Chapter M: R. S. Andrews: The Perfect Tribute; François Coppee: The (5)

Once-t in a while he’ll git out with the whole of ’em, an’ that was
how wife come to open the home school for him. She was determined
his edjercation shouldn’t be interrupted ef she could help it. She
don’t encour’ge him much to go to her school, though, ’cause it
interrupts her in her housekeepin’ consider’ble, an’ she’s had extry
quilt-patchin’ on hand ever since he come. She’s patchin’ him a set
’ginst the time he’ll marry.

An’ then I reckon he frets her a good deal in school. Somehow, seems
like he thess picks up enough in the other schools to be able to
conterdic’ her ways o’ teachin’.

F’ instance, in addin’ up a colume o’ figgers, ef she comes to a
aught—which some calls ’em naughts—she’ll say, “Aught’s a aught,”
an’ Sonny ain’t been learned to say it that a-way; an’ so maybe when
she says, “Aught’s a aught,” he’ll say, “Who said it wasn’t?” an’
that puts her out in countin’.

He’s been learned to thess pass over aughts an’ not call their
names; and once-t or twice-t, when wife called ’em out that a-way,
why, he got so fretted he thess gethered up his things an’ went to
another school. But seem like she’s added aughts that a-way so long
she can’t think to add ’em no other way.

I notice nights after she’s kept school for Sonny all day she talks
consider’ble in her sleep, an’ she says, “Aught’s a aught” about ez
often ez she says anything else.

Oh, yas, sir; he’s had consider’ble fusses with his teachers, one
way an’ another, but they ever’ one declare they think a heap of
’im.

Sir? Oh, yas, sir; of co’se they all draw their reg’lar pay whether
he’s a day in school du’in’ the month or not. That’s right enough,
’cause you see they don’t know what day he’s li’ble to drop in on
’em, an’ it’s worth the money thess a-keepin’ their nerves strung
for ’im.

Well, yas, sir; ’t is toler’ble expensive, lookin’ at it one way,
but lookin’ at it another, it don’t cost no mo’ ’n what it would to
edjercate three child’en, which many poor families have to do—_an’
more_—which in our united mind Sonny’s worth ’em all.

Yas, sir; ’t is confusin’ to him in some ways, goin’ to all three
schools at once-t.

F’ instance, Miss Alviry Sawyer, which she’s a single-handed maiden
lady ’bout wife’s age, why, of co’se, she teaches accordin’ to the
old rules; an’ in learnin’ the child’en subtraction, f’ instance,
she’ll tell ’em, ef they run short to borry one f’om the nex’ lef’
han’ top figur’, an’ pay it back to the feller underneath him.

Well, this didn’t suit Sonny’s sense o’ jestice _no way_, borryin’
from one an’ payin’ back to somebody else; so he thess up an’ argued
about it—told her thet fellers thet borried nickels f’om one another
couldn’t pay back that a-way; an’ of co’se she told him they was
heap o’ difference ’twix’ money and ’rithmetic——which I wish’t they
was more in my experience; an’ so they had it hot and heavy for a
while, till at last she explained to him thet that way of doin’
subtraction _fetched the answer_, which, of co’se, ought to satisfy
any school-boy; an’ I reckon Sonny would soon ’a’ settled into that
way ’ceptin’ thet he got out o’ patience with that school in sev’al
ways, an’ he left an’ went out to Sandy Crik school, and it thess
happened that he struck a subtraction class there the day he got in,
an’ they was workin’ it the _other_ way—borry one from the top
figur’ an’ never pay it back at all, thess count it off (that’s the
way I’ve worked my lifelong subtraction, though wife does hers
payin’ back), an’ of co’se Sonny was ready to dispute this way, an’
he didn’t have no mo’ tac’ than to th’ow up Miss Alviry’s way to the
teacher, which of co’se he wouldn’t stand, particular ez Miss
Alviry’s got the biggest school. So they broke up in a row,
immejate, and Sonny went right along to Miss Kellog’s school down
here at the cross-roads.

She’s a sort o’ reformed teacher, I take it; an’ she gets at her
subtraction by a new route altogether—like ez ef the first feller
thet had any surplus went sort o’ security for them thet was short,
an’ passed the loan down the line. But I noticed he never got his
money back, for when they come to him, why, they docked him. I
reckon goin’ security is purty much the same in an out o’ books. She
passes the borryin’ along some way till it gits to headquarters, an’
writes a new row o’ figur’s over the heads o’ the others. Well, my
old brain got so addled watchin’ Sonny work it thet I didn’t seem to
know one figur’ f’om another ’fo’ he got thoo; but when I see the
answer come, why, I was satisfied. Ef a man can thess git his
answers right all his life, why nobody ain’t a-goin’ to pester him
about how he worked his figur’s.

I did try to get Sonny to stick to one school for each rule in
’rithmetic, an’ havin’ thess fo’ schools, why he could learn each o’
the fo’ rules by one settled plan. But he won’t promise nothin’.
He’ll quit for lessons one week, and maybe next week somethin’
else’ll decide him. (He’s quit ever’ one of ’em in turn when they
come to long division.) He went thoo a whole week o’ disagreeable
lessons once-t at one school ’cause he was watchin’ a bird-nest on
the way to that school. He was determined them young birds was to be
allowed to leave that nest without bein’ pestered, an’ they stayed
so long they purty nigh run him into long division ’fo’ they did
fly. Ef he’d ’a’ missed school one day he knowed two sneaky chaps
thet would ’a’ robbed that nest, either goin’ or comin’.

Of co’se Sonny goes to the exhibitions an’ picnics of all the
schools. Last summer we had a time of it when it come picnic season.
Two schools set the same day for theirs, which of co’se wasn’t no
ways fair to Sonny. He payin’ right along in all the schools, of
co’se he was entitled to all the picnics; so I put on my Sunday
clo’es, an’ I went down an’ had it fixed right. They all wanted
Sonny, too, come down to the truth, ’cause besides bein’ fond of
him, they knowed thet Sonny always fetched a big basket.

Trouble with Sonny is thet he don’t take nothin’ on nobody’s say-so,
don’t keer who it is. He even commenced to dispute Moses one Sunday
when wife was readin’ the Holy Scriptures to him, tell of co’se she
made him understand thet that wouldn’t do. Moses didn’t intend to
_be_ conterdicted.

An’ ez to secular lessons, he ain’t got no respec’ for ’em
whatsoever. F’ instance, when the teacher learned him thet the world
was round, why he up an’ told him _’t warn’t so_, less’n we was on
the inside an’ it was blue-lined, which of co’se teacher he insisted
thet we was _on the outside_, walkin’ over it, all feet todes the
center—a thing I’ve always thought myself was mo’ easy said than
proved.

Well, sir, Sonny didn’t hesitate to deny it, an’ of co’se teacher he
commenced by givin’ him a check—which is a bad mark—for
conterdictin’. An’ then Sonny he ’lowed thet he didn’t conterdic’ to
_be_ a-conterdictin’, but he _knowed_ ’t warn’t so. He had walked
the whole len’th o’ the road ’twix’ the farm an’ the school-house,
an’ they warn’t _no bulge in it_; an’ besides, he hadn’t never saw
over the edges of it.

An’ with that teacher he give him another check for speakin’ out o’
turn. An’ then Sonny, says he, “Ef a man was tall enough he could
see around the edges, couldn’t he?” “No,” says the teacher; “a man
couldn’t grow that tall,” says he; “he’d be deformed.”

An’ Sonny, why, he spoke up again, an’ says he, “But I’m thess
a-sayin’ _ef_,” says he. “An’ teacher,” says he, “we ain’t
a-studyin’ _efs_; we’re studyin’ geoger’phy.” And then Sonny they
say he kep’ still a minute, an’ then he says, says he, “Oh, maybe he
couldn’t see over the edges, teacher, ’cause ef he was tall enough
his head might reach up into the flo’ o’ heaven.” And with that
teacher he give him another check, an’ told him not to dare to mix
up geoger’phy an’ religion, which was a sackerlege to both studies;
an’ with that Sonny gethered up his books an’ set out to another
school.

I think myself it ’u’d be thess ez well ef Sonny wasn’t quite so
quick to conterdic’; but it’s thess his way of holdin’ his p’int.

Why, one day he faced one o’ the teachers down thet two an’ two
didn’t _haf_ to make _fo’_, wh’er or no.

This seemed to tickle the teacher mightily, an’ so he laughed an’
told him he was goin’ to give him rope enough to hang hisself now,
an’ then he dared him to show him any two an’ two thet didn’t make
fo’, and Sonny says, says he, “Heap o’ two an’ twos don’t make four,
’cause they’re kep’ sep’rate,” says he.

“An’ then,” says he, “I don’t want my two billy-goats harnessed up
with nobody else’s two billys to make fo’ billys.”

“But,” says the teacher, “suppose I _was_ to harness up yo’ two
goats with Tom Deems’s two, there’d be fo’ goats, I reckon, whether
you wanted ’em there or not.”

“No they wouldn’t,” says Sonny. “They wouldn’t be but two. ’T
wouldn’t take my team more ’n half a minute to butt the life out o’
Tom’s team.”

An’ with that little Tommy Deems, why, he commenced to cry, an’
’stid o’ punishin’ him for bein’ sech a cry-baby, what did the
teacher do but give Sonny another check, for castin’ slurs on
Tommy’s animals, an’ gettin’ Tommy’s feelin’s hurted! Which I ain’t
a-sayin’ it on account o’ Sonny bein’ my boy, but it seems to me was
a mighty unfair advantage.

No boy’s feelin’s ain’t got no right to be that tender—an’ a goat is
the last thing on earth thet could be injured by a word of mouth.

Sonny’s pets an’ beasts has made a heap o’ commotion in school one
way an’ another, somehow. Ef ’t ain’t his goats it’s somethin’ else.

Sir? Sonny’s pets? Oh, they’re all sorts. He ain’t no ways
partic’lar thess so a thing is po’ an’ miser’ble enough. That’s
about all he seems to require of anything.

He don’t never go to school hardly ’thout a garter-snake or two or a
lizard or a toad-frog somewheres about him. He’s got some o’ the
little girls at school that nervous thet if he thess shakes his
little sleeve at ’em they’ll squeal, not knowin’ what sort o’ live
critter’ll jump out of it.

Most of his pets is things he’s got by their bein’ hurted some way.

One of his toad-frogs is blind of a eye. Sonny rescued him from the
old red rooster one day after he had nearly pecked him to death, an’
he had him hoppin’ round the kitchen for about a week with one eye
bandaged up.

When a hurted critter gits good an’ strong he gen’ally turns it
loose ag’in; but ef it stays puny, why he reg’lar ’dopts it an’
names it Jones. That’s thess a little notion o’ his, namin’ his pets
the family name.

The most outlandish thing he ever ’dopted, to my mind, is that old
yaller cat. That was a miser’ble low-down stray cat thet hung round
the place a whole season, an’ Sonny used to vow he was goin’ to kill
it, ’cause it kep’ a-ketchin’ the birds.

Well, one day he happened to see him thess runnin’ off with a young
mockin’-bird in his mouth, an’ he took a brickbat an’ he let him
have it, an’ of co’se he dropped the bird an’ tumbled over—stunted.
The bird it got well, and Sonny turned him loose after a few days;
but that cat was hurted fatal. He couldn’t never no mo’ ’n drag
hisself around from that day to this; an’ I reckon ef Sonny was
called on to give up every pet he’s got, that cat would be ’bout the
last thing he’d surrender. He named him Tommy Jones, an’ he never
goes to school of a mornin’, rain or shine, till Tommy Jones is fed
f’om his own plate with somethin’ he’s left for him special.

Of co’se Sonny he’s got his faults, which anybody’ll tell you; but
th’ ain’t a dumb brute on the farm but’ll foller him around—an’
Dicey, why, she thinks they never was such another boy born into the
world—that is, not no human child.

An’ wife an’ me—

But of co’se he’s ours.

I don’t doubt thet he ain’t constructed thess exac’ly ez the
school-teachers would have him, ef they had their way. Sometimes I
have thought I’d like his disposition eased up a little, myself,
when he taken a stand ag’in my jedgment or wife’s.

Takin’ ’em all round, though, the teachers has been mighty patient
with him.

At one school the teacher did take him out behind the school-house
one day to whup him; an’ although teacher is a big strong man,
Sonny’s mighty wiry an’ quick, an’ some way he slipped his holt, an’
’fo’ teacher could ketch him ag’in he had clumb up the lightnin’-rod
on to the roof thess like a cat. An’ teacher he felt purty shore of
him then, ’cause he ’lowed they wasn’t no other way to git down
(which they wasn’t, the school bein’ a steep-sided buildin’), an’
he’d wait for him.

So teacher he set down close-t to the lightnin’-rod to wait. He
wouldn’t go back in school without him, cause he didn’t want the
child’en to know he’d got away. So down he set; but he hadn’t no mo’
’n took his seat sca’cely when he heerd the child’en in school
roa’in’ out loud, laughin’ fit to kill theirselves.

He ’lowed at first thet like ez not the monitor was cuttin’ up some
sort o’ didoes, the way monitors does gen’ally, so he waited
a-while; but it kep’ a-gittin’ worse, so d’rectly he got up, an’ he
went in to see what the excitement was about; an’ lo and beholt!
Sonny had slipped down the open chimbly right in amongst ’em—come
out a-grinnin’, with his face all sooted over, an’, says he, “Say,
fellers,” says he, “I run up the lightnin’-rod, an’ he’s a-waitin’
for me to come down.” An’ with that he went an’ gethered up his
books, deliberate, an’ fetched his hat, an’ picked up a nest o’
little chimbly-swallows he had dislodged in comin’ down (all this
here it happened thess las’ June), an’ he went out an’ harnessed up
his goat-wagon, an’ got in. An’ thess ez he driv’ out the
school-yard into the road the teacher come in, an’ he see how things
was.

Of co’se sech conduct ez that is worrisome, but I don’t see no, to
say, bad principle in it. Sonny ain’t got a bad habit on earth, not
a-one. They’ll ever’ one o’ the teachers tell you that. He ain’t
never been knowed to lie, an’ ez for improper language, why he
wouldn’t know how to select it. An’ ez to tattlin’ at home about
what goes on in school, why, he never has did it. The only way we
knowed about him comin’ down the school-house chimbly was wife went
to fetch his dinner to him, an’ she found it out.

She knowed he had went to that school in the mornin’, an’ when she
got there at twelve o’clock, why he wasn’t there, an’ of co’se she
questioned the teacher, an’ he thess told her thet Sonny had been
present at the mornin’ session, but thet he was now absent. An’ the
rest of it she picked out o’ the child’en.

Oh, no, sir; she don’t take his dinner to him reg’lar—only some days
when she happens to have somethin’ extry good, or maybe when she
’magines he didn’t eat hearty at breakfast. The school-child’en they
always likes to see her come, because she gen’ally takes a extry lot
o’ fried chicken thess for him to give away. He don’t keer much for
nothin’ but livers an’ gizzards, so we have to kill a good many to
get enough for him; an’ of co’se the fryin’ o’ the rest of it is
mighty little trouble.

Sonny is a bothersome child one way: he don’t never want to take his
dinner to school with him. Of co’se thess after eatin’ breakfas’ he
don’t feel hungry, an’ when wife does coax him to take it, he’ll
seem to git up a appetite walkin’ to school, an’ he’ll eat it up
’fo’ he gits there.

Sonny’s got a mighty noble disposition, though, take him all round.

Now, the day he slipped down that chimbly an’ run away he wasn’t a
bit flustered, an’ he didn’t play hookey the balance of the day
neither. He thess went down to the crik, an’ washed the soot off his
face, though they say he didn’t no more ’n smear it round, an’ then
he went down to Miss Phœbe’s school, an’ stayed there till it was
out. An’ she took him out to the well, an’ washed his face good for
him. But nex’ day he up an’ went back to Mr. Clark’s school—walked
in thess ez pleasant an’ kind, an’ taken his seat an’ said his
lessons—never th’owed it up to teacher at all. Now, some child’en,
after playin’ off on a teacher that a-way would a’ took advantage,
but he never. It was a fair fight, an’ Sonny whupped, an’ that’s all
there was to it; an’ he never put on no air about it.

Wife did threaten to go herself an’ make the teacher apologize for
gittin’ the little feller all sooted up an’ sp’ilin’ his clo’es; but
she thought it over, an’ she decided thet she wouldn’t disturb
things ez long ez they was peaceful. An’, after all, he didn’t
exac’ly send him down the chimbly nohow, though he provoked him to
it.

Ef Sonny had ’a’ fell an’ hurted hisself, though, in that chimbly,
I’d ’a’ helt that teacher responsible, shore.

Sonny says hisself thet the only thing he feels bad about in that
chimbly business is thet one o’ the little swallers’ wings was broke
by the fall. Sonny’s got him yet, an’ he’s li’ble to keep him, cause
he’ll never fly. Named him Swally Jones, an’ reg’lar ’dopted him
soon ez he see how his wing was.

Sonny’s the only child I ever see in my life thet could take young
chimbly-swallers after their fall an’ make ’em live. But he does it
reg’lar. They ain’t a week passes sca’cely but he fetches in some
hurted critter an’ works with it. Dicey says thet half the time
she’s afeered to step around her cookstove less’n she’ll step on
some critter thet’s crawled back to life where he’s put it under the
stove to hatch or thaw out, which she bein’ bare-feeted, I don’t
wonder at.

An’ he has did the same way at school purty much. It got so for
a-while at one school thet not a child in school could be hired to
put his hand in the wood-box, not knowin’ ef any piece o’ bark or
old wood in it would turn out to be a young alligator or toad-frog
thawin’ out. Teacher hisself picked up a chip, reckless, one day,
an’ it hopped up, and knocked off his spectacles. Of co’se it wasn’t
no chip. Hopper-toad frog an’ wood-bark chips, why, they favors
consider’ble—lay ’em same side up.

It was on account o’ her takin’ a interest in all his little beasts
an’ varmints thet he first took sech a notion to Miss Phœbe Kellog’s
school. Where any other teacher would scold about sech things ez
he’d fetch in, why, she’d encourage him to bring ’em to her; an’
she’d fix a place for ’em, an’ maybe git out some book tellin’ all
about ’em, an’ showin’ pictures of ’em.

She’s had squir’l-books, an’ bird-books, an’ books on nearly every
sort o’ wild critter you’d think too mean to _put_ into a book, at
that school, an’ give the child’en readin’-lessons on ’em an’
drawin’-lessons an’ clay-moldin’ lessons.

Why, Sonny has did his alligator so nach’l in clay thet you’d most
expec’ to see it creep away. An’ you’d think mo’ of alligators
forever afterward, too. An’ ez to readin’, he never did take no
interest in learnin’ how to read out ’n them school-readers, which
he declares don’t no more ’n git a person interested in one thing
befo’ they start on another, an’ maybe start _that_ in the middle.

The other teachers, they makes a heap o’ fun o’ Miss Phœbe’s way o’
school-teachin’, ’cause she lets the child’en ask all sorts of
outlandish questions, an’ make pictures in school hours, an’ she
don’t requi’ ’em to fold their arms in school, neither.

Maybe she is foolin’ their time away. I can’t say ez I exac’ly see
how she’s a workin’ it to edjercate ’em that a-way. I had to set
with my arms folded eight hours a day in school when I was a boy, to
learn the little I know, an’ wife she got her edjercation the same
way. An’ we went clean thoo f’om the _a-b abs_ an’ _e-b ebs_ clair
to the end o’ the blue-back speller.

An’ we learned to purnounce a heap mo’ words than either one of us
has ever needed to know, though there has been times, sech ez when
my wife’s mother took the phthisic an’ I had the asthma, thet I was
obligated to write to the doctor about it, thet I was thankful for
my experience in the blue-back speller. Them was our brag-words,
phthisic and asthma was. They’s a few other words I’ve always hoped
to have a chance to spell in the reg’lar co’se of life, sech ez
y-a-c-h-t, yacht, but I suppose, livin’ in a little inland town,
which a yacht is a boat, a person couldn’t be expected to need sech
a word—less’n he went travelin’.

I’ve often thought thet ef at the Jedgment the good Lord would only
examine me an’ all them thet went to school in my day, in the old
blue-back speller ’stid o’ tacklin’ us on the weak p’ints of our
pore mortal lives, why, we’d stand about ez good a chance o’ gettin’
to heaven ez anybody else. An’ maybe He will—who knows?

But ez for book-readin’, wife an’ me ain’t never felt called on to
read no book save an’ exceptin’ the Holy Scriptures—an’, of co’se,
the seed catalogues.

An’ here Sonny, not quite twelve year old, has read five books thoo,
an’ some of ’em twice-t an’ three times over. His _Robinson Crusoe_
shows mo’ wear ’n tear ’n what my Testament does, I’m ashamed to
say. I’ve done give Miss Phœbe free license to buy him any book she
wants him to have, an’ he’s got ’em all ’ranged in a row on the end
o’ the mantel-shelf.

Quick ez he’d git thoo readin’ a book, of co’se wife she’d be for
dustin’ it off and puttin’ up on the top closet shelf where a book
nach’ally belongs; but seem like Sonny he wants to keep ’em in
sight. So wife she’s worked a little lace shelf-cover to lay under
’em, an’ we’ve hung our framed marriage-c’tificate above ’em, an’
the corner looks right purty, come to see it fixed up.

Sir? Oh, no; we ain’t took him from none o’ the other schools yet.
He’s been goin’ to Miss Phœbe’s reg’lar now—all but the exhibition
an’ picnic days in the other schools—for nearly five months, not
countin’ off-an’-on days he went to her befo’ he settled down to it
stiddy.

He says he’s a-goin’ there reg’lar from this time on, an’ I b’lieve
he will; but wife an’ me we talked it over, an’ we decided we’d let
things stand, an’ keep his name down on all the books till sech a
time ez he come to long division with Miss Kellog.

An’ ef he stays thoo that, we’ll feel free to notify the other
schools thet he’s quit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

HER FIRST HORSE SHOW
By DAVID GRAY

SHE folded the program carefully for preservation in her
memory-book, and devoured the scene with her eyes. It was hard to
believe, but unquestionably Angelica Stanton, in the flesh, was in
Madison Square Garden at the horse show. The great arena was
crowded; the band was playing, and a four-in-hand was swinging
around the tan-bark ring.

What had been her dream since she put away her dolls and the
flea-bitten pony was realized. The pony had been succeeded by Lady
Washington, and with Lady Washington opened the epoch when she began
to hunt with the grown-up people and to reflect upon the outside
world. From what she had gathered from the men in the hunting-field,
the outside world seemed to center in the great horse show, and most
of what was interesting and delightful in life took place there.

Besides the obvious profit of witnessing this institution, there had
arisen, later on, more serious considerations which led Angelica to
take an interest in it. Since the disappearance of Lady Washington
and the failure to trace her, Angelica’s hope was in the show.

One of the judges who had visited Jim had unwittingly laid the bases
of this hope. “All the best performers in America are exhibited
there,” he had said in the course of an interminable discussion upon
the great subject. And was not Lady Washington probably the best?
Clearly, therefore, soon or late Lady Washington would be found
winning blue ribbons at Madison Square Garden.

To this cheering conclusion the doubting Thomas within her replied
that so desirable a miracle could never be; and she cherished the
doubt, though rather to provoke contrary fate into refuting it than
because it embodied her convictions. She knew that some day Lady
Washington must come back.

After Jim had sold Lady Washington, he had been informed by Chloe,
the parlor-maid, how Angelica felt, and he repented his act. He had
tried to buy the mare back, but the man to whom he had sold her had
sold her to a dealer, and he had sold her to somebody who had gone
abroad, and no one knew what this person had done with her. So Lady
Washington had disappeared, and Angelica mourned for her. Two years
passed, two years that were filled with doubt and disappointment.
Each autumn Jim went North with his horses, but never suggested
taking Angelica. As for Angelica, the subject was too near her heart
for her to broach it. Thus it seemed that life was slipping away,
harshly withholding opportunity.

That November, for reasons of his own, Jim decided to take Angelica
along with him. When he told her of his intention, she gasped, but
made no demonstration. On the threshold of fulfilling her hope she
was afraid to exult: she knew how things are snatched away the
moment one begins to count upon them; but inwardly she was happy to
the point of apprehension. On the trip North she “knocked wood”
scrupulously every time she was lured into a day-dream which
pictured the finding of Lady Washington, and thus she gave the evil
forces of destiny no opening.

The first hour of the show overwhelmed her. It was too splendid and
mystifying to be comprehended immediately, or to permit a divided
attention. Even Lady Washington dropped out of her thoughts, but
only until the jumping classes began. The first hunter that trotted
across the tan-bark brought her back to her quest.

But after two days the mystery was no more a mystery, and the
splendor had faded out. The joy of it had faded out, too. For two
days she had pored over the entry-lists and had studied every horse
that entered the ring; but the search for Lady Washington had been a
vain one. Furthermore, all the best horses by this time had appeared
in some class, and the chances of Lady Washington’s turning up
seemed infinitesimal. Reluctantly she gave up hope. She explained it
to herself that probably there had been a moment of vainglorious
pride when she had neglected to “knock wood.” She would have liked
to discuss it with somebody; but Chloe and her colored mammy, who
understood such matters, were at the “Pines” in Virginia, and Jim
would probably laugh at her; so she maintained silence and kept her
despair to herself.

It was the evening of the third day, and she was at the show again,
dressed in her habit, because she was going to ride. Her brother was
at the other end of the Garden, hidden by a row of horses. He was
waiting to show in a class of park hacks. There was nothing in it
that looked like Lady Washington, and she turned her eyes away from
the ring with a heavy heart. The band had stopped playing, and there
was no one to talk to but her aunt’s maid, and this maid was not
companionable. She fell to watching the people in the boxes; she
wished that she knew some of them. There was a box just below her
which looked attractive. There were two pretty women in it, and some
men who looked as if they were nice; they were laughing and seemed
to be having a good time. She wished she was with them, or home, or
anywhere else than where she was.

Presently the music struck up again; the hum of the innumerable
voices took a higher pitch. The ceaseless current of promenaders
staring and bowing at the boxes went slowly around and around.
Nobody paid any attention to the horses, but all jostled and
chattered and craned their necks to see the people. When her
brother’s Redgauntlet took the blue ribbon in the heavy-weight
green-hunter class, not a person in the whole Garden applauded
except herself. She heard a man ask, “What took the blue?” And she
heard his friend answer, “Southern horse, I believe; don’t know the
owner.” They didn’t even know Jim! She would have left the place and
gone back to her aunt’s for a comfortable cry, but she was going to
ride Hilda in the ladies’ saddle class, which came toward the end of
the evening.

The next thing on the program were some qualified hunters which
might be expected to show some good jumping. This was something to
be thankful for, and she turned her attention to the ring.

“I think I’ll go down on the floor,” she said to the maid. “I’m
tired of sitting still.”

In theory Miss Angelica Stanton was at the horse show escorted by
her brother; but in fact she was in the custody of Caroline, the
maid of her aunt Henrietta Cushing, who lived in Washington Square.
Miss Cushing was elderly, and she disapproved of the horse show
because her father had been a charter member of the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and because to go to it in the
afternoon interfered with her drive and with her tea, while to go to
it in the evening interfered with her whist, and that was not to be
thought of. Consequently, when Angelica arrived, the horse show
devolved upon Caroline, who accepted the situation not altogether
with resignation. She had done Miss Cushing’s curls for twenty
years, and had absorbed her views.

Angelica would have preferred stopping at the hotel with Jim; but
that, he said, was out of the question. Jim admitted that Aunt
Henrietta was never intentionally entertaining, but he said that
Angelica needed her womanly influence. Jim had brought up Angelica,
and the problem sometimes seemed a serious one. She was now sixteen,
and he was satisfied that she was going to be a horsewoman, but at
times he doubted whether his training was adequate in other
respects, and that was why he had brought her to the horse show and
had incarcerated her at Aunt Henrietta’s.

The girl led Caroline through the crowd, and took a position at the
end, between the first and last jumps. As the horses were shown,
they went round the ring, came back, and finished in front of them.
It was the best place from which to watch, if one wished to see the
jumping.

Angelica admitted to herself that some of the men rode pretty well,
but not as well as some of the men rode at their out-of-door shows
at home; and the tan-bark was not as good as turf. It was a large
class, and after eight or ten had been shown, a striking-looking
black mare came out of the line and started plunging and rearing
toward the first jump. Her rider faced her at the bars, and she
minced reluctantly forward. Just before they reached the wings the
man struck her. She stopped short and whirled back into the ring.

From the time the black mare appeared Angelica’s heart almost
stopped beating. “I’m sure of it, I’m sure of it!” she gasped.
“Three white feet and the star. Caroline,” she said, “that’s Lady
Washington. He oughtn’t to strike her. He mustn’t!”

“Hush, miss,” said Caroline. “We’ll be conspicuous.”

The man was bringing the mare back toward the jump. As before, he
used his whip, intending to drive her into the wings, and, as
before, she stopped, reared angrily, wheeled about, and came back
plunging. The man quieted her after a little, and turned her again
toward the hurdle. It was his last chance. She came up sulkily,
tossing her head and edging away from the bars. As he got near the
wings he raised his whip again. Then the people in that part of the
Garden heard a girl’s shrill, excited voice cry out: “You mustn’t
hit her! Steady, Lady Washington! Drop your curb!” The black mare’s
ears went forward at the sound of the voice. The young man on her
back put down his uplifted whip and loosened the rein on the bit. He
glanced around with an embarrassed smile, and the next instant he
was over the jump, and the mare was galloping for the hurdle beyond.

Suddenly Angelica became conscious that several thousand people were
staring at her with looks of wonder and amusement. Caroline clutched
her arm and dragged her away from the rail. The girl colored, and
shook herself free.

“I don’t care,” she said. “He shouldn’t have hit her. She can jump
anything if she’s ridden right. I knew we’d find her,” she muttered
excitedly. “I knew it!”

Caroline struggled desperately through the crowd with her charge.

“Whatever will Miss Cushing say!” she gasped.

Angelica forgot the crowd. “I don’t care,” she said. “If Aunt
Henrietta had ever owned Lady Washington she’d have done the same
thing. And if you tell her I’ll pay you back. She’ll know that you
let me leave my seat, and she told you not to.” This silenced
Caroline.

“There! He’s fussed her mouth again,” she went on. The black mare
had refused, and was rearing at the jump next the last. The girl
stood on tiptoe and watched impatiently for a moment.

“There she goes,” she murmured, with a sigh. The judges had ordered
the horse out.

Angelica tagged along disconsolately through the crowd till a
conversation between two men who were leaning against the rail
caught her ear.

“I wonder who that little girl was,” said one. “The mare seemed to
know her voice, but Reggie doesn’t call her Lady Washington.”

“No—Hermione,” said the other. “He may have changed it, though,” he
added. “He gives them all names beginning with H.”

“You’ll have an easy time beating him in the five-foot-six jumps,”
said the first man. “It’s a good mare, but he can’t ride her.”

Angelica wondered who they were, but they turned around just then,
and she dropped her eyes and hurried after Caroline.

As they made their way through the crowd, a nudge from the maid took
her thoughts from Lady Washington. She had been wondering how she
would find the young man who had ridden her. She looked up and saw
that a man was bowing to her. It was Mr. “Billy” Livingstone. Mr.
Livingstone was nearly sixty, but he had certain qualities of
permanent youth which made him “Billy” to three generations.

“Hello, Angelica!” he exclaimed. “When did you turn up? How you’ve
grown!”

“I came up North with Jim,” she replied.

“You should have let me know,” he said. “You know Jim never writes
any one. This is the first time I’ve been here. I’m just back from
the country. Where’s your box—that is, who are you with?”

“I’m here with my maid,” said Angelica, with a somewhat conscious
dignity. “Jim is with the horses.”

Livingstone looked from the slender girl to the substantial
Caroline, and the corners of his mouth twitched.

“I prefer to be alone this way,” she explained. “It’s more
independent.”

Mr. Livingstone thought a moment. “Of course that’s so,” he said.
“But I think I’ve got a better plan; let’s hunt up Mrs. Dicky
Everett.”

“Is she an old woman?” asked Angelica.

“Not so terribly old,” said Mr. Livingstone. “I suppose you’d call
her middle-aged.”

“Thirty?” asked Angelica.

“Near it, I’m afraid,” he answered.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Angelica. “That’s pretty old. She won’t
have anything to say to me.”

“She knows something about a horse,” said Livingstone, “though, of
course, she can’t ride the way you do. If you find her stupid, I’ll
take you away; but I want you to come because she will be very nice
to me for bringing you.”

He turned to Caroline. “I’m a friend of Miss Stanton’s brother. Go
to your seat, and I’ll bring Miss Stanton back to you.”

Then he led the way up the stairs, and Angelica followed, wondering
what sort of person Mrs. “Dicky” Everett might be.

She cheered herself with the thought that she could not be any older
or more depressing than Aunt Henrietta, and if she was fond of
horses she might know who owned Lady Washington.

Livingstone consulted his program. “It’s down on this side,” he
said. She followed him mechanically, with her eyes wandering toward
the ring, till presently they stopped.

“Hello!” she heard them call to Livingstone, as he stepped in ahead
of her, and the next moment she realized that she was in the very
box which she had watched from her seat among the chairs.

“I want to present you to my friend Miss Stanton,” Livingstone said.
He repeated the names, but they made no impression upon her, because
there, standing in front of her, was the young man who had ridden
Lady Washington.

“You seem to know each other,” said Livingstone. “Am I wasting my
breath? Is this a joke?”

He looked at Angelica. She was speechless with mixed joy and
embarrassment.

“Come here, my dear,” said one of the two pretty women, “and sit
down beside me. Miss Stanton,” she went on to Livingstone, “very
kindly tried to teach Reggie how to ride Hermione, and we are glad
to have the chance to thank her.”

“I don’t understand at all,” said Livingstone. “But there are so
many things that I shall never understand that one more makes no
difference.”

Angelica’s self-confidence began to come back.

“Why, he was riding Lady Washington with a whip,” she explained.
“And I just called out to him not to. You remember Lady
Washington,—she was a four-year-old when you were at the Pines,—and
you know you never could touch her with a whip.”

“I remember very well,” said Livingstone. “You flattered me by
offering to let me ride her, an offer which, I think, I declined.
When did you sell her?”

“Two years ago,” said Angelica.

Then the other young woman spoke. “But how did you recognize the
horse?” she asked. “You haven’t seen it for two years.”

“Recognize her!” exclaimed Angelica. “I guess if you had ever owned
Lady Washington you would have recognized her. I broke her as a
two-year-old, and schooled her myself. Jim says she’s the best mare
we ever had.” Angelica looked at the woman pityingly. She was
sweet-looking and had beautiful clothes, but she was evidently a
goose.

“Miss Stanton won the high jump with the mare,” Livingstone
remarked, “at their hunt show down in Virginia.”

“It was only six feet,” said the girl, “but she can do better than
that. Jim wouldn’t let me ride her at anything bigger.”

“I should hope not,” said the lady by whose side she was sitting.
Then she asked suddenly, “You are not Jimmie Stanton’s sister?”

“Yes,” said Angelica.

“I’d like to know why he hasn’t brought you to see me!”

“He’s awfully busy with the horses,” the girl replied. “He has to
stop at the Waldorf and see about the show with the men, and he
makes me stay with Aunt Henrietta Cushing.” She stopped abruptly.
She was afraid that what she had said might sound disloyal. “I like
to stop with Aunt Henrietta,” she added solemnly. “Besides, I’ve
been busy looking for Lady Washington.”

The young man whom they called Reggie, together with Mr. Livingstone
and the lady beside Angelica, laughed openly at this allusion to
Miss Cushing.

“Do you know her?” asked Angelica.

“Oh, everybody knows your Aunt Henrietta,” said the lady.

“And loves her,” added Livingstone, solemnly.

The lady laughed a little. “You see, she’s connected with nearly
everybody. She’s a sort of connection of Reggie’s and mine, so I
suppose we’re sort of cousins of yours. I hope you will like us.”

“I don’t know much about my relations on my mother’s side,” Angelica
observed. The distinction between connections and relatives had
never been impressed upon her. She was about to add that Jim said
that his New York relatives tired him, but caught herself. She
paused uneasily.

“Please excuse me,” she said, “but I didn’t hear Mr. Livingstone
introduce me to you.”

“Why,” said Livingstone, who overheard, “this is Mrs. Everett. I
told you we were coming into her box.

“I thought she must have stepped out,” said Angelica. “You told me
she was middle-aged.”

A peal of laughter followed.

“Angelica! Angelica!” Livingstone exclaimed.

“But you did,” said Angelica. “I asked you if she was an old lady,
and you said, ‘Not so terribly old—middle-aged.’ And she’s not;
she’s young.”

“Things can never be as they were before,” said Livingstone,
mournfully, as the laughter died away.

“No,” said Mrs. Everett.

There was a pause, and one of the men turned to Reggie. “What are
you going to do about the five-foot-six jumps?”

“Let it go,” said Reggie.

“It’s a pity,” said the other. “If you had met Miss Stanton earlier
in the evening, I think she could have taught you to ride that mare.
I wanted to see you win your bet.”

“Bet?” said Livingstone.

“Reggie’s such an idiot,” said Mrs. Everett. “He bet Tommy Post that
Hermione would beat his chestnut in the five-foot-six jumps, and
Reggie can’t make Hermione jump at all, so he’s lost.”

“Not yet; I’ve got a chance,” said Reggie, good-naturedly. “Perhaps
I’ll go in, after all.” The other men laughed.

“I should think you had made monkey enough of yourself for one
evening,” observed Palfrey, who was his best friend and could say
such things.

“Five feet six would be easy for Lady Washington,” said Angelica. “I
can’t get used to calling her by that new name.” She hesitated a
moment with embarrassment, and then she stammered: “Why don’t you
let _me_ ride her?”

The people in the box looked aghast.

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t do,” said Reggie, seriously. “It’s awfully
good of you, but, you see, it wouldn’t look well to put a lady on
that horse. Suppose something should happen?”

“Good of me!” the girl exclaimed. “I’d love it! I want to ride her
again so much!”

“Well,” said Reggie, “I’ll have her at the park for you tomorrow
morning. You can ride her whenever you like.”

A low cry of alarm ran through the Garden, and the conversation in
the box hushed. A tandem cart had tipped over, and the wheeler was
kicking it to pieces.

“I don’t like that sort of thing,” said Mrs. Everett, with a
shudder.

They finally righted the trap, and the driver limped off to show
that he was not hurt. The great crowd seemed to draw a long breath
of relief, and the even hum of voices went on again. The judges
began to award the ribbons, and Angelica looked down at her program.

“Dear me!” she exclaimed. “The saddle class I’m going to ride in is
next. I’m afraid I’ll be late. Good-by.”

“Good-by,” they all replied.

“Don’t you come,” she said to Livingstone. “It’s just a step.”

“I must keep my word with Caroline,” he answered, and he took her to
her seat.

“She’s immense, isn’t she?” he said, as he came back. “I’m glad
Reggie didn’t let her ride that brute. She will be killed one of
these days.”

“She’s going to be a great beauty,” said Mrs. Everett.

“She looks like her blessed mother,” said Livingstone. “I was very
fond of her mother. I think that if it hadn’t been for Stanton—”

“Stop!” interrupted Mrs. Everett. “Your heart-tragedies are too
numerous. Besides, if you _had_ married her you wouldn’t be here
trying to tell us why you didn’t.” And they all laughed, and
cheerfully condemned the judging of the tandem class.

* * * * *

The negro groom who had come up with the Stanton horses met Angelica
as she was going down-stairs into the basement where the stalls
were. Jim had not appeared, so Angelica and Caroline had started off
alone.

“Hilda’s went lame behind, Miss Angie,” the man said. “She must have
cast huhself. They ain’t no use to show huh.”

Ordinarily this calamity would have disturbed Angelica, but the
discovery of Lady Washington was a joy which could not be dimmed.

“Have you told my brother?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss Angie,” said the man. “He was gwine to tell you.”

“I want to see her,” said Angelica, and they went on toward the
stall. But what Angelica most wanted was to get among the horses and
look for a certain black mare.

Hilda was very lame, and there was fever in the hock. Angelica
patted her neck, and turned away with a side glance at Caroline,
who, she feared, would rebel at being led through the horses’
quarters. She walked down the row of stalls till she came to the
corner, then up through another passage till she stopped at a big
box-stall over the side of which stretched a black head set on a
long, thoroughbred-looking neck.

The small, fine ears, the width between the eyes, the square little
muzzle, were familiar; and there was a white star on the forehead.
But Angelica did not enumerate these things. Horses to her had
personalities and faces, just as people had them. She recognized
Lady Washington as she had recognized Mr. Livingstone. She made a
little exclamation, and, standing on tiptoe, put her arms about the
mare’s neck, and kissed it again and again.

“The dear! She remembers me!” the girl said, wiping her eyes. “It’s
Lady Washington,” she explained to Caroline. She reached up to
fondle the little muzzle, and the mare nipped playfully.

“Look out, miss,” called the stable-boy, who was sitting on a
soap-box; “she’s mean.”

“She’s no such thing,” said the girl.

“Oh, ain’t she?” said the boy.

“Well, if she is, you made her so,” retorted Angelica.

The boy grinned. “I ain’t only been in the stable two weeks,” he
said. “She caught me on the second day and nigh broke me leg. You
see her act in the ring? Mr. Haughton says he won’t ride her no
more, and she’s entered in the five-foot-six jumps.”

The girl looked thoughtfully at the boy and then at the horse. An
idea had come to her. She was reflecting upon the last words Mr.
Haughton had spoken before she left the box: “_You can ride her
whenever you like_.”

“I know,” she said aloud. “I’m going to ride her in that class. I’m
Miss Stanton. I used to own her, you know. My saddle is down there
with Mr. Stanton’s horses, and I want you to go and get it.”

“Oh, never, Miss Angelica!” exclaimed Caroline. “Dear me, not that!”

“You hush,” said Angelica.

The stable-boy looked at her incredulously. “I ain’t had no orders,
miss,” he said. “I’ll have to see William. Did Mr. Haughton say you
might?”

“Of course he said I might,” she replied.

The boy said no more and went off after William.

“Of course he said I might,” she repeated half aloud. “Didn’t he say
I might ride her ‘whenever I wanted to’? ‘Whenever’ is any time, and
I want to now.” She fortified herself behind this sophistry, but she
was all in a flutter lest Jim or Mr. Haughton should appear. The
thought, however, of being on Lady Washington’s back, and showing
people that she wasn’t sulky and bad-tempered, was a temptation too
strong to be resisted.

The boy came back with the head groom, to whom he had explained the
matter.

“Why, miss,” said William, “she’d kill you. I wouldn’t want to show
her myself. Mr. Haughton, miss, must have been joking. Honest, miss,
you couldn’t ride Hermione.” The man was respectful but firm.

“Think what Miss Cushing would say,” said Caroline.

“But I tell you I can,” retorted Angelica. She paid no attention to
Caroline; her temper flashed up. “You don’t seem to understand. I
owned that mare when she was Lady Washington, and broke her all
myself, and schooled her, too. Mr. Haughton hasn’t any ‘hands,’ and
he ought to know better than to raise a whip on her.”

William grinned at the unvarnished statement about his master’s
“hands.”

“Are you the young lady what called out to him in the ring?” he
asked.

“Yes, I am,” said Angelica. “And if he’d done what I told him to she
would have won. Here’s our Emanuel,” she went on. “He’ll tell you I
can ride her. Emanuel,” she demanded, as the negro approached,
“haven’t I ridden Lady Washington?”

“You jest have, Miss Angie,” said Emanuel. “Why,” said he, turning
to William, “this heah young lady have rode that maah ovah six feet.
She done won the high jump at ouah hunt show. That’s Lady Washington
all right,” he went on, looking at the head poked out over the
stall. “I got huh maahk on mah ahm foh to remembah huh.”

The stable-boy grinned.

“Well, she never bit me,” said Angelica.

“The young lady,” said William, doubtfully, “wants to ride her in
the five-foot-six class. She says Mr. Haughton said she might.”

“Oh, Miss Angelica,” interposed Caroline, “you’ll be kilt!”

“You’re a goose,” said Angelica. “I’ve ridden her hundreds of
times.”

“I don’t know how Mistah Jim would like it,” said Emanuel; “but she
could ride that maah all right, you jest bet.”

William was getting interested. He was not so concerned about Mr.
Stanton’s likes as he was that his stable should take some ribbons.

“Mr. Haughton said you might ride her?” he repeated.

“Of course he did,” said Angelica; “I just left him in Mrs.
Everett’s box, and I’ve got my own saddle and everything.”

“All right, miss,” said William. “Get the saddle, Tim.”

William did not believe that Mr. Haughton had given any such orders,
but he had gotten into trouble not long before by refusing to give a
mount to a friend of Haughton’s whom he did not know and who came
armed only with verbal authority. He knew that if any harm was done
he could hide behind that occurrence.

“I want a double-reined snaffle,” said Angelica. “Emanuel,” she
added, “you have the bit I used to ride her with. Bring my own
bridle.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to hold her, miss,” muttered William;
“but it’s as you say. Hurry up with that saddle,” he called to the
stable-boy. “We ain’t got no time to lose. They’re callin’ the class
now. You’re number two, miss; I’ll get your number for you.”

“You’ll be kilt! You’ll be kilt!” said Caroline, dolefully. “Think
what Miss Cushing will say!”

“Caroline,” said Angelica, “you don’t know anything about horses, so
you hush.” And then she added under her breath, “If I can only get
started before Jim sees me!”

* * * * *

In the Everett box they were waiting for the five-foot-six class to
begin. They called it the five-foot-six class because there were
four jumps that were five feet six inches high; the others were an
even five feet. It was the “sensational event” of the evening. Thus
far the show had been dull.

“Those saddle-horses were an ordinary lot,” observed Reggie.

“This isn’t opening very well, either,” said Palfrey. The first
horse had started out by refusing. Then he floundered into the jump
and fell.