Chapter IX: Getting the Author’s Mood (3)

Mr. Man plunged into his shirt. “Gad, no buttons on the neck!”

“Because you have it on wrong side out.”

When his head came through the clock struck ten. “Where’s my shirt studs?”

“In the shirt you just pulled off.” Mrs. Man put on her gloves while Mr. Man hunted up and down the room for his cuff buttons.

“Elinor, I believe you must know where those buttons are.”

“I didn’t see them. Didn’t you leave them on the window-sill in the living-room last night?”

Mr. Man remembered, and down the stairs he flew. He stepped on one of his boots and was immediately landed at the foot of the stairs with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmission with more bumps than he could count.

“Are you nearly ready, dear?”

The unhappy man groaned. “Can’t you throw me down my other boot?”

Mrs. Man pitifully kicked it down to him.

“My valise?”

“In your dressing-room.”

“Packed?”

“I do not know; unless you packed it yourself probably not. I had hardly time to pack my own.” She was passing out of the gate when the door opened and he shouted: “Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest? It has all my money in it.”

“You threw it on the hatrack; good-by, dear.”

Before she reached the corner of the street she was hailed again.

“Elinor! Elinor Man! Did you wear off my coat?”

She paused after signaling the street car to stop, and cried: “You threw it on the silver-closet,” and the street car engulfed her graceful form and she was seen no more.

But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Man charging up and down the house, rushing out to the front door every now and then and shrieking up the deserted street after the unconscious Mrs. Man to know where his hat was and where did she put the valise key, and that there wasn’t a linen collar in the house.

And when he went away at last he left the front door, the kitchen door, and side door, all the down-stairs windows and front gate wide open, and the loungers around the station were somewhat amused, just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, perspiring man with his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned, necktie flying, and his grip flapping open and shut like a demented shutter on a March night, and a doorkey in his hand, dash wildly across the platform and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impatient, wrathful mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at the pretty woman who was throwing kisses at him from the rear platform of the last car.

“A fair field and no favors, my dear!”

A STARTLING ADVENTURE

BY J. ROSS BROWNE

I descended several of these shafts rather to oblige my friend, the Judge, than to satisfy any curiosity I had on the subject myself. This thing of being dropped down two hundred feet into the bowels of the earth in wooden buckets, and hoisted out by blind horses attached to “whims,” may be very amusing to read about, but I have enjoyed pleasanter modes of locomotion. There was one shaft in particular that left an indelible impression upon my mind—so much so, indeed, that I am astonished every hair in my head is not quite gray. It was in the San Antonia, a mine in which the Judge held an interest in connection with a worthy Norwegian by the name of Jansen. As I had traveled in Norway, Jansen was enthusiastic in his devotion to my enjoyment—declared he would go down with me himself and show me everything worth seeing—even to the lower level just opened. While I was attempting to frame an excuse the honest Norwegian had lighted a couple of candles, given directions to one of the “boys” to look out for the old blind horse attached to the “whim” and now stood ready at the mouth of the shaft to guide me into the subterranean regions.

“Mr. Jansen,” said I, looking with horror at the rickety wooden bucket and the flimsy little rope that was to hold us suspended between the surface of the earth and eternity, “is that rope strong?”

“Well, I think it’s strong enough to hold us,” replied Jansen; “it carries a ton of ore. We don’t weigh a ton, I guess.”

“But the bucket looks fearfully battered. And who can vouch that the old horse won’t run away and let us down by the run?”

“Oh, sir, he’s used to it. That horse never runs. You see, he’s fast asleep now. He sleeps all along on the down turn. It’s the up turn that gets him.”

“Mr. Jansen,” said I, “all that may be true; but suppose the bucket should catch and drop us out?”

“Well, sometimes it catches; but nobody’s been hurt bad yet; one man fell fifteen feet perpendicular. He lit on the top of his head.”

“Wasn’t he killed?”

“No; he was only stunned a little. There was a buzzing about among his brains for a few days after; he’s at work down below now, as well as ever.”

“Mr. Jansen, upon the whole I think I’d rather go down by the ladder, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Certainly, sir, suit yourself; only the ladder’s sort o’ broke in spots, and you’ll find it a tolerably hard climb down; how-so-ever, I’ll go ahead and sing out when I come to bad places.”

With this the Norwegian disappeared. I looked down after him. The shaft was about four feet square; rough, black and dismal, with a small, flickering light, apparently a thousand feet below, making the darkness visible. It was almost perpendicular; the ladders stood against the near side, perched on ledges or hanging together by means of chafed and ragged-looking ropes. I regretted that I had not taken Jansen’s advice and committed myself to the bucket; but it was now too late. With a hurried glance at the bright world around me, a thought of home and unhappy conditions of widows and orphans, as a general thing, I seized the rungs of the ladder and took the irrevocable dive. Down I crept, rung after rung, ladder after ladder, in the black darkness, with the solid walls of rock pressing the air close around me. Sometimes I heard the incoherent muttering of voices below, but could make nothing of them. Perhaps Jansen was warning me of breaks in the ladder; perhaps his voice was split up by the rocks and sounded like many voices; or it might be there were gnomes whisking about in the dark depths below. Down and still down I crept, slower and slower, for I was getting tired, and I fancied there might be poisonous gases in the air. When I had reached the depth of a thousand feet, as it seemed, but about a hundred and forty as it was in reality, the thought occurred to me that I was beginning to get alarmed. In truth I was shaking like a man with the ague. Suppose I should become nervous and lose my hold on the ladder? The very idea was enough to make me shaky. There was an indefinite extent of shaft underneath, black, narrow and scraggy, with a solid base of rock at the bottom. I did not wonder that it caused a buzzing of the brain to fall fifteen feet and light on top of the head. My brain was buzzing already, and I had not fallen yet. But the prospect to that effect was getting better and better every moment, for I was now quite out of breath, and had to stop and cling around the ladder to avoid falling. The longer I stood this way the more certain it became that I should lose my balance and topple over. With a desperate effort I proceeded, step after step, clinging desperately to the frail wood-work as the drowning man clings to a straw, gasping for breath, the cold sweat streaming down my face, and my jaws chattering audibly. The breaks in the ladder were getting fearfully common. Sometimes I found two rungs gone, sometimes six or seven, and then I had to slide down by the sides till my feet found a resting-place on another rung or some casual ledge of rock. To Jansen, or the miners who worked down in the shaft every day, all of this, of course, was mere pastime. They knew every break and resting-place; and besides, familiarity with any particular kind of danger blunts the sense of it. I am confident that I could make the same trip now without experiencing any unpleasant sensation. By good fortune I at length reached the bottom of the shaft, where I found my Norwegian friend and some three or four workmen quietly awaiting my arrival. A bucket of ore, containing some five or six hundred pounds, was ready to be hoisted up. It was very nice-looking ore, and very rich ore, as Jansen assured me; but what did I care about ore till I got the breath back again into my body?

“Stand from under, sir,” said Jansen, dodging into a hole in the rocks; “a chunk of ore might fall out, or the bucket might give way.”

Stand from under? Where in the name of sense was a man to stand in such a hole as this, not more than six or eight feet square at the base, with a few dark chasms in the neighborhood through which it was quite possible to be precipitated into the infernal regions? However, I stood as close to the wall as was possible without backing clean into it. The bucket of ore having gone up out of sight, I was now introduced to the ledge upon which the men were at work. It was about four feet thick, clearly defined, and apparently rich in the precious metals. In some specimens which I took out myself gold was visible to the naked eye. The indications of silver were also well marked. This was at a depth of a hundred and seventy-five feet. At the bottom of this shaft there was a loose flooring of rafters and planks.

“If you like,” said Jansen, “we’ll go down here and take a look at the lower drift. They’ve just struck the ledge about forty feet below.”

“Are the ladders as good as those above, Mr. Jansen?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes, sir; they’re all good; some of the lower ones may be busted a little with the blastin’; but there’s two men down there. Guess they got down somehow.”

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Jansen, I’m not curious about the lower drift. You can show me some specimens of the ore, and that will be quite satisfactory.”

“Yes, sir, but I’d like you to see the vein where the drift strikes it. It’s really beautiful.”

A beautiful sight down in this region was worth looking at, so I succumbed. Jansen lifted up the planks, told the men to cover us well up as soon as we had disappeared, in order to keep the ore from the upper shaft from tumbling on our heads, and then, diving down, politely requested me to follow. I had barely descended a few steps when the massive rafters and planks were thrown across overhead and thus all exit to the outer world was cut off. There was an oppressive sensation in being so completely isolated from the outside world—barred out, as it were, from the surface of the earth. Yet how many there are who spend half their lives in such a place for a pittance of wages which they squander in dissipation! Surely it is worth four dollars a day to work in these dismal holes.

Bracing my nerves with such thoughts as these, I scrambled down the rickety ladders till the last rung seemed to have disappeared. I probed about with a spare leg for a landing place, but could touch neither top, bottom nor sides. The ladder was apparently suspended in space like Mohammed’s coffin.

“Come on, sir,” cried the voice of Jansen far down below. “They’re going to blast.”

Pleasant, if not picturesque, to be hanging by two arms and one leg to a ladder, squirming about in search of a foothold, while somebody below was setting fire to a fuse with the design, no doubt, of blowing up the entire premises!

“Mr. Jansen,” said I, in a voice of unnatural calmness, while the big drops of agony stood on my brow, “there’s no difficulty in saying ‘Come on, sir!’ but to do it without an inch more of ladder or anything else that I can see, requires both time and reflection. How far do you expect me to drop?”

“Oh, don’t you let go, sir. Just hang on to that rope at the bottom of the ladder, and let yourself down.”

I hung on as directed and let myself down. It was plain sailing enough to one who knew the chart. The ladder, it seemed, had been broken by a blast of rocks; and now there was to be another blast. We retired into a convenient hole about ten or a dozen paces from the deposit of Hazard’s powder. The blast went off with a dead reverberation, causing a concussion in the air that affected one like a shock of galvanism; and then there was a diabolical smell of brimstone. Jansen was charmed at the result. A mass of the ledge was burst clean open. He grasped up the blackened fragments of quartz, licked them with his tongue, held them up to the candle, and constantly exclaimed: “There, sir, there! Isn’t it beautiful? Did you ever see anything like it?—pure gold, almost—here it is!—don’t you see it?”

I suppose I saw it; at all events I put some specimens in my pocket, and saw them afterward out in the pure sunlight, where the smoke was not so dense; and it is due to the great cause of truth to say that gold was there in glittering specks, as if shaken over it from a pepper-box.

Having concluded my examination of the mine, I took the bucket as a medium of exit, being fully satisfied with the ladders. About half-way up the shaft the iron swing or handle to which the rope was attached caught in one of the ladders. The rope stretched. I felt it harden and grow thin in my hands. The bucket began to tip over. It was pitch dark all around. Jansen was far below, coming up the ladder. Something seemed to be creaking, cracking, or giving way. I felt the rough, heavy sides of the bucket press against my legs. A terrible apprehension seized me that the gear was tangled and would presently snap. In the pitchy darkness and the confusion of the moment I could not conjecture what was the matter. I darted out my hands, seized the ladder and, jerking myself high out of the bucket, clambered up with the agility of an acrobat. Relieved of my weight, the iron catch came loose, and up came the bucket banging and thundering after me with a velocity that was perfectly frightful. Never was there such a subterranean chase, I verily believe, since the beginning of the world. To stop a single moment would be certain destruction, for the bucket was large, heavy and massively bound with iron, and the space in the shaft was not sufficient to admit of its passing without crushing me flat against the ladder.

But such a chase could not last long. I felt my strength give way at every lift. The distance was too great to admit the hope of escape by climbing. My only chance was to seize the rope above the bucket and hang on to it. This I did. It was a lucky thought—one of those thoughts that sometimes flash upon the mind like inspiration in a moment of peril. A few more revolutions of the “whim” brought me so near the surface that I could see the bucket only a few yards below my feet. The noise of the rope over the block above reminded me that I had better slip down a little to save my hands, which I did in good style, and was presently landed on the upper crust of the earth, all safe and sound, though somewhat dazzled by the light and rattled by my subterranean experiences.—From “Adventures in the Apache Country,” published by _Harper & Brothers_, New York, and used by their kind permission.

HOW CY HOPKINS GOT A SEAT

BY MARSHALL P. WILDER

In one of the country stores where they sell everything from a silk dress and a tub of butter to a hot drink and a cold meal, a lot of farmers were sitting around the stove one cold day, when in came Farmer Evans, who was greeted with:

“How d’do, Ezry?”

“How d’do boys?” After awhile he continued: “Wa-all, I’ve killed my hog.”

“That so? How much did he weigh?”

Farmer Evans stroked his chin whiskers meditatively and replied: “Wa-all, guess.”

“’Bout three hundred,” said one farmer.

“No.”

“Two seventy-five,” ventured another.

“No.”

“I guess about three twenty-five,” said a third.

“No.”

Then all together demanded: “Well, how much did he weigh?”

“Dunno. Hain’t weighed him yet.”

Other men kept dropping in and hugging the stove, for the day was cold and snowy outside. In came Cy Hopkins, wrapped in a big overcoat, yet almost frozen to death; but there wasn’t room enough around that stove to warm his little finger.

But he didn’t get mad about it; he just said to Bill Stebbins who kept the stove: “Bill, got any raw oysters?”

“Yes, Cy.”

“Well, just open a dozen and feed ’em to my hoss.”

Well, Stebbins never was scared by an order from a man whose credit was good as Cy’s was, so he opened the oysters and took them out, an’ the whole crowd followed to see a horse eat oysters. Then Cy picked out the best seat near the stove and dropped into it as if he had come to stay, as he had.

Pretty soon the crowd came back, and the storekeeper said: “Why, Cy, your hoss won’t eat them oysters.”

“Won’t he? Well, then, bring ’em here an’ I’ll eat ’em myself.”—From “The Sunny Side of the Street.” Published and copyrighted by _Funk & Wagnalls Co._, and used by their kind permission and that of the author.

AN OVERWORKED RECITER

Once there was a little boy whose name was Robert Reece,
And every Friday afternoon he had to say a piece,
So many poems thus he learned that soon he had a store
Of recitations in his head, and still kept learning more.
And now this is what happened: He was called upon one week,
And totally forgot the piece he was about to speak!
His brain he cudgeled. Not a word remained within his head,
And he spoke at random, and this is what he said:

“My beautiful, my beautiful, who standest proudly by.
It was the schooner Hesperus—the breaking waves dashed high!
Why is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Rome?
Under the spreading chestnut tree there is no place like home!
When Freedom from her mountain height cried, Twinkle, little star;
Shoot if you must this old gray head, King Henry of Navarre!
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue castled crag of Drachenfels;
My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills, ring out, wild bells!
If you’re waking call me early, To be or not to be!
The curfew must not ring to-night! Oh, woodman, spare that tree!
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on! And let who will be clever,
The boy stood on the burning deck, but I go on forever!”

His elocution was superb, his voice and gesture fine;
His schoolmates all applauded as he finished the last line.
“I see it doesn’t matter,” Robert thought, “What words I say,
So long as I declaim with oratorical display!”

—_London Tid-Bits._

SETTLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

Strangers visiting the beautiful city of Burlington have not failed to notice that one of the handsomest young men they meet is very bald, and they fall into the usual error of attributing this premature baldness to dissipation. But such is not the case. This young man, one of the most exemplary Bible-class scholars in the city, went to a Baptist sociable out on West Hill one night about two years ago. He escorted three charming girls, with angelic countenances and human appetites, out to the refreshment table, let them eat all they wanted, and then found he had left his pocketbook at home, and a deaf man that he had never seen before at the cashier’s desk. The young man, with his face aflame, bent down and said softly,

“I am ashamed to say I have no change with—”

“Hey?” shouted the cashier.

“I regret to say,” the young man repeated on a little louder key, “that I have unfortunately come away without any change to—”

“Change two?” chirped the old man. “Oh, yes, I can change five if you want it.”

“No,” the young man explained in a terrible, penetrating whisper, for half-a-dozen people were crowding up behind him, impatient to pay their bills and get away, “I don’t want any change, because—”

“Oh, don’t want no change?” the deaf man cried, gleefully. “’Bleeged to ye, ’bleeged to ye. ’Tain’t often we get such generous donations. Pass over your bill.”

“No, no,” the young man explained, “I have no funds—”

“Oh, yes, plenty of fun,” the deaf man replied, growing tired of the conversation and noticing the long line of people waiting with money in their hands, “but I haven’t got time to talk about it now. Settle and move on.”

“But,” the young man gasped out, “I have no money—”

“Go Monday?” queried the deaf cashier. “I don’t care when you go; you must pay and let these other people come up.”

“I have no money!” the mortified young man shouted, ready to sink into the earth, while the people all around him, and especially the three girls he had treated, were giggling and chuckling audibly.

“Owe money?” the cashier said, “of course you do; $2.75.”

“I can’t pay!” the youth screamed, and by turning his pocket inside out and yelling his poverty to the heavens, he finally made the deaf man understand. And then he had to shriek his full name three times, while his ears fairly rang with the half-stifled laughter that was breaking out all around him; and he had to scream out where he worked, and roar when he would pay, and he couldn’t get the deaf man to understand him until some of the church members came up to see what the uproar was, and recognizing their young friend, made it all right with the cashier. And the young man went out into the night and clubbed himself, and shred his locks away until he was bald as an egg.

SODDING AS A FINE ART

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

One day, early in the spring, Mr. Blosberg, who lives out on Ninth Street, made up his mind that he would sod his front yard himself, and when he had formed this public-spirited resolution, he proceeded to put it into immediate execution. He cut his sod, in righteous and independent and liberty-loving disregard of the ridiculous city ordinance in relation thereto, from the patches of verdure that the cows had permitted to obtain a temporary growth along the side of the street, and proceeded to beautify his front yard therewith. Just as he had laid the first sod, Mr. Thwackery, his next door neighbor, passed by.

“Good land, Blosberg,” he shouted, “you’ll never be able to make anything of such a sod as that. Why, it’s three inches too thick. That sod will cake up and dry like a brick. You want to shave at least two inches and a half off the bottom of it, so the roots of the grass will grow into the ground and unite the sod with the earth. That sod is thick enough for a corner stone.”

So Mr. Blosberg took the spade and shaved the sod down until it was thin and about as pliable as a buckwheat cake, and Mr. Thwackery pronounced it all right and sure to grow, and passed on. Just as Mr. Blosberg got it laid down the second time, old Mr. Templeton, who lived on the next block, came along and leaned on the fence, intently observing the sodder’s movements.

“Well, now, Blosberg,” he said at length, “I did think you had better sense than that. Don’t you know a sod will never grow on that hard ground? You must spade it all up first, and break the dirt up fine and soft to the depth of at least four inches, or the grass can never take root in it. Don’t waste your time and sod by putting grass on top of such a baked brick-floor as that.”

And Mr. Blosberg laid aside the sod and took up the spade and labored under Mr. Templeton’s directions until the ground was all properly prepared for the sod, and then Mr. Templeton, telling him that sod couldn’t die on that ground now if he tried to kill it, went his way and Mr. Blosberg picked up that precious sod a third time, and prepared to put it in its place. Before he had fairly poised it over the spot, however, his hands were arrested by a terrific shout, and looking up he saw Major Bladgers shaking his cane at him over the fence.

“Blosberg, you insufferable donkey,” roared the Major, “don’t you know that you’ll lose every blade of grass you can carry if you put your sod on that dry ground? There you’ve gone and cut it so thin that all the roots of the grass are cut and bleeding, and you must soak that ground with water until it is a perfect pulp, so that the roots will sink right into it, and draw nutrition from the moist earth. Wet her down, Blosberg, if you want to see your labor result in anything.”

So Mr. Blosberg put the sod aside again, and went and pumped water and carried it around in buckets until his back ached like a soft corn, and when he had finally transformed the front yard into a morass, the major was satisfied, and assuring Mr. Blosberg that his sod would grow beautifully now, even if he laid it on upside down, marched away, and Mr. Blosberg made a fourth effort to put the first sod in its place. He got it down and was going back after another, when old Mrs. Tweedlebug checked him in his wild career.

“Lawk, Mr. Blosberg, ye mustn’t go off an’ leave that sod lying that way. You must take the spade and beat it down hard, till it is all flat and level, and close to the ground everywhere. You must pound it hard, or the weeds will all start up under it and crowd out the grass.”

Mr. Blosberg went back, and stooping over the sod hit it a resounding thwack with his spade that shot great gouts and splotches of mud all over the parlor windows and half way to the top of the house, and some of it came flying into his face and on his clothes, while a miscellaneous shower made it dangerous even for his adviser, who, with a feeble shriek of disapprobation, went hastily away, digging raw mud out of her ears. Mr. Blosberg didn’t know how long to keep on pounding, and he didn’t see Mrs. Tweedlebug go away, so he stood with his spade poised in the air and his eyes shut tight, waiting for instructions. And as he waited he was surprised to hear a new voice accost him. It was the voice of Mr. Thistlepod, the old agriculturist, of whom Mr. Blosberg bought his apples and butter.

“Hello, Mr. Blosberg!” he shouted, in tones which indicated that he either believed Mr. Blosberg to be stone deaf or two thousand miles away.

Mr. Blosberg winked violently to get the soil out of his eyes, and turned in the direction of the noise to say, “Good evening.”

“Soddin’, hey?” asked Mr. Thistlepod.

“Trying to, sir,” replied Mr. Blosberg, rather cautiously.

“’Spect it will grow, hey?”

Mr. Blosberg, having learned by very recent experience how liable his plans were to be overthrown, was still non-committal, and replied that “he hoped so.”

“Wal, if ye hope so, ye mustn’t go to poundin’ yer sod to pieces with that spade. Ye don’t want to ram it down so dad binged tight and hard there can’t no air git at the roots. Ye must shake that sod up a little, so as to loosen it, and then jest press it down with yer foot ontil it jest teches the ground nicely all around. Sod’s too thin, anyhow.”

So Mr. Blosberg thrust his hands into the nasty mud under his darling, much abused sod, and spread his fingers wide apart to keep it from breaking to pieces as he raised it, and finally got it loosened up and pressed down to Mr. Thistlepod’s satisfaction, who then told him he didn’t believe he could make that sod grow anyway, and drove away. Then Mr. Blosberg stepped back to look at that sod, feeling confident that he had got through with it, when young Mr. Simpson came along.

“Hello, Blos, old boy; watchu doin’?”

Mr. Blosberg timorously answered that he was sodding a little. Then Mr. Simpson pressed his lips very tightly together to repress a smile, and let his cheeks swell and bulge out to the size of toy balloons with suppressed merriment, and finally burst into a snort of derisive laughter that made the windows rattle in the houses on the other side of the street, and he went on, leaving Mr. Blosberg somewhat nettled and a little discouraged. He stood, with his fingers spread wide apart, holding his arms out like wings, and wondering whether he had better go get another sod or go wash his hands, when a policeman came by, and paused. “Soddin’?” he asked, sententiously.

“Yes, sir, a little,” replied Mr. Blosberg, respectfully.

“Where’d you get your sod?” inquired the representative of public order.

Mr. Blosberg dolefully indicated the little bare parallelogram in the scanty patch of verdure as his base of supplies.

“You’re the man I’ve been lookin’ for,” replied public order. “You come along with me.”

And Mr. Blosberg went along, and the Police Judge fined him $11.95, and when Mr. Blosberg got home he found that a cow had got into his yard during his absence and stepped on that precious sod five times, and put her foot clear through it every time, so that it looked like a patch of moss rolled up in a wad, more than a sod. And then Mr. Blosberg fell on his knees and raised his hands to heaven, and registered a vow that he would never plant another sod if this whole fertile world turned into a Sahara for want of his aid.

THE MISFORTUNES OF LITTLE IKE TEMPLIN

In the midst of his supper one day it occurred to little Ike to resort to the well for a drink of water. In time his mammy grew tired of stopping her work whenever he grew thirsty to hand him down a gourd from the pail which rested on the shelf beyond his reach. Finally she said to him: “Boy, what ails you anyhow? G’long out doors an’ try to be some use to somebody, stid of eatin’ up an’ drinkin’ up ev’yt’ing Mis’s got on her plantash’n.”

Little Ike, thus driven out, stood for a moment by the door and looked at the well, which was a few rods distant. But he turned his back upon it instantly, as if it were too painful to be thus reminded of the source of his most recent disappointment, and began walking in the opposite direction. When he had reached a spot on the line with the end of the kitchen, he filed to the left and again to the left when he had reached the rear side; and pursuing this line until he had gone some distance beyond the well, turned again and came to the latter. Stepping upon a hewn log which lay there to enable young drawers of water to manage the bucket, he was pleased to find this utensil as it was resting upon the ledge, half full of water. Conscious that the time was short, he clambered up to the edge, got upon all fours, grabbed with one hand the rim of the bucket, and with the other hand the well-rope, and, first taking an anxious glance toward the kitchen and a fond one toward the contents of the bucket, plunged in his head. He had hardly taken a few sips when the call of his mother at its accustomed pitch sounded from the kitchen.

And here I find myself under the painful necessity of recording a most terrible scene. I suppose it will never be known precisely how it happened, although no one, as well as I remember, ever suspected little Ike of a deliberate intention to commit the awful crime of suicide. It may have been that he had not known the use of his legs long enough for the present extreme need, and that his knees may have given a tilt to the bucket. At all events down they went together to the bottom, a distance of thirty feet.

The mother, who had seen him at the moment when the descent began, ran, half shrieking to the well, where she was joined by Mrs. Templin a moment after.

“Oh, Mis’s, Mis’s, my po’ ophing chile have fell in de well and broke his naik, and drown hese’f on top o’ that, an’ he my precious baby—an’ de las’ one I got!”

Mrs. Templin said: “I’m sorry for you, Judy. But maybe he has been mercifully saved from drowning. Lean over and look down as I turn the windlass.”

After a few turns, she knew by the feeling that the bucket had risen to the surface of the water, which was some four feet deep.

“Now call him,” she said.

“Li’ll Iky! Li’ll Iky!” shouted Judy.

“Ma-a-a-a-me!” came a sharp, plaintive answer from the great deep.

“Is you down dar, precious?”

“Eth, e-e-eth, ’m.”

“Well, well, is you drownded?”

“No—no—no, ’m!”

“Well, well! Is you done gone all to pieces?”

“No—n-n-no, ’m!”

“Is anything de matter wid mammy’s precious boy baby?”

“I k-k-k-co-co-o-ld!”

“Well, well, where is you now?”

“In—in de—b-b-bucket!”

Mrs. Templin then directed the mother to urge the child to hold fast to the rope while she herself would turn the windlass.

“Dar now, you heah dat? Mis’s say she wan’ my nice li’ll darky to ketch tight hold to der rope—tight as a tick; an’ she say she gwine draw him up with her own blessed hands. Mis’s say she can’t ’ford to lose likely li’ll fellow like my li’ll Ike, dat she can’t. Ye heah, mammy’s precious suga’ lump?”

“E-e-e-e-th, ’m!”

The winding began, and the mother, being urged to encourage Ike as much as possible during the ascent, did as well as she could by such cheering remarks as these:

“Jes’ look at dat! Mis’s givin’ her li’ll niggah such a nice ride! En Mis’s done tole mammy tah kill six chickens, an’ fry one o’m an’ brile one o’m an’ make pie out of de rest, an’ all for li’ll Iky’s dinner; an’ she say she gwine make daddy barb’cue two pigs dis very evenin’, and nobody ain’t to tech a mou’f’l on’m cep’n li’ll Iky if he’ll holt on tah de well-rope. An’ she say, Mis’s do, she jes’ know her great big li’ll Ike ain’t gwine to let dat rope loose an’ not get all dem goodies!”

It is possible that in so brief a time never was promised a greater number of luxuries to a child born to loftiest estate. Chickens, ducks—indeed the whole poultry yard was more than exhausted; every pig on the plantation was done to a turn. During the ascent little Ike was informed that eatables of every description would be at his disposal forever. The time does not suffice to tell of other rewards promised in the name of the munificent mistress, in the way of cakes, pies, syllabubs, gold and silver and costly apparel. All this while, Mrs. Templin, without uttering a word, turned the windlass, slowly, steadily.

When the bucket with its contents reached the top, and was safely lodged upon the ledge, the mother seized her precious darling, his teeth chattering the while with chill, and dragging him fiercely forth, said in wrathful tones:

“A cold is yah? Well, ef I be bressed wid strength an’ ef dey is peachy trees ’nough in de orchard, an’ de fence corners, I’ll wa’m yah. You dat has sceert me intah fits, an’ made me tell all dem lies—dem on Mis’s—dat I jes’ knows I never ken git fahgivin’ fo’ ’em.” And, still holding him, she began striding toward the kitchen door.

“Judy!” called her mistress sternly, “Judy, put down that child this minute! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Instead of being thankful that he wasn’t killed, here you stand and are so angry with him that you look as though you wished to kill him yourself. Now take him into your house and put some dry clothes on him; then send him to me in the house, where I will have some coffee ready for him. And mind you, Judy, if you lay your hands on that child in anger, that won’t be the last of it. Do for goodness’ sake try to learn some reason about your children.”

Judy led him away sullenly, and in spite of her mistress’s warning, muttered direful threatenings, louder and louder, as she approached, ending thus, as, having clothed him, she dispatched him to the big house:

“Nevah yah min’, sah; wait till Sunday come, when Mis’s go tah meetin’, an’ you’ll see! An’, boy, ef yah skeers me dat way ag’in, I’ll put yah whar yah won’t wan’ no mo’ watah an’ no mo’ nothin’. The idee! people all talkin’ ’bout my chile gittin’ drowned same as puppies an’ kittens! Ought to be ’shamed o’ yourself! I is. I jes’ ’spises to look at yah! G’long out my sight!”

Ten minutes afterwards, while little Ike was in the big house, luxuriating in coffee, biscuit and fried chicken, she was singing in cheerful voice one of her favorite hymns:

Nobody knows the trouble I see, Lord;
Nobody knows the trouble I see;
Nobody knows the trouble I see, Lord;
Nobody knows like Jesus.

THE RETURN OF THE HOE

“Goliath Johnsing, why you so late? Supper been a sp’ilin’ on de stove dis half hour,” and Aunt Lucy faced her liege lord with stern dignity.

“Old Daddy Moses an’ me been a havin’ it out.”

“Havin’ what out? You ain’t been an’ had a fuss wid Mr. Benson, ’Liah Johnsing?”

“Yes, I have. Ole Skincher. Here I have been a hoein’ hard in the fiel’ all day, and he mean enough to dock my wages ten cents ’cause I warn’t back at noon jest at de minnit. I warn’t late more’n half an hour or three-quarters of an hour. But I give him piece of my mind.”

“I s’pose he don’ want to pay for work he don’ git.”

“Don’ git? Why, thar was Sam Stevens an’ Bill Jenkins; they talk more’n half de time, an’ rested on they handles more’n t’other half, an’ did he dock them any? Not he. He got spite ’gin me, I know dat.”

“Whar’d you git dat new hoe?” queried Aunt Lucy, as ’Liah hung that implement up in the woodshed.

“Neber you mind. Women always want to stick their nose into ebbert’ing.”

“An’ what you done wid your ole hoe you took away this noon? You didn’t trade that off for a new one?”

“Yes, I did, ’f ye will know.”

“’Liah Johnsing,” blurted out Aunt Lucy, as a sudden suspicion flamed in her eyes, “dat ain’t one of Moses Benson’s hoes? You ain’t gone and changed off yo’ ole hoe for one his’n, I hope? You wouldn’t do dat, if he is a skincher, an’ you a member ob de church, ’Liah Johnsing?”

“Mis’ Johnsing, you jes’ ten’ to yo’ own bus’ness. Don’ you let me hear not one mo’ word ’bout dat hoe.”

Suddenly, as bedtime drew near, ’Liah rose and went into the house, saying as he went:

“Got to go down to de sto’, Lucy. I forgot I got to mow Dawkinses fiel’ to-morrow, an’ my whetstun’s clear down to de bone, an’ I’ve got to start off to-morrow ’fore sto’s open.”

’Liah had been gone hardly a minute, when Aunt Lucy called in a tragic whisper to Paul, her oldest boy, six years of age.

“You Paul, come here quick, by yo’self.”

Paul, used to obeying, came promptly, and was drawn close up to his mother on the settee. “Now, you Paul, I wonder kin I trust you to do something for me?”

Paul, somewhat disturbed, kept discreetly silent.

“I wish you’s a little bigger, but de Lord will hol’ you up. Paul, you listen. When yo’ paw comes home from the sto’ an’ we’s all gone to bed and got to sleep—you hearin’, Paul?”

“Yes’m.”

“You get up still’s a mouse, an’ you go git dat hoe yo’ paw brought home, an’ don’t you make no noise takin’ it down, an’ you kerry dat hoe ober to Mr. Benson’s; an’ you take de hoe what’s hangin’ dar—dat’s our hoe, Paul, dat yo’ paw left dar by ’stake—you take dat hoe an’ bring it in the woodshed, an’ don’t you nebber tell yo’ paw nothin’ ’bout it.”

The first sun rays were shining in at the window through the morning-glories, the early breakfast was smoking on the table, the six young Johnsons were struggling down in various stages of sleepiness, Aunt Lucy was bending over the stove and ’Liah washing at the sink, when a loud knock was heard at the kitchen door, which, being open, disclosed Mr. Benson. By his side stood the village constable. In his hand was an old and much battered hoe. ’Liah saw the hoe and his upper jaw fell. Aunt Lucy’s gaze also was riveted on it.

“Goliah Johnson,” said the constable, “you’re my prisoner. You stole Mr. Benson’s hoe.”

“’Fore de Lord, Mr. Benson, I ain’t got yo’ hoe. What you doin’ wid mine?”

“You needn’t pretend that you left your old hoe in my barn yesterday by mistake, ’Liah Johnson,” burst in Mr. Benson, “as if you couldn’t tell this old thing from my hoe. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“You may search dis place, Mr. Benson, from top to bottom an’ side to side, an’ you won’t find no stiver of yo’ old hoe. How you got mine I ’clare I give up, but you kin see fo’ yourself. Now, here’s where I keeps my hoe,” and ’Liah swung open the woodshed door.

There hung Mr. Benson’s new hoe.

“You Paul!” fairly shouted Aunt Lucy, pouncing on her young hopeful, “what did you do las’ night?”

“Did jist what you tol’ me. Took back dat hoe an’ changed it for de one in Mr. Benson’s barn.”

“Took back what hoe?” shouted ’Liah in his turn. “Lucy Johnsing, what you been stickin’ yo’ fingers in?”

“Well, ’Liah, I ’lowed I warn’t gwine to have no hoe in dis house what didn’t b’long to us by rights, ’n’ so I tol’ Paul to get up las’ night an’ change de hoes back again, an’ if he did it, how dis one comes heah beats me.”

“You Lucy Johnsing, see what you’s been an’ done wid yo’ meddlin’. I took back dat hoe ’fore I went to bed, when I made ’s though I was gettin’ de whetstun, an’ then you went and changed ’em back ag’in.”

“’Liah Johnsing, why you keep secrets from yo’ wedded wife? Why didn’t you tell me ’bout dat?”

By this time Mr. Benson saw that there was something more in the matter than he supposed, and sending away the constable he got from the worthy couple, with much circumlocution, the story of the night’s mistakes. Being a man with some sense of humor, he was quite mollified by the comicalities of the situation, and even went so far as to take breakfast with the Johnsons.

“An’ after dis, ’Liah Johnsing,” was Aunt Lucy’s moral, “you’d better think twice ’fore you keep any mo’ secrets from yo’ lawful wedded wife!”

PATHETIC SELECTIONS

WHEN THE LITTLE LADY FELL ILL

ANONYMOUS

“Once upon a time,” there was a little lady, gentle and sweet. One day she sent for the doctor. She was ill. She lay upon her bed with her bronze hair afloat upon the pillow. She smiled as the doctor came in and held out a hand tiny and soft and very white. Her teeth shone between her crimson lips and there were beautiful violet lights in her brown eyes. She was always full of life and spirit. Now here she was in bed and sending for the doctor, she who had almost never before needed a doctor. A great operation was decided upon. She only asked how long she would be out of the sun. They thought the operation would heal. But it did not—and there was another and another. For a little while after each operation she did get back to the sun and was very happy, just as a butterfly might be.

But at last they who watched knew that the frail little body could not withstand another operation and that the end was near—very near. Then came the fourteenth day of December, when, they told the young doctor, it was his duty to tell the little butterfly. That night he walked the streets—all the long night. It rained. But he did not feel it. In the morning he understood why some must die, for in the rain and the night he had unconsciously been with the God who gives and who takes away. He went, gaunt with the night’s agony, but smiling, and took the two little hands into his.

“Did you ever wonder,” he asked her, “as I have, why God gives life only to take it away?”

“Just for love,” she smiled. “He wants the best Himself.”

“Do you know,” he said, “that you are very ill?”

“Am I?” she said, suddenly turning her great, startled eyes upon him.

“Haven’t you noticed,” he tried to go on, “that you—”

“No,” she said breathlessly. “You said I would get well—always said it. And I knew that you knew, and I trusted you.”

“Doctors must do those things,” he pleaded, “because it keeps up the patient’s courage. There is no medicine like hope.”

“I have never thought till now,” she halted, “that I would not get well.”

“I have known it for a long time.”

“And you have been so sweet and brave so as to—”

“No, I have deceived you only that you might live a little longer.”

They were silent for a long time. Then she reached out and touched his hand.

“Then you mean,” she whispered, “that—”

He closed her lips, and she understood.

“Poor doctor! It is dreadful to make you the bearer of such a message.” She thought silently a long while. “At first I was inclined to be cross at you for deceiving me. But now—” a tear presently stole down each pale young cheek “—but now,” she ended in a whisper, “it is wonderful—beautiful—very, very beautiful! One can hardly believe that there are people who willingly bear the sorrows of others.”

“I have been only selfish, I wanted to keep you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I understand.”

“How long?”

“Only a few days, perhaps a week—two weeks.”

“No,” she cried suddenly, “for that is Christmas. And the house will be sad—in mourning. No! You must make me live. You must make them think I am getting well.”

“Ah, if we only could! But I must not deceive you any longer. I said two weeks—but it will not be that long.”

“It will—it must be!” she said, suddenly rising in bed. “We will pray God, and you will help, and I will. There must be some sort of tonic—a stimulant—tell me—tell me there is! You must not spoil their Christmas—on—on my account!”

She smiled a little at the odd ending of her phrase and dropped back upon the pillow, flushed and brilliant, splendid, so that even the doctor was deceived, and hoped.

“If you can do that—keep up such a vigor by hope and happiness, the hope of happiness for others—perhaps, with God’s help, we can—do what you wish.”

“Of course we can. I know it!”

“Then so do I, and you shall have the uttermost minute.”

“And when it is done,”—the young spirit weakened,—“this, which you gave me so long ago, shall be yours again—for a memory!”

She put his hand upon the ring which fitted her middle finger.

“A memory?” he whispered.

“Of the bravest and sweetest man in the world,” she said, putting a kiss upon the ring. “Oh! but I don’t want to go.”

She was so wonderful—with such a tremendous spirit in that brave little body. The doctor thought she might even then get well.

And when he came again, she did seem well—quite well. Her cheeks were pink, her lips crimson, her hair was coiled and dressed. She smiled and said: “Paint!”

But the trick had deceived her family even more than it had deceived the doctor. For, one by one they came in and, standing at the foot of the bed, seeing the pretty little painted creature, they were sure that she was getting better rapidly—was, in fact, almost well! Her younger sister romped in and leaped upon the bed, crying: “See, doctor! It is all as it used to be! And it has been so long since it was all as it used to be. Dearest, soon we will be out on Saint George’s Hill again, rolling together on the grass, down, down and—”

“Yes,” cooed the little patient rapturously, “soon—very soon—.” But a sudden sob ended the incident.

“Thank you—oh! thank you so much, doctor, dear, for giving back to me the sweetest sister in all, all the whole world!”

Day by day more paint was required to cover the growing pallor, and always more and more. And always more drugs to keep the eyes bright and the spirits from flagging. When the young doctor wasn’t by her side he was studying—searching—until there was nothing in all medical science for prolonging life which he did not know.

The house became gay again because of the lie that was practiced. The noises which had been hushed when there was danger were resumed.

There was at last a day when the doctor helped at the dressing and painting; so near was the shadow that she might have flown at a breath.

And so they put upon her, lying in their hands, wonderful garments and ribbons and embroideries. And even the little hands on that day had to be carefully “made up” to conceal the livid blue. Then when all was ready, they sat her royally up in bed, lighted the candles, closed the blinds and let the waiting family enter—for it was the day before Christmas.

They came to music—the moment the door was opened—bursting with joy. A processional they made of it!

“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,
Pilgrim through this barren land;
I am weak, but Thou art mighty;
Hold me with Thy powerful hand.”

Standing about her bed they sang that, and each separate heart was welling a song of joy, because they thought she had come back to them!

Like those great ladies at Versailles, in the reign of the Grand Monarch, who received in bed, she laughed, happy as the happiest of them.

Then came another procession, down to the last servant in the house, bearing gifts. Then flowers and green things—until the beautiful rose-embroidered covering of her bed was lost to sight under the load of flowers, and these in turn were blotted out with the gifts. Wonderful gifts they were! How could they not be? They were welcoming with them their best beloved back to life! On her neck was girded a chain, on her fingers were put rings, and in her ears were hung gems, so that she blazed with jewels. Before her lay a splendid, filmy dress, and with it were hat and gloves and a gay parasol.

All—all, gifts of life!

And yet another procession came, bearing holly and mistletoe and garlands and crimson berries, and last of all, a Christmas tree, all lighted and glowing with a hundred pretty things. And almost in a moment they transformed the room into a Christmas bower. The bed, the walls, the floor, bloomed in the red and white and green of Christmas.

So Christmas came—the gayest, the maddest, the saddest that house had ever known.

But she had barely carried it through, and when the excitement would pass the doctor knew that no stimulant devised by man could keep her on the earth she had blessed an hour longer. Before the collapse quite came, the doctor said:

“My patient is tired—”