Chapter III (1)

IN WHICH WE COMPLETE OUR ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE THREE WOOERS, AND OTHER THINGS.

We will begin with Señor Alonso whose surname was Pacheco. He was a native of Salamanca, where he had studied philology, and left his home because he was displeased at his father’s second marriage. He followed the only career possible to him in that epoch, that is he enlisted and served for three years in Italy, leaving behind him proofs of his great valor. This profession might have proved lucrative for him, for he was much thought of by his chiefs, but he was dangerously wounded, during his three years service, and before he had completely recovered his strength, he received a letter from his father in which he informed him of the death of his step-mother and complained of feeling sad and lonely during these last years of his life. Since the cause of Señor Alonso’s discontent was thus removed, and as he loved his father, and was besides growing tired of the reckless life of a soldier, he left its perils and its glory to others, and returned home. Two years passed away, and his father died, leaving him a sufficient income to allow him to live decently, and a lawsuit of great importance which, two years later, brought him to court, where he had been only once before, for a few days on his way to Italy. Señor Alonso had never been in love, first, on account of the circumstances in his family, and afterward, because, in his life as a soldier, he had never had a chance to think of women, except as objects of diversion, beings who helped to make his life more pleasant. For the last two months of his stay in Madrid, he had been absorbed in his lawsuit, which was apparently approaching its end and looked so promising that it seemed not only possible but probable that he would soon find himself quite wealthy. Eight days before our story opens, he had in coming out of the church of San Jose,—which is now no longer in existence,—noticed among a crowd of people the head of a lady on whose face he had been compelled to fix his gaze, even against his own wishes. We may mention that the hidalgo’s suddenly became as red as though the blood were trying to rush out, and then he turned pale and nervous, and began sighing and trembling as though he were quite weary. What had happened? He himself could not explain it, but the fact is that Doña Sol’s black eyes were the cause of this commotion. It was only for a moment, a single moment, that the young girl had looked into the face of the hidalgo, but it was enough to make him feel as he had never felt before, and he became so excited that very little was wanting to make him forget that he was in a sacred place, and force himself through the crowd toward her, causing the greatest scandal. But he soon lost sight of those eyes of fire, and provokingly tempting lips, and longing to see them again, he moved forward, elbowing his way from one side to the other, and looking about him constantly, until at last he reached the street. Here he could move at ease, for the faithful (Catholic Christians who live in obedience to the church) were dispersing in every direction. He looked about him like a dog nosing in the air, but he had lost his black eyes. He ran up the street, and then back, but the bewitching being had completely disappeared, making it impossible for him to find out who she was or where he could see her. When at last he rested he was out of breath. He clenched his fist with all the force of despair, for his desires were kindling more and more as the obstacles which he encountered increased. Thus the hidalgo stood for more than half an hour, leaning against a wall, with drooping head, eyes closed, arms folded, and mind engaged in contemplating the lady of the black eyes. As he could do nothing more, he had to resign himself to fate, trusting that an accident might bring about better luck. He went to church the next day, but without meeting her. Thus he passed four days, always preoccupied, sleeping very little, and eating still less, when one morning, returning from mass, and passing down Las Infantas street, he heard a woman’s voice, and raising his eyes, could not restrain an exclamation of surprise and joy, for there on the balcony was the bewitching brunette, leaning out to call after a man who was just leaving the house. The man, who was small, ugly and stupid looking, returned and entered. Doña Sol, as if by accident, looked at the hidalgo, left the balcony, turned round to close the blind, gave him another glance, and disappeared.

“Ah,” sighed Señor Alonso, as though he wished to send his soul after the young lady, “how happy I am!”

There was no longer any necessity to search for her; all he had to do was to approach her. Judging correctly that the little man was a servant, he decided to wait for his return, imagining that as his purse was well stocked it was all that was necessary. In less than five minutes the servant came back and started on his errand. Señor Alonso followed him, stopped him in La Horteleza street, and, showing him a gold piece, said,

“Don’t be offended at my offering you a little present. Take this.”

“What do you wish?” asked the servant, smiling, and examining the hidalgo from head to foot.

“Almost nothing, but it is a great deal to me. I worship your lady—”

“Ah, already?”

“I am a hidalgo, have enough to live on, and before two months are over I shall be quite rich, and you, too, if you serve me.”

“I understand.”

“My name is Alonso Pacheco.—But here, take this.”

“No.”

“You refuse to serve me? Perhaps your lady is no longer mistress of her heart?”

“She loves no one,” said the servant, candidly.

“How fortunate!”

“I am obliged to tell my noble lady everything I see or hear in the street, and everything I do or say.”

“In that case—”

“May God keep you!” said the servant, turning and running away so quickly that it would have been impossible to overtake him.

Señor Alonso was left behind with the money in his hand.

“Vive el cielo! Could anybody imagine such a thing?”

He had, however, the consolation of thinking that his words would reach the ears of the beautiful young girl, and that she would make him some sign if she should reciprocate his affection, or wish to correspond with him, and he was glad that fortune favored him so far that there was no rival in the case. Next day Señor Alonso went again to Las Infantas street, and was rewarded by seeing the young girl, who opened the balcony, put out her head and immediately disappeared. And the same thing happened day after day, and as Doña Sol always gave the gallant a glance, he was induced to think that she reciprocated his affection, although he expected still to have to surmount many difficulties. He came again at night to look at the house and sigh, and behaved in every respect like a beardless lad of seventeen. He had never been in love before, and now it had taken such firm hold of his heart that it would never leave it again. Señor Alonso regretted very much that he had never learned to play the guitar, and that his voice was not pleasant, for he was deprived of the pleasure of serenading his beloved. Pacheco was honorable, brave, and had a noble heart, his one fault being that his only solution of difficult questions was the sword. That was the result of his old training and soldier life. He had thought more than once that the best plan would be to scare the stupid servant with a cudgel, instead of offering him money, but fortunately he could not find an opportunity of carrying out his absurd resolution.

* * * * *

Now, let us say a few words about the black-eyed hidalgo. His name was Jacinto Carmona, he was from Sevilla, and he, too, had enough to live decently, although he was not rich, and spent all he had—and more too—in enjoying himself, and dressing as extravagantly as possible. At ten years old he had been left an orphan under the guardianship of a clergyman, a man of honor, but very strict and severe, who had always tried to do his duty in bringing up the orphan in the ways of virtue and training him to work and to be a useful man. He made him study Latin for five years, but could not accomplish anything more. The boy was as turbulent as possible, and the more severe the punishment, the more he rebelled, the result of which was that the good priest became so weary that he had finally to acknowledge himself conquered. The good man complained of his misfortune, but his young pupil complained still louder, asserting that he was the victim of exaggerated severity and the stale prejudices of his guardian.

“You can see for yourself,” he would say. “You have only to look at my clothes to see how I am treated. They have been worn out and mended so often that it would be hard to tell which was the original stuff. Didn’t my father leave me an income of six hundred ducats? Why shouldn’t I be dressed decently? And as for eating, even without counting fast days, how often do I get meat? Very seldom, indeed. For my uncle says that gluttony is a mortal sin, and whenever he wants to punish me he makes me do without breakfast, dinner, or supper, and as he wants to punish me pretty often, the result is that I fast half the days in the year. That’s the reason that I am so thin and pale and weak, and in the end I shall die, not from any disease, but from starvation. Though my uncle does say that I look that way on account of my sins, and that I would be possessed by an evil spirit, if it were not for his fervent prayers which the good Lord has heard.”

Whenever Jacinto spoke in this strain he appeared much moved, his eyes would become moist and at times he would even weep. And being a handsome young man, he always appealed to the women, so that he found plenty of defenders whenever he quarrelled with his uncle. The fair sex was his weakness, and his follies in this direction excited serious disgust in more than one of his acquaintances. When the young man reached his twenty-fifth year, his uncle surrendered to him his inheritance, in a greatly improved condition, and gave him some good advice besides. Jacinto felt like a man who has been a long time in prison and suddenly recovers his liberty. He threw himself with avidity into a life of dissipation that would have speedily accomplished his ruin if his good uncle had not continued his advice and sometimes admonished him severely.

“I want to see the world,” said the young fellow at last, and gathering together all the money he could obtain, and bidding his uncle farewell, he took the road to Madrid, leaving behind him three women who had been foolish enough to believe in the love of a young scapegrace.

Apart from this failing, Jacinto was very kind-hearted, and could not look upon distress unmoved. What was his object in going to Madrid? He wanted expansion, emotions, life, and went without any definite object. He had never been seriously in love, and, to his misfortune, the same fate as Señor Alonso’s overtook him. One day he saw Doña Luz on one of the balconies of her house, and, as we have mentioned, she neither looked at people on the sly, or sought to hide herself, as did her sisters. Jacinto stared at her, and she contemplated him with perfect tranquility. He felt that his heart was beating more strongly than usual, and Doña Luz, probably unconsciously, smiled.

“Where am I?” cried the young man. “Not even in dreamland can one conceive such a vision of beauty.”

The quiet look, revealing the tranquility of its owner’s mind, charmed the young man all the more in that he was beginning to tire of his stormy pleasures. He could contain himself no longer, but lifting his head was preparing to call to her with his customary daring, when Doña Luz smiled a second time, and disappeared.

“She would not have listened to me!” exclaimed the young man in despair. “And yet she smiled to me when she left. Now that I think of it, it would have been folly to do what I was thinking of, and she has given me a lesson that will teach me to be more prudent.”

After this Doña Luz came to the balcony every day at the same time, always perfectly tranquil, and always smiling, and Jacinto finished by falling seriously in love. Not knowing any one in Madrid, he could not find out who the lady was, and as luck would have it, he never saw the stupid servant, either going or coming. This was the situation of affairs when he met the other two gallants.

* * * * *

And now we will finish by saying a few words concerning the plump chubby-cheeked one.

His name was Santiago Morcillo. He was a native of Leon, had no parents, and was one of those quiet beings whom it is difficult to rouse, either through anger or pleasure. When anything unpleasant happened, he said only, “God’s will be done,” and if he had reason to feel pleased, showed it only by a smile or by going to church to thank God for the favors which he bestowed on him. His father’s conduct had been disorderly, and he left but few unencumbered possessions, his affairs being in confusion, but the good-natured Santiago did not mind this. He was quite the opposite of his father and, by force of work, economy and shrewdness, he recovered what was lost, and even improved his condition so far that finally he was free from debt and in easy circumstances. Until then he had never thought of women, and when he did, he said,

“I shall take a rest now. It would be folly to begin a dangerous experiment immediately. My mother was a very virtuous woman, but all women are not alike.”

The good Morcillo was not only economical, but somewhat avaricious, and it occurred to him to use the influence of his relatives to obtain some sort of office, and with this object in view he had come to the court at Madrid. One morning he went to mass at St. Joseph’s Church, and standing near the entrance, and turning aside to let a caballero pass, he saw Doña Estrella, who was kneeling in prayer, her virgin lips moving in religious fervor, and her eyes raised to Heaven with a most sweet and tender expression. For the first time Señor Santiago felt a vivid impression, and involuntarily he made a somewhat impious comparison between the sublime young girl and an angel. He was always timid in the presence of women, but this being was not a woman, she was a cherub. Being a good Catholic, the hidalgo instantly repented of his sinful attention to worldly affairs, and turning his back upon the young lady, began to repeat his prayers; but he was unable to forget the cherub with the blue eyes, and ten minutes later, moved by an irresistible attraction, he turned and looked again. He saw her a second time, and felt his heart beating. When the mass was over, the good Morcillo could contain himself no longer. He turned quickly round and looked for her. The mother was very near her daughter, and in front, one behind the other, were her two sisters. However, in the crowd it was not easy to see that the four belonged together, and besides, the hidalgo had no eyes for any except the fair one. He tried to get nearer to her, but every one rose at the same moment, and he again lost sight of her for a few moments. He tried his best to force a way for himself through the crowd, but, being quite confused, he paid no attention as to where he planted his feet, and many of the faithful accosted him roughly, while others threw themselves against him and prevented his getting out. The poor fellow was almost suffocated, crushed and choking. He could hardly breathe, and perspired freely, while his face became livid. His stoutness was his great misfortune, and he missed the lady.

“Is it possible that I have fallen in love?” he asked himself when he got into the street.

He could not forget the fair face, and began to think the matter over with as much calmness as he could muster in his embarrassment. Having met such an angel of a woman, why should he not marry her? A bachelor’s life was very nice, but only up to a certain age. He went to mass the next day, and again he saw Estrella, and lost her in leaving the church. At last, on the day when our story begins, Morcillo, like the others, discovered by accident the residence of the charming maiden. He saw her on the balcony. Nothing else happened, but, feeling sure that he was in love, and that his will power was not strong enough to resist his passion, he made up his mind to go on with his wooing, and not to stop, unless this marvelous being with the face of an angel should prove to be a demon, which was, of course, impossible.

* * * * *

Now we know the three hidalgos, who did not resemble each other in the slightest degree.

(_To be continued._)

QUATRAIN.

To dash irradiant on the barren shore
The wave is born; the lark to sing and soar;
To traffic with the sun upsprings the tree—
Man only has no certain destiny.

—_H. C. H._

BEING A DISCONNECTED ACCOUNT OF THE DOINGS OF SOME ARTISTS ON A SUMMER CRUISE....]

“First day out. We can scarcely realize we have left behind the heat, the noise, and the dust of the city for three weeks. Far to the north, overhung by clouds of noisome smoke, our late prison is gradually sinking from sight. Only the tallest spires and houses can be seen. As the distance grows greater our hearts grow lighter, and dance in unison with the leaping waves. The day is a miracle of light and color,—and we’re a happy crew!”

“Came very near being wrecked last night. Even the moon was full—but that fact saved the lives of all on board. Spike made a sketch this morning that will explain better than words.”

“The fashionable portrait painter’s man and girl flirting on the shore turned out to be rather clever devices for frightening crows. He has been advised to consult an oculist.”

“Fuzzie-Wuzzie and the Languid Aquarellist got together in the forecastle to hatch a scheme to get possession of the champagne. Nick, the Nipper, woke up and heard the conversation. He called to Mock-a-Hi. Hi took in the situation at a glance, and skewered Fuzzie and the Aquarellist with his prize finger-nail (with which he does his etchings), and thus the villains were balked. The conspirators had been eating Anti-Puncture, so that when Hi withdrew his nail, none of the wind came out of their tires. There was little blood and much wine spilled over this affair. The Skipper instantly had the schemers put in irons, and Nick, the Nipper, was allowed to torture them in their helpless condition with a few of his songs and imitations, as a reward for his vigilance.”

“To-day we took on board a small party of guests, several ladies being among the number. The finished style in which our fashionable portrait painter received the latter excited general admiration. There is very little doubt but that he will be promoted to be Assistant Skipper, with a cook’s pay.”

“The Skipper complained this evening of “feeling queer in the head,” and the Duke made unkindly reference to the moon (which is known to have a peculiar influence in certain cases), but got “sat on” for his inopportune display of wit. Fuzzie’s allusion to the banquet in the cabin last night was perhaps more truly explanatory.”

“Sailing close to shore,—and enjoying the beautiful glimpses of field and wood seen through the golden haze of a summer afternoon. What a glorious land!”

“The Languid Aquarellist is singing the national anthem. Perhaps he is being unconsciously stirred by all these wondrous beauties of nature.”

“Here Truthful Freddie—sits by the hour, in the golden evening glow, dreaming of—what?”

“Salad day. Before seven o’clock this morning Curly and the Duke had caught enough crabs to supply the mess of a man-of-war. The salad—prepared by the Duke, of course—was pronounced excellent in technique, although somewhat after the manner of Bouguereau, being extremely smooth and delicate. But this can be forgiven in a salad.”

“Late this afternoon we passed a sailing party homeward-bound. As they passed, quite close, Spike, with his ever-ready pencil, transferred several of the most conspicuous members to paper.”

“For his marvelous success in mixing salads, the Duke, who studied the culinary art in Paris and Rome, has been made Second Mate.”

“Three days out. The Languid Aquarellist insisted this morning on going ashore and shooting ducks—wild ones. After he had almost decimated a farmer’s prize flock of pekins (without noticing their barnyard confidence in man)—he was promoted by the Captain for excellent gunnery, and the addition to the yacht’s stores.”

“Tomson, (of the Barber’s-Own School), spent the entire afternoon trying to convince Miss ⸺ that his own peculiar method of painting is the acme of art. Miss ⸺ seemed delighted with his efforts, and thinks his pictures are “just lovely.” She wants him to attempt an imaginary portrait of the sea serpent.

* * * * *

Owing to the ceaseless motion of the boat, Tomson’s pictures are decidedly impressionistic.”

—“And then Bill Weatherbones gave us his version of the great naval combat at Santiago, in which he took a very prominent part. ‘I tole yer how it wuz,’ Bill began; ‘it wuz dis way, sur. I wuz a-settin’ on de aft hatch a-smokin’ a cigar Bill Sampson giv’ me, an’ Bill an’ Winnie Schley wuz a-workin’ out a little game wid de cards. Bill t’rowed down his papes an’ sed,—

“I aint got no luck, I got to shake yuse fellers. Mc. he’s sent me de wire to go over an’ chin dat man Shafter, wot’s runnin’ de army push, an’ make him git a move on hisself.” “Don’t go, Bill,” sez I, “send one o’ de gang, it’s too hot fer yer, wot’s de good yer workin’?” “Dem aint me orders,” sez Bill, den turnin’ to Winnie Schley, he giv’ him de stern look, an’ sed, “Winnie, yer do de stunts here till I gets back wid meself, an’ if de Spaniels tries ter get out de bottle squirt de guns on ’em.” “I’m on,” sez Winnie, an’ he giv’ me de wink, “if de farmers shows up I shoots.” Den de Admiral he gits in his little ya’t an’ sails off. Winnie den piped up de grog all eround, an’ de game went on ag’in. I aint much stuck on de game de navy push puts up, it’s on de squar’, an’ so I set dere gappin’ an’ feedin’ me face, while de boys plays. All of a sudding I seen over dere where de guy Hobson sinked de Merrymac some smoke. I wunk t’ meself, but didden say nothin’ to break de boys up, but soon Winnie Schley looked up an’ seen it. “Hully gee!” he yelled, “de blokes is a-chasin’ out,” an’ he grabbed a bunch o’ flags an’ did de signal act o’ his life. He worked dose flags till he looked like a skirt dancer. De udder ships looked like a back yard wid de clothes-line full of red-flannel shirts from de wavin’ de guys put up. “Git dem guns loaded,” yelled Schley, “yuse blokes look lively, dere.” Boom! busted out one o’ de big guns, an’ de noise it knock de win’ outten me works. It hit de Spaniel an’ turned him bottom upwards; when he come up ag’in he shot his gun at us, but it wuz half a mile too high. Schley he rung out de joyous laugh. “Dere optics aint no good,” sez he, den he lets anudder ball go at him dat went clean t’rough him an’ hit anudder ship two miles off an’ sunk it in a minnit. Den up comes anudder Spaniel, an’ I seen⸺’”

“The steering gear is a little rattled: a puff of wind blew a lock of Mate Fuzzie-Wuzzie’s hair into the wheels, and instantly the vessel swung round. The engine was stopped, and in the excitement that ensued, a case of champagne was almost lost overboard. We had to run backward for a mile and a-half to disengage Fuzzie’s hair from the machinery. Fuzzie has been reduced.”

“Spike’s interest in the war has grown to be a matter of serious inconvenience to all on board. He has literally covered the yacht with Military and Naval cartoons. The boat will certainly have to be re-painted. This morning he came on deck with a drawing he did sometime during the night, which represents Uncle Sam admonishing Spain to stop kicking the “yaller dorg”—Cuba. It’s not half bad, but his claim of it’s being the best yet made on the war is a little strong. He has been so busy admiring it all day he has not thought to make any others—and we have had time to breathe.”

“We came to anchor this evening near the wreck of the “Two Sisters,” in the vicinity of which—on the shore—was situated a dog-pound, containing some two hundred canines awaiting execution.... We enjoyed a night of delightful rest.”

“The Skipper went out on his bicycle gig to take a survey of the harbor, but the roadway was running so high he found it difficult to make any headway, and had to return to the yacht.”

“Curly has been pronounced unfit for the duties of an able-bodied seaman, and has been handed over to the Duke for treatment. It is suspected he is afflicted with some curious, and hitherto unknown, form of love. Yesterday the Duke administered a very carefully prepared shrimp salad, but it failed utterly to bring about the desired results. He’s still very pensive, and seems to wish to be alone. Grave symptoms indeed. Ever since our last visit ashore, when he was seen walking through the fields with a tall, willowy creature of undeniable attractiveness, he has been very dejected and apathetic.

We shall try keel-hauling as a last resort,—but trust it will not be necessary.”

“The last glimpse of the glorious old Bay, and the last day afloat. The cruise has been one of continuous delight, but we can not but regret the end has come, and we must tread the bricks of uninteresting streets instead of the swaying deck of the Rita. But, as Bill Weatherbones would say, “Wot’s de use? Man aint born to be happy,—an’ dats straight.”

_SOUVENIRS of CHILDHOOD_]

_Adapted from the French by Adele Bacon._

THE SECOND FEAR.

The battle on the mountain had passed off much better than we had dared to hope, and, although we had not found our enemies as sound asleep as we had desired, our early morning attack had never-the-less completely surprised them. We managed to seize their recent position on the plateau with scarcely any loss. This position, although a very exposed one, was worth a great deal more, from the strategist’s point of view, than the valley in which we were encamped the night before. Besides, in making war, it is always desirable to occupy those places voluntarily selected and defended by an opponent.

Our work, however, was by no means over; another sort of effort lay before us.

Our foes, driven from their position on the heights, had succeeded in forming another; and were strongly entrenched on the lower extremity of the same plateau, from the loftier end of which we had so lately dislodged them.

With a considerable amount of adroitness, they had succeeded in placing a little river, called the Oued-el-Kebir, between our camp and their own. We were compelled therefore to cross this river, in order to force them to move farther on, and abandon to us the territory that we both coveted.

We had resolved, once our morning’s work was over, to enjoy a much needed repose on our hardly earned mountain; but, towards noon, everybody was on foot, excepting several badly wounded soldiers, and the little group of officers, who had chatted together near the General’s tent the preceding evening, were invited to drink a cup of coffee with him in the most picturesque smoking room that I have ever seen, although the picturesque quality is by no means rare in Algeria.

It was an enclosure walled in by rocks in the shape of heaps of large pennies, arranged side by side, so as to form an amphitheatre, the slope of which permitted us to see, by the aid of our glasses, the new field on which we were soon to operate.

The country, which was beautiful so far as the scenery was concerned, presented no insolvable military problems; it was wooded, but not impenetrable.

We would of course have much preferred not to be separated from the place of attack by a long, serpentine strip of water, which, swollen by the recent melting of the snow, added materially to the defence of our adversaries. It goes without saying that we possessed neither artillery to protect our passage nor boats to effect it. In pursuits such as now occupied us, a train of artillery could only be an encumbrance, and the river which flowed sometimes in a valley, and sometimes between high, steep banks, made it almost a certainty that we should get a thorough wetting before we reached the other side. We knew that the General had sent the necessary men to measure the depth of that barrier of water, and to see if we should have the good luck to find a place for fording it. In default of this, we should be forced to make use of our temporary bridges, but we did not wish to count absolutely on them. In making war, one can usually tell best what to do on the spur of the moment. While waiting for the necessary information to be brought in for making such preparations as were possible, and for the night to come, fully half a day must elapse. The General had thought that crossing at night was less dangerous. Little Jacques, grown up, had no longer a horror of shadows, and even liked to utilize them. When we had considered, found great fault with, and speculated upon the meditated expedition, we returned to our conversation of the preceding night.

The General had had the imprudence to speak to us of _two_ stories; we had heard one; what about the other?

Captain Robert,—the officer with whom the General sometimes quarrelled, perhaps because he felt that he had an especial partiality for him,—being slyly urged on by the rest of us, had the indiscretion to ask him for it.

“Oh, as to that one, my children, you must not insist,” said the General. “It is only a story of childhood, which has none of the qualities which made the other acceptable to grown men. I have no taste for failures,—you will cause me to be guilty of one.”

“General,” replied the obstinate captain, “you have just called us your children, therefore a child’s story is quite suitable for us. It will rejuvenate us. Children are amused by everything, you know, and if by chance your second tale is a trifle more gay than the first, very well,—we shall enjoy it.”

“Gay!” responded the General, “I don’t know about that. However, it is not a tragedy. But you shall see. You wish it,—so here goes!”

* * * * *

“Perhaps all of you here are not fond of the water,” began the General, casting a significant glance at the river which had preoccupied our thoughts.

“That depends on circumstances,” responded the captain; “water is very good, but there are times when one would rather do without it.”

“Water, mingled with too many gun-shots, and after a difficult march, might prove unhealthy,” interrupted a hoarse voice, that of the doctor. “I should not recommend it as a remedy for my cold, but the water of your story, General,—for I suppose by your commencement your history is going to be a wet one,—will perhaps do me good.”

“Good!” said the General, “here is the doctor who imagines I am going to give him a tonic. But so long as you have wished for it doctor, you must drink it. But no more interruptions:—I have already forgotten where I was.”

“General,” replied the doctor, “you have just said ‘every one here is perhaps not fond of water;’ and you were not contradicted.”

“Thanks!” said the General. “And silence in the ranks; I will recommence.”

“Every one here does not like the water I said, very well, when I was little it seems I was of that same opinion. I didn’t like water. Let us understand each other fully as to the importance which you should attach to my repugnance to this fluid, during these first years of my life. I accepted water in many ways: I loved it sugared, and even with a little orange flavor, but I hated it cold on my face in winter, and only allowed myself to be washed willingly when it was warm. I liked, too, to stand on a bridge, and watch the water flowing underneath, and by a strange contradiction, I even enjoyed going on it, in a boat—_with papa_. But I should have had a horrible fear to fall in the water, or have it go suddenly over my head. To be frank, I believe I should have been frightened to have it up to my ankles, otherwise than in a foot bath. But then, one is not born perfect.

“This fear of the water was the despair of my father. He, like a practical man, thought my love of boats and navigation, and my horror of all actual contact with it, were contradictory if not incompatible traits; that the liking for it on the one hand and the dislike of it on the other argued as complete an absence of logic in the brain of his little son as in his physical and moral organisms. He was right. Aunt Marie and my mother were guilty of the sugared and warm water, but my antipathy for it, otherwise than in these forms, seemed to be a fundamental part of my nature.

“‘There is a reform for you to make in my absence,’ said my father to his wife and his sister-in-law. ‘If I don’t find it accomplished when I return, I agree in any way that you may find best, you will force me to intervene myself, with a method perhaps a little brusque, but of which I have more than once seen the efficacy.

“‘Understand that if I have to throw Jacques into the water like a little dog, to teach him to save himself, I shall do it over and over again, until he finds it agreeable, until he conquers his fright, and learns to swim. Jacques pretends he wishes to become a sailor, like his father, but I shall not allow him to become one of those sailors,—and there are such,—who are actually afraid of the water.’”

“‘Afraid of the water? The child is not _afraid_ of it,’ said mamma.

“‘It is only the cold which he dislikes,’ added my aunt.

“‘Really! And you can suggest no other remedy than to heat the brooks and the rivers, the lakes and the seas, expressly for our little darling? That would be, according to your ideas, a reform more easily carried out than the correction of his fear of cold water!’

“‘Correction! Correction!’ replied aunt Marie impatiently. ‘One can not “correct” one’s nervous system at will, my dear brother, one has to cure it as one can. There are certain organisms which must be left to correct themselves, with age. Our Jacques is brave in many ways, as you well know; he has really only one fear,—that of contact with cold water. Well, that will pass in time, as he grows older.’

“‘Time! time!’ returned my father, ‘time passes, but not our defects, when, instead of correcting them, we leave them alone, or envelop them in cotton. Sister Marie, do not change my boy into a little girl.’

“‘Your son,’ responded aunt Marie, ‘is as yet neither a boy nor a girl: he is an angel, and you ought to be glad of it.’

“‘Glad!’ replied my father. ‘I can tell you about that better on my return. However, I reserve the right of trying to find a young sailor in your angel, some fine morning. I will not take you unawares. I have warned both you and my wife. When I come back, I will take your little Jacques with me in a boat, and whether he knows how to swim or not, I will make him brave, in spite of himself.’

“This conversation made my aunt and my mother tremble. Although they were apparently against me, they were really on my side. They tried to encourage me, telling me I should be a sailor first, and a brave one,—an admiral soon after. This delighted me. ‘What a pity, though,’ I said to myself, ‘that water is so cold and wet, and that one can not walk on it without sinking. Why should it be so?’”

* * * * *

“The moment has come, to speak to you of my uncle, my father’s brother. This brother, who was older than my father by about ten years, was a retired officer. What a wonderful man he was too! It seems to me that I had known only great and heroic people, in my childhood. It was hardly possible to turn out badly, in the midst of such fine beings. What is good in me, I owe altogether to them. My uncle had traveled extensively. He had taken part in all the campaigns of the first Republic, and of the First Empire, and had brought back from them a love of flowers which you may explain as best you can. He loved the land as much as my father loved the sea, but only for the purpose of covering it with flowers. He possessed a charmingly situated property, on the outskirts of the town, where he cultivated, with excessive care, a magnificent collection of roses, celebrated throughout the entire horticultural world. This collection contained more than four thousand varieties: I repeat, four thousand, catalogued, numbered, each with a name and a history. Certain people pretend to tell them apart at a glance, but I must say it was easier to confound them in an equal degree of admiration. I should have felt unjust in preferring one to another, and I admitted a difference in them only in their colors. My father called his brother’s place ‘the Garden of Roses.’ The Garden of Roses was for me the only serious rival of the court of aunt Marie’s hospital, and do you know why? Not because it was sweeter smelling, and richer in flowers than any place I have ever seen elsewhere; not because I always brought back beautiful _bouquets_ for my mother, for aunt Marie and for her chapel; not because it was bordered on one entire side by a pretty little river, but because upon that river my uncle Antoine, out of honor for his brother, the sailor, kept a small, but very attractive looking, boat. In this boat, which appeared immense to me, my father used to take me on short voyages, not in the water, but on the water, which frightened me so much. When I was navigating on the little stream, how many times have I imagined that I was on the ocean, _en route_ for America, India, the North Pole, or the Island of Robinson Crusoe.

“At the time of which I speak, my father, after a year passed upon the seas of China, returned to spend a three months’ holiday with us. I felt that I must make the most of it. The year before, I had been delighted to go with him on many little expeditions, both by land and water. But this year, alas! I expected little pleasure on the latter. One of the first questions he asked was whether I was still afraid of my old enemy. I was obliged to confess that I still felt the same in regard to it.

“‘What! But how old are you?’

“Brother,’ said aunt Marie, ‘he was just six years old when you left us.’

“‘But according to that your pupil is now seven.’

“‘Yes, papa, seven,’ said I. ‘I am getting to be a big boy.’

“‘Big! Yes, that is possible. But the larger you are, my poor Jacques, the less excuse you have for not knowing how to swim, for having fear of the water.’

“‘He has tried,’ interposed my aunt. ‘I had uncle Antoine’s gardener, who is an excellent swimmer, give him a lesson in the river, but he came out so blue with cold that I dared not let him go back again. Although he neither cried nor complained, I am certain he would have died in less than five minutes.’

“‘You believe that, perhaps, my poor dear sister,’ replied my father. ‘It is, however, an experience which he will have to repeat. But I warn Jacques that in the meantime, or until he is able to swim, at least a few feet, there will no longer be a boat for him at the “Garden of Roses.” The St. Jacques (which was the name given in my honor to my uncle’s boat)—the St. Jacques must remain at anchor.’

“This was terrible, but it was irrevocable. It never entered my head to try to make my father alter his decision.

“Then he said to me, ‘My boy, you love boats, but hate the water; when you have rendered two such contrary propositions a little more harmonious, when you are no longer afraid of wetting your precious little skin, you may voyage all you like in uncle Antoine’s boat. Until then, do not dream of doing so. One should never go in a boat unless one is capable of taking care of one’s self in case of accident.’

“The following morning we went to see uncle Antoine.

* * * * *

“My father and I at length set out. It was good to have him back, to hold his hand, and our disagreement upon one point had not seriously troubled our friendly relations. When we arrived, we found uncle Antoine, who occasionally suffered from the gout, incapable of taking a step in the garden. My father offered to give him his revenge for the game of chess which he had gained from him the year before,—the day previous to his departure.

“‘As for you, Jacques,’ said uncle Antoine, ‘as you have no gout, run away, pick my cherries, eat my strawberries, look at my roses, go and see your chickens and rabbits and feed them for me. You would perhaps do well to take along a book, your ‘Swiss Family Robinson,’ go and read it in the hammock. Take a nap, if that pleases you, but whatever you do, be good. When one is not watched, there is a double duty and a double merit in being good.’

“‘I will add,’ put in my father, ‘that you may go in the path by the edge of the water, and you will do well to watch attentively what goes on in the river. Flowing water is an instructive spectacle for a boy like you.’

“‘Instructive?’ queried my uncle.

“‘Full of information,’ answered my father. ‘It is in the water that the fishes swim. It is in the water also that Jacques will have to swim very shortly,—like a fish.’

“‘Like a fish?’ said my uncle. ‘Then you will have to give him fins.’

“‘One doesn’t need fins to swim with,’ replied my father. ‘Frogs do not have them, yet they manage to swim beautifully. If Jacques will examine those which he disturbs when he approaches the bank, if he studies the way they keep their heads out of the water in order to breathe, and the art with which they manage their arms and legs, in directing themselves about in that beautiful fresh water which so frightens your nephew, he will receive from these little animals a swimming lesson superior to any that your gardener can give him.’

“‘That is very true’, uncle Antoine replied. ‘Go, Jacques,—go take your lesson. It has never before occurred to me what services my frogs could render you.’

“I was about to start, when my father stopped me with a gesture.

“‘You understand, do you not Jacques, exactly what you are permitted to do? I have still, however, to tell you what you must not do: you are not to set foot upon the St. Jacques; this is forbidden until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?’

“‘Yes, father, I understand, but⸺’

“‘There isn’t any “but,”’ replied my father.

“Uncle Antoine threw me a compassionate look. However, this look was only meant to say: ‘I am sorry, Jacques, but your father has spoken. I have nothing to say.’

“I did, one after another, the things which were authorized. I ate some cherries, I picked some strawberries, gave grain to the chickens, and cabbage-leaves to our rabbits. I re-read, lying in the hammock, two chapters of my ‘Swiss Family Robinson,’ but, far from making me sleepy, this book awoke in me a longing for adventure. I then directed my steps towards the river. I had, however, the wisdom not to go in the direction of the boat,—that is to say, in the direction of temptation. I regarded the flowing water curiously, and found real pleasure in doing so. My uncle’s river was not one of those lazy streams of which the movement is imperceptible. How could it rest mute between its borders, when it was forced to carry its fresh water past the lands of a hundred owners, which, from the right and the left, cried to it—‘Wet us,’ ‘Refresh us,’ ‘We are dying of thirst.’

“It certainly was a spectacle well worth seeing, this continuous flow of clear water over a bed of golden sand, dotted here and there with flexible green plants, which, swaying with every movement of the tide make such charming little retreats for the fish. The minnows and gudgeon glided like shadows between the few large stones which took the place of reefs on this miniature coast. Their goings and comings amused me very much, and I made up my mind that some day one could apply to me as to them the proverb, ‘Happy as a fish in the water.’ All this would have been perfect, if little by little I had not approached the spot where, under the boughs and between the roots of an enormous willow, my uncle had anchored the famous St. Jacques. Desiring not to disobey my father. I had made up my mind not to look at the St. Jacques, not to take a step towards it; this was prudent, but it was ordained that I should break my word that day. Reasons for doing so were not lacking: first—the portion of the walk by the water where I intended to stay being in the hot sun, I had not seen a single frog; the hot herbage did not suit them.

“To take my swimming lesson it was necessary to go to the side where the boat was moored. Only under the willows, and in the damp grass which surrounded the Bay St. Jacques, could I hope to find them. Second—as my father was anxious that I should study how frogs swam, I had made a mistake in keeping away from the only place where I stood some chance of finding them. I knew well that there alone could they always be seen. Besides, going _near_ the St. Jacques was not the same thing as going _on_ the St. Jacques. Third—it is not difficult to refrain from getting into a boat, even when one has a great desire to do so. So I pushed aside the long branches of the great willow which hung down to the ground, and found myself in the presence of the St. Jacques. What a beautiful boat she was! Since I had last seen her my uncle had had her repainted. Her new costume of mingled red and white suited her marvelously; her mast,—there was a mast,—painted also, was even more beautiful than one of those lovely paper wind-mills that one’s parents never buy one. Her pennant had also been renewed. It was certainly for my father’s return that uncle Antoine had gone to the expense of this brilliant _toilette_. The hull hardly stirred. Its imperceptible balancings on the water resembled the quiet breathing of a sleeping person. Under the transparent veil of the drooping branches of the weeping willow, no breath could reach it. The St. Jacques had the air of a little potentate in repose, under a canopy of verdure. If papa had not forbidden me to get in the little boat, it would have been delightful to read my ‘Swiss Family Robinson’ out upon the water. Sitting in the bow, leaning against the mast, one might imagine one’s self on an island. But then, that which is forbidden one can not prevent from being forbidden.”

“I tried at first to think of nothing but frogs. But, as if on purpose, not one showed himself. I was sure they were hiding in the shadow of the boat. I went up quite close to the St. Jacques, and still nothing jumped into the water. Decidedly, and in spite of all my good intentions, I was not to take my swimming lesson that day. But what were those three green spots that I saw down there on the white edge of the boat? They were,—yes, they were three frogs taking a nap at their ease, as if the St. Jacques belonged to them.

“One could not tolerate a thing of that sort. I stepped gently over the edge of the boat to chase away the trespassers. Paf, paf, paf, with a single hop, each of them made one of those famous dives of which my father had spoken. Now or never was the moment to ask them for a lesson. I did not fail to do so. I was lost in admiration of their talent. Papa was right; a frog swims to perfection. It swims so correctly and elegantly that by its vigorous, regular movements, one understands clearly what one ought to do if one happened to be in its place. This sort of lesson, illustrated by an example, shows one much better what movements to make than when the gardener holds you under the stomach, and shouts you don’t know what in your ears. If father should throw me into the water, I should think of the frogs: I should do as they did, and I should certainly swim.

_Drawn by Clinton Peters._]

“I had reached this point in my resolutions, when the sound of something heavy falling suddenly into the water made me raise my head. The noise was followed by a cry, and this cry by five or six others.

“That which made the noise was something which looked like a big blue package, which was squirming and beating the water frequently, across by the opposite bank.

“I looked with all my eyes, and was filled with horror in recognizing the little boy—still in dresses—of the gardener across the stream whom I had sometimes seen from the bank. The poor little one—I should be more correct in saying the poor big one—had evidently escaped from his mother, and had taken advantage of the occasion to come alone to the river, and turning a summersault by mistake, was now in danger of drowning. He was not exactly happy. He cried like a little madman in the instants when his crimson face emerged from the water, and, by a sort of instinct, beat the water with both hands and feet.