say anything, but just look?" 
 "When I just look?" 
 151
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "Yes. Do you think what I do?" 
 
 "Well, what do you think?" 
 
 "Why, I think I'd like to be a big man 
 like you and wear a long coat, and take 
 my little boy and girl out walking. Did 
 you think that, Father?" 
 
 " No. I was thinking how nice it would 
 be just to be a little boy again like you 
 and go out walking by the river with my 
 father." 
 
 "Oh, Father, how funny! I wanted 
 to be you and you wanted to be me. I 
 guess people always want to be some 
 body else when they just look and don't 
 say anything." 
 
 "What makes you think that, my boy?" 
 
 "Well, there's Grandmother. She sits 
 by the window all day long and just looks 
 and looks, and wishes she was an angel 
 with Grandfather up in the sky." 
 
 "And Lizbeth?" 
 
 152
 
 Father 
 
 "Oh, Lizbeth wishes she was Mother." 
 
 "And how about Mother? Does she 
 wish she were somebody else, do you 
 think?" 
 
 "Oh no, Father, she doesn't, 'cause 
 then she wouldn't have me and Lizbeth. 
 Besides, she don't have time to just sit 
 and look, Mother don't." 
 
 Your eyes were big and shining. Father 
 just looked and looked a long time. 
 
 "And what do you think now, Father?" 
 
 "I was thinking of Mother waiting for 
 you and Lizbeth and Father, and wonder 
 ing why we don't come home." 
 
 And almost always after that, when 
 you went out walking with Father, Sun 
 days, Mother went with you. It seemed 
 strange at first, but fine, to have her sit 
 with you on the river-bank and just look 
 and look and look, smiling but never say 
 ing a word; and though you asked her 
 153
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 many times what she thought about as 
 she sat there dreaming, she was never 
 once caught wishing that she were anybody 
 but her own self. She was happy, she 
 told you; but while it was you she told, 
 she would be looking at Father. 
 
 Oh, it was golden in the morning glow, 
 when you were a little boy. But clouds 
 skurried across the sky black clouds, 
 storm clouds casting their chill and 
 shadow for a while over all Our Yard, 
 darkening Our House, so that a little boy 
 playing on the hearth-rug left his toy sol 
 dier prostrate there to wander, wondering, 
 from room to room. 
 
 "Mother, why doesn't Father play with 
 us like he used to?" 
 
 "Mother, why do you sew and sew and 
 sew all the time? Hm, Mother?" 
 
 All through the long evenings till bed 
 time came, and long afterwards, Father 
 154
 
 Father 
 
 and Mother talked low together before the 
 fire. The murmur of their voices down 
 stairs was the last thing you heard before 
 you fell asleep. It sounded like the brook 
 in the meadow where the little green frogs 
 lived, hopping through water-rings. 
 
 Of those secret conferences by the fire 
 you could make nothing at all. Mother 
 stopped you whenever you drew near. 
 
 "Run away, dear, and play." 
 
 You frowned and sidled off as far as 
 the door, lingering wistfully. 
 
 "Father, the Jones boy made fun of 
 me to-day. He called me Patchy-pants." 
 
 "Never mind what the Jones boy says," 
 Mother broke in; but Father said, "He 
 ought to have a new pair, Mother." You 
 brightened at that. 
 
 "The Jones boy's got awful nice pants," 
 you said; "all striped like a zebra." 
 
 Father smiled a little at that. Mother 
 155
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 looked down at her sewing, saying never 
 a word. That night you dreamed you 
 had new pants, all spotted like a leopard, 
 and you were proud, for every one knows 
 that a leopard could whip a zebra, once 
 he jumped upon his back. 
 
 Leaning on the garden fence, the Jones 
 boy watched you as you sprinkled the gera 
 niums with your little green watering-can. 
 
 "Where'd you get it?" he asked. 
 
 "Down at my father's store/' you re 
 plied, loftily, for the Jones boy had no 
 watering-can. 
 
 "Your father hasn't got a store any 
 more." 
 
 "He has, too," you replied. 
 
 "He hasn't, either, 'cause my pa says 
 he hasn't." 
 
 "I don't care what your pa says. My 
 father has, too, got a store." 
 
 "He hasn't." 
 
 156
 
 Father 
 
 "He has." 
 
 "He hasn't, either." 
 
 "He has, teether." 
 
 "I say he hasn't." 
 
 "And I say he has/' you screamed, and 
 threw the watering-can straight at the 
 Jones boy. It struck the fence and the 
 water splashed all over him so that he re 
 treated to the road. There in a rage he 
 hurled stones at you. 
 
 " Your father hasn't got any 
 store any more old Patchy-pants 
 old Patchy-pants old " 
 
 And then suddenly the Jones boy fled, 
 and when you looked around there was 
 Father standing behind you by the gera 
 niums. 
 
 "Never mind what the Jones boy says," 
 
 he told you, and he was not angry with 
 
 you for throwing the watering-can. The 
 
 little green spout of it was broken when 
 
 157
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 you picked it up, but Father said he would 
 buy you a new one. 
 
 "To-morrow, Father?" 
 
 "No, not to-morrow some day." 
 
 You and Lizbeth, tumbling down-stairs 
 to breakfast, found Father sitting before 
 the fire. 
 
 "Father!" you cried, astonished, for it 
 was not Sunday, and though you ran to 
 him he did not hear you till you pounced 
 upon him in his chair. 
 
 "Oh, Father," you said, joyfully, "are 
 you going to stay home and play with us 
 all day?" 
 
 "Fa-ther!" cried Lizbeth. "Will you 
 play house with us?" 
 
 "Oh no, Father. Play store with us," 
 you cried. 
 
 "Don't bother Father," Mother said, 
 but Father just held you both in his arms 
 and would not let you go. 
 158
 
 Father 
 
 "No let them stay/' he said, and 
 Mother slipped away. 
 
 "Mother's got an awful cold," said Liz- 
 beth. "Her eyes" 
 
 "So has Father; only Father's cold is 
 in his voice," you said. 
 
 You scarcely waited to eat your break 
 fast before you were back again to Father 
 by the fire, telling him of the beautiful 
 games just three could play. But while 
 you were telling him the door -bell rang, 
 and there were two men with books un 
 der their arms, come to see Father. They 
 stayed with him all day long you could 
 hear them muttering in the library 
 and all day you looked wistfully at the 
 closed door, lingering there lest Father 
 should come out to play and find you gone. 
 
 He did not come out till dinner-time. 
 After dinner he walked in the garden alone. 
 He held a cigar in his clinched teeth. 
 159
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "Why don't you smoke the cigar, Fa 
 ther?" 
 
 He did not hear you. He just walked 
 up and down, up and down, with his eyes 
 on the ground and his hands thrust hard 
 into the pockets of his coat. 
 
 Mother watched him for a moment 
 through the window. Then with her own 
 hands she built a fire in the grate, for 
 the night was chill. Before it she drew 
 an easy-chair, and put Father's smoking- 
 jacket on the back of it and set his slip 
 pers to warm against the fender. On a 
 reading - table near by she laid the little 
 blue china ash-traj^ you had given Father 
 for Christmas, and beside it a box of 
 matches ready for his hand. Then she 
 called him in. 
 
 He came and sat there before the fire, 
 saying nothing, but looking into the flames 
 looking, looking, till your mind ran back 
 1 60
 
 Father 
 
 to a Sunday afternoon in summer by the 
 river-side. 
 
 " I know what you are thinking, Father." 
 
 Slowly he turned his head to you, so 
 that you knew he was listening though 
 he did not speak. 
 
 "You're thinking how nice it would be, 
 Father, if you were a little boy like me." 
 
 He made no answer. Mother came and 
 sat on one of the arms of his chair, her 
 cheek against his hair. Lizbeth undressed 
 her dolls for the night, crooning a lullaby. 
 One by one you dropped your marbles 
 into their little box. Then you rose and 
 sat like Mother on an arm of Father's 
 chair. For a while you dreamed there, 
 drowsy, in the glow. 
 
 "Mother," you said, softly. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered back to you. 
 
 "Mother, isn't it fine?" you said. 
 
 "Fine, dearie?" 
 161
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 "Yes, Mother, everything . . . 'special- 
 
 ly-" 
 
 "Yes, sweetheart?" 
 
 " 'specially just having Father." 
 
 Father gave a little jump; seized you; 
 crushed you in his arms, stars shining 
 in his brimming eyes. 
 
 "Little chap little chap," he cried, but 
 could get no further, till by-and-by 
 
 "Mother," he said and his voice was 
 clear and strong "Mother, with a little 
 chap like that and two girls like you and 
 Lizbeth " 
 
 His voice caught, but he shook it free 
 again. 
 
 " any man could begin all over again 
 and win," he said.
 
 " ' MOTHER/ YOU SAID, SOFTLY "
 
 Mother
 
 Mother 
 
 you said. 
 
 "And what's that?" 
 
 "B." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 p\v^^\>g 
 
 "C." 
 
 You sat on Mother's lap. The wolf- 
 wind howled at the door, and you shud 
 dered, cuddling down in Mother's arms 
 and the glow. The wilder the wolf-wind 
 howled, the softer was the lamp -light, 
 the redder were the apples on the table, 
 the warmer was the fire. 
 
 On your knees lay the picture-book 
 with its sad, sad little tale. Mother read 
 165
 
 in the Morning Glow 
 
 it to you she had read it fifty times before 
 her face grave, her voice low and tragic, 
 while you listened with bated breath: 
 
 "Who killed Cock Robin? 
 'I/ said the Sparrow, 
 ' With my bow and arrow 
 I killed Cock Robin.' " 
 
 It was the first murder you had ever 
 heard about. You saw it all, the hideous 
 spectacle a beautiful, warm, red breast 
 pierced by that fatal dart a poor, soft 
 little birdie, dead, by an assassin's hand. 
 A lump rose in your throat. A tear rose 
 in your eye two tears, three tears. They 
 rolled down your cheek. They dropped, 
 hot and sad, on the fish with his little 
 dish, on the owl with his spade and trowel, 
 on the rook with his little book. 
 "P-poor Cock R-robinr 
 "There, there, dear. Don't cry." 
 166
 
 " THE PICTURE-BOOK '
 
 Mother 
 
 " But, M-mother the Sparrow he k-kill- 
 ed him." 
 
 Alas, yes ! The Sparrow had killed him, 
 for the book said so, but had you heard? 
 
 "N-no, w-what?" 
 
 The book, it seems, like other books, 
 had told but half the story. Mother knew 
 the other half. Cock Robin was murdered, 
 murdered in cold blood, it was true, but 
 merciful, death - winged arrow ! he 
 had gone where the good birds go. And 
 there joy ! he had met his robin 
 wife and his little robin boy, who had 
 gone before. 
 
 "And I expect they are all there now, 
 dear," she told you, kissing your tear- 
 stained cheek, "the happiest robins that 
 ever were." 
 
 Dry and wide were your eyes. In the 
 place where the good birds go, you saw 
 Cock Robin. His eyes and his fat, red 
 167
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 breast were bright again. He chirped. 
 He sang. He hopped from bough to bough, 
 with his robin wife and his little robin 
 boy. For in the mending of little stories 
 or the mending of little hearts, like the 
 mending of little stockings, Mother was 
 wonderful. 
 
 In those times there were knees to your 
 stockings, knees with holes in them at 
 the end of the day, with the soiled skin 
 showing through. 
 
 "Just look!" Mother would cry. "Just 
 look there! And I'd only just mended 
 them." 
 
 "Well, you see, Mother, when you play 
 Black Bear" 
 
 "I see," she said, and before you went 
 to bed you would be sitting on the edge 
 of a tub, paddling your feet in the water. 
 
 "You dirty boy," she would be saying, 
 scrubbing at the scratched, black knees; 
 168
 
 BEFORE YOU WENT TO BED
 
 .Mother 
 
 but when you were shining again she 
 would be saying 
 
 "You darling!" 
 
 And though your stockings were whole 
 in the clean of morning when you scam 
 pered out into the sun, in the dirt of night 
 when you scampered back again skein, 
 where is thy yarn? darning-needle, 
 where is thy victory? 
 
 Summer mornings, in the arbor - seat 
 of the garden, Mother would be sewing, 
 her lap brimming, her work-basket at 
 her feet, the sun falling golden through 
 the trellised green. In the nap of the 
 afternoon, when even the birds drowsed 
 and the winds slept, she would be sewing, 
 ever sewing. And when night fell and 
 the dishes were put away, she would be 
 sewing still, in the lamp-light's yellow 
 glow. 
 
 "Mother, why do you sew and sew?" 
 169
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "To make my little boy blue sailor 
 suits and my little girl white frocks, and 
 to stop the holes." 
 
 "Do you like to sew, Mother?" 
 
 "I don't mind it." 
 
 "But doesn't it make you tired, Moth 
 er?" 
 
 "Oh, now and then." 
 
 "But I should think you'd rest some 
 times, Mother." 
 
 "Should you, dear?" 
 
 "Yes, I would. Oh, I'd sew a little- 
 just enough and then I'd play." 
 
 "But Mother does sew just enough, and 
 it takes all day, my dear. What do you 
 say to that?" 
 
 You pondered. 
 
 "Well," you said, and stopped. 
 
 "Well?" she said, and laughed. Then 
 you laughed, too. 
 
 "A mother," you told them afterwards, 
 170
 
 Mother 
 
 "is a person what takes care of you, and 
 loves you, and sews and sews just enough 
 -all day." 
 
 Since mothers take care of little boys, 
 they told you, little boys should take care 
 of their mothers, too. So right in front 
 of her you stood, bravely, your fists clinch 
 ed, your lips trembling, your eyes flashing 
 with rage and tears. 
 
 "You sha'n't touch my mother!" 
 
 But Mother's arms stole swiftly around 
 you, pinning your own to your side. 
 
 "Father was only fooling, dear/' she 
 said, kneeling behind you and folding 
 you to her breast. "See, he's laughing 
 at us." 
 
 "Why, little chap," he said, "Father 
 was only playing." 
 
 Mother wiped away your tears, smiling 
 at them, but proudly. You looked doubt 
 fully at Father, who held out his arms to 
 171
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 you; then slowly you went to him, urged 
 by Mother's hand. 
 
 "You must always take care of Mother 
 like that/' he said, "and never let any one 
 hurther, or bother her, when Father's away. " 
 
 "Mother's little knight," she said, kiss 
 ing your brow. And ever afterwards she 
 was safe when you were near. 
 
 "Oh, that Mrs. Waddles. I wish she 
 wouldn't bother me." 
 
 Under her breath Mother said it, but 
 you heard, and you hated Mrs. Waddles 
 with all your soul, and her day of reckon 
 ing came. Mother was in the garden and 
 did not hear. You answered the knock 
 yourself. 
 
 "Little darling, how" 
 
 "You can't see my mother to-day," 
 you said, stiffly. 
 
 "That's very strange," said Mrs. Wad 
 dles, with a forward step. 
 172
 
 Mother 
 
 "No," you said, a little louder, throw 
 ing yourself into the breach and holding 
 the door-knob with all your might. " No ! 
 You mustn't come in!" 
 
 "You impertinent little child!" cried 
 Mrs. Waddles, threateningly, but you 
 faced her down, raising your voice 
 again : 
 
 "You can't see my mother any more," 
 you repeated, firmly. 
 
 "And why not, I'd like to know?" de 
 manded the old lady, swelling visibly. 
 "Why not, I'd like to know?" 
 
 "'Cause I'm to take care of my mother 
 when my father's away, and he said not 
 to let anybody bother her that she don't 
 want to see." 
 
 It was a long explanation and took all 
 your breath. 
 
 "Oh, is that it?" cackled Mrs. Waddles, 
 with withering scorn. "And how do you 
 173
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 know that your mother doesn't want to 
 see me hey?" 
 
 " 'Cause she said so ! ' ' 
 
 You separated your words like the ABC 
 book, that Mrs. Waddles might understand. 
 It was a master-stroke. Gasping, her face 
 on fire, gathering her skirts together with 
 hands that trembled in their black silk 
 mitts, Mrs. Waddles turned and swept away. 
 
 "I never!" she managed to utter as she 
 slammed the gate. 
 
 You shut the door softly, the battle won, 
 and went back to the garden. 
 
 "Well, that's over," you said, with a 
 sigh, as Mother herself would have said it. 
 
 "What's over, dear?" 
 
 "Mrs. Waddles," you replied. 
 
 So you took care of Mother so well that 
 
 she loved you more and more as the days 
 
 of your knighthood passed; and she took 
 
 care of you so well that your cheeks grew 
 
 174
 
 Mother 
 
 rosier and your eyes brighter and your 
 legs stronger, and you loved her more and 
 more with the days of her motherhood. 
 
 Even being sick was fine in those days, 
 for she brought you little things in bowls 
 with big spoons in them, and you ate till 
 you wanted more a sign that you would 
 not die. And so you lay in the soft of 
 the pillows, with the patchwork coverlet 
 that Mother made with her own hands. 
 There was the white silk triangle from 
 her wedding-gown, and a blue one from a 
 sash that was her Sunday best, long ago, 
 when she was a little girl. There was 
 a soft-gray piece from a dress of Grand 
 mother's, and a bright-pink one that was 
 once Lizbeth's, and a striped one, blue 
 and yellow, that was once Father's necktie 
 in the gay plumage of his youth. 
 
 As you lay there, sick and drowsy, the 
 bridal triangle turned to snow, cold and 
 175
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 white and pure, and you heard sleigh- 
 bells and saw the Christmas cards with 
 the little church in the corner, its steeple 
 icy, but its windows warm and red with 
 the Christmas glow. That was the white 
 triangle. But the blue one, next, was 
 sky, and when you saw it you thought 
 of birds and stars and May; and if it so 
 happened that your eyes turned to the 
 gray piece that was Grandmother's, and 
 the sky that was blue darkened and the 
 rain fell, you had only to look at the pink 
 piece that was Lizbeth's, or the blue and 
 yellow that was Father's, to find the flow 
 ers and the sun again. Then the colors 
 blended. Dandelions jingled, sleigh-bells 
 and violets blossomed in the snow, and you 
 slept the sleep that makes little boys well. 
 
 The bees and the wind were humming 
 in the cherry - trees, for it was May. You 
 176
 
 Mother 
 
 were all alone, you and Mother, in the 
 garden, where the white petals were fall 
 ing, silently, like snow - flakes, and the 
 birds were singing in the morning glow. 
 
 Your feet scampered down the paths. 
 Your curls bobbed among the budding 
 shrubs and vines. You leaped. You 
 laughed. You sang. In your wide eyes 
 blue of the great sky, green of the grasses. 
 On your flushed cheeks sunshine and 
 breeze. In your beating heart childhood 
 and spring a childhood too big, a spring 
 too wonderful, for the smallness of one 
 little, brimming boy. 
 
 "Look, Mother! See me jump." 
 
 "My!" she said. 
 
 "And see me almost stand on my head." 
 
 "Wonderful!" 
 
 "I know what I'll be when I grow to 
 be a man, Mother." 
 
 "What will you be?" 
 177
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "A circus-rider." 
 
 "Gracious!" said she. 
 
 "On a big, white horse, Mother." 
 
 "Dear me!" 
 
 "And we'll jump 'way over the moon, 
 Mother." 
 
 "The moon?" 
 
 "Yes, the moon. See!" 
 
 Then you jumped over the rake -han 
 dle. You were practising for the moon, you 
 said. 
 
 "But maybe I won't be a circus - rider, 
 Mother, after all." 
 
 "Maybe not," said she. 
 
 "Maybe I'll be President, like George 
 Washington. Father said I could. Could 
 I, Mother?" 
 
 "Yes you might some day." 
 
 "But the Jones boy couldn't, Mother." 
 
 "Why couldn't the Jones boy?" 
 
 "Because he swears and tells lies. I 
 178
 
 Mother 
 
 don't. And George Washington didn't, 
 Mother. I guess I won't be a circus-rider, 
 after all." 
 
 "Oh, I'm glad of that, dear." 
 
 "No, I guess I'll keep right on, Mother 
 as long as I've started and just be 
 President." 
 
 "Oh, that will be fine," said she. She 
 was sewing in the arbor, her lap filled with 
 linen, her work-basket at her feet. 
 
 "Mother." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I think I'd like to sing a song now." 
 
 Straight and proper you stood in the 
 little path, your heels together, your hands 
 at your side, and so you sang to her the 
 song of the little duck: 
 
 " ' Quack, quack/ said the Duck, 
 ' Quack, quack.' 
 ' Quack, quack/ said " 
 
 You stopped. 
 
 179
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 "Try it a little lower, dear." 
 " ' Quack, quack/ said " 
 
 "No, that's too low/' you said. You 
 tried again and started right that time 
 and sang it through, the song of the little 
 duck who 
 
 "'. . . wouldn't be a girl, 
 With only a curl, 
 I wouldn't be a girl, would you?' " 
 
 "Oh, it's beautiful," Mother said. 
 
 "Now it's your turn, Mother, to tell a 
 story." 
 
 "A story?" 
 
 "Yes. About the violets." 
 
 "The violets?" she said, poising her 
 needle, musingly. "The blue, blue vio 
 lets" 
 
 "As blue as the sky, Mother," you said, 
 softly, for it is always in the hush of the 
 garden that the stories grow. 
 180
 
 Mother 
 
 "As blue as the sky/' she said. "Ah, 
 yes. Well, once there wasn't a violet in 
 the whole world." 
 
 " Nor a single star," you said, awesome 
 ly, helping her. And as you sat there lis 
 tening the world grew wider and wider 
 for when you are a little boy the world is 
 always just as wide as your eyes. 
 
 "Not a violet or a single star in the 
 whole world," Mother went on. "And 
 what do you think? They just took little 
 bits of the blue sky and sprinkled them 
 all over the green world, and they were 
 the first violets." 
 
 "And the stars, Mother?" 
 
 "Why, don't you see? The stars are 
 the little holes they left in the blue sky, 
 with the light of heaven shining through." 
 
 " Oh!" you said, softly. " Oh, Mother!" 
 
 And then, in the hush of the garden, you 
 looked at her, and lo! her eyes were blue 
 181
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 like the violets, and bright like the stars, 
 for the light of heaven was shining through. 
 
 She was the most wonderful person in 
 the whole world who never did anything 
 wrong, who knew everything, even who 
 God was, watching, night and day, over 
 little boys. Even the hairs of your head 
 were numbered, she told you, and not a 
 little bird died but He knew. 
 
 "And did He know when Cock Robin 
 died, Mother?" 
 
 "Yes. He knew." 
 
 "And when I hurt my finger, Mother? 
 Did He know then?" 
 
 "Yes, He knows everything." 
 
 "And was He sorry, Mother, when I 
 hurt my finger?" 
 
 "Very sorry, dear." 
 
 " Then why did He let me hurt my fin 
 ger why?" 
 
 For a moment she did not speak. 
 182
 
 Mother 
 
 "Dearie," she said at last, "I don't 
 know. There are many things that no 
 body knows but God." 
 
 Hushed and wondering you sat in 
 Mother's lap, for His eye was upon you. 
 Somewhere up in the sky, above the 
 clouds, you knew He was sitting, on a 
 great, bright throne, with a gold crown 
 upon His head and a sceptre in His hand 
 King of Kings and Lord of All. Down 
 below Him on the green earth little birds 
 were falling, little boys were hurting their 
 fingers and crying in their Mothers' arms, 
 and He saw them all, every one, little 
 birds and little boys, but did not help them. 
 You crept closer to Mother's bosom, fling 
 ing your arms about her neck. 
 "Don't let Him get me, Mother!" 
 "Why, darling, He loves you." 
 "Oh no, Mother not like you do; not 
 like you." 
 
 183
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 The bees and the wind were in the apple- 
 trees, for it was May. You were all alone, 
 you and Mother, in the garden, where 
 the white petals were falling, like snow- 
 flakes, silently. In the swing Grandfather 
 built for you, you sat swaying, to and fro, 
 in the shadows; and the shadows swayed, 
 to and fro, in the gale ; and to and fro your 
 thoughts swayed in your dreaming. 
 
 The wind sang in the apple - boughs, 
 the flowering branches filled and bent, 
 and all about you were the tossing, shim 
 mering grasses, and all above you birds 
 singing and flitting in the sky. And so 
 you swayed, to and fro, till you were a 
 sailor, in a blue suit, sailing the blue 
 sea. 
 
 The wind sang in the rigging. The 
 
 white sails filled and bent. Your ship 
 
 scudded through the tossing, shimmering 
 
 foam. Gulls screamed and circled in the 
 
 184
 
 Mother 
 
 sky, . . . and so you sailed and sailed, 
 with the sea-breeze in your curls . . . 
 
 The ship anchored. 
 
 The swing stopped. 
 
 You were only a little boy. 
 
 "Mother," you said, softly, for your 
 voice was drowsy with your dream. 
 
 She did not hear you. She sat there 
 in the arbor-seat, smiling at you, her hands 
 idle, her sewing slipping from her knees. 
 You did not know it then, but you do now 
 that to see the most beautiful woman in 
 the whole world you must be her little 
 boy. 
 
 There in her garden, in her lap, with 
 her arms around you and her cheeks be 
 tween your hands, you gazed, wondering, 
 into the blue fondness of her eyes. You 
 saw her lips, forever smiling at you, forever 
 seeking your own. You heard her voice, 
 sweet with love-words 
 185
 
 In the Morning Glow 
 
 "My dearest." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My darling/' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "My own dear little boy." 
 
 And then her arms crushing you to 
 her breast; and then her lips; and then 
 her voice again 
 
 "Once in this very garden, in this very 
 seat, Mother sat dreaming of you." 
 
 "Of me, Mother?" 
 
 "Of you. Here in the garden, with 
 that very bush there red with blossoms, 
 and the birds singing in these very trees. 
 She dreamed that you were a little baby 
 a little baby, warm and soft in her arms 
 and while the wind sang to the flowers 
 Mother sang you a lullab} 7 , and you stretch 
 ed out your hands to her and smiled; and 
 then ah, darling !" 
 
 "But it was a dream, Mother." 
 186
 
 Mother 
 
 " It was only a dream yes but it came 
 true. It came true on a night in June 
 the First of June, it was " 
 
 "My birthday, Mother!" 
 
 "Your birthday, dear." 
 
 "Oh, Mother," you said, breathlessly 
 "what a beautiful dream!" 
 
 THE END
 
 BY ONOTO WATANNA 
 
 A JAPANESE NIGHTINGALE. A love 
 story of Japan. Full-page Drawings 
 in Color and unique Decorative Color 
 Borders on every page, by the well- 
 known Japanese artist GENJIRO YETO. 
 Crown 8vo, Ornamented Cloth, Deckel 
 Edges, Gilt Top (in a box), $2 oo net. 
 
 There could not easily be a more charming vol 
 ume to look at than this, nor a more delightfully 
 appealing romance to read. New York World. 
 
 An idyl of the author's homeland, delicate in 
 fancy and dainty in expression. Public Opinion. 
 
 The author and the artist together have pro 
 duced a charming work of art, as thoroughly imbued 
 with the Japanese spirit as a bit of old Satsuma. 
 Buffalo Express. 
 
 "A Japanese Nightingale " is one of the dain 
 tiest and most exquisite of love stories ; . . . indeed, 
 so exquisite is her art, and so delightful the humor 
 of her pages, that more than one critic has spoken 
 of the story as "A Japanese Kentucky Cardinal." 
 New York Journal. 
 
 It is full of poetry and charm Current Litera 
 ture. 
 
 A delicious vein of humor runs through the story, 
 especially in the love scenes, and the style is distinct 
 with the lyrical delicacy of Japanese thought. 
 Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 ICfp The above work will be sent by mail to any 
 part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on 
 receipt of the price. (Postage 15 cents.)
 
 BY ONOTO WAT ANNA 
 
 THE WOOING OF WISTARIA. Frontis 
 piece Portrait of Author. Post 8vo, 
 Ornamented Cloth, $i 50. 
 
 This novel is a new departure in fiction. It is a 
 strong, dramatic story of Japanese life by a Japan 
 ese author. The heroine, Wistaria, is a beautiful 
 Japanese girl whose father, a soldier of rank, is 
 cruelly wronged by a Prince of the reigning house. 
 The daughter, swearing to avenge her father, falls 
 in love with the son of the Prince without knowing 
 his rank or position. From this dramatic motive 
 the story is developed. It is not only a brilliant 
 novel, but it has all the charm that made such a 
 popular success of the author's first book, " A 
 Japanese Nightingale." 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 above work will be sent by mail, postage 
 prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, 
 or Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
 BY ANTHONY HOPE 
 
 THE INTRUSIONS OF PEGGY. Illus 
 trated. Post 8vo, Ornamented Cloth, 
 $i 50. 
 
 This is a novel with the interest of " Zenda " 
 and the wit of the " Dolly Dialogues." It is a story 
 of social and political life in London. A young 
 widow goes to London to see life and make her 
 way in the social world. She falls in with 
 " Peggy," a most interesting character, pretty, 
 attractive, ingenuous, and Bohemian. They meet 
 with many adventures, most of which centre 
 around a decidedly novel and interesting love in 
 terest. Peggy's " intrusions " into the happiness 
 of herself and her friends is one of the motives of a 
 novel as interesting in story as it is bright and 
 unusual in dialogue. 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 above work will be sent by mail, postage 
 prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, 
 or Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
 BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 
 
 THE MAID-AT-ARMS. Illustrated by 
 Howard Chandler Christy. Post 8vo, 
 Ornamented Cloth, $i 50. 
 
 Mr. Chambers has long since won a most en 
 viable position among contemporary novelists. 
 The great popular success of " Cardigan " makes 
 this present novel of unusual interest to all readers 
 of fiction. It is a stirring novel of American life 
 in days just after the Revolution. It deals with 
 the conspiracy of the great New York land-owners 
 and the subjugation of New York Province to the 
 British. It is a story with a fascinating love in 
 terest, and is alive with exciting incident and ad 
 venture. Some of the characters of " Cardigan " 
 reappear in this new novel. 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 above work will be sent by mail, postage 
 prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, 
 or Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
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