Chapter I: Front Matter

MY TUSSLE
WITH THE DEVIL

_AND OTHER STORIES_

By
O. HENRY’S GHOST

I. M. Y. COMPANY
NEW YORK
1918

Copyright, 1918,
by I. M. Y. Company

The Barrage Fire

I feel I cannot give O. Henry’s Ghost better ammunition with which to meet his critics than a bit of truth voiced by Joan in one of Algernon Blackwood’s wonderful books.

“The beloved dead step nearer when their bodies drop aside. They know where they are and what they are doing. It’s not for us to worry--in that way. And they are _out of hours and minutes_.”

To meet the onslaught of you, Mr. Scoffer and Mr. Skeptic, who will say, “Impossible! They are not a bit like O. Henry’s stories! They lack all his virility, etc., etc.” I say at once, of course they are different! Where before his stories were written in the bold black and red of human passions, which belong to materiality, now, they must of necessity be pastel in hue and delicate gossamer things, for O. Henry’s Ghost is using finer material to mold his creations. The land where he dwells is subject to a different rate of vibration, and as the rhythm must be totally unlike, it is natural that the thoughts should flow and take form in the vehicle of poets.

But one characteristic is dominant still--the completeness of each Pastel. Not a word more is needed to complete a picture or convey an emotion, and while the aspiration of O. Henry’s Ghost has changed and he deals with higher, finer forces and desires, he still retains his mastery of the short story.

Attack from all sides, if you will, but the only guns you can fire are, “I believe” and “I think,” which shall bring forth in reply the bomb “I KNOW!!”

Because the spirit known as O. Henry came before the curtain on this particular stage in the garb of heavy woolen materiality, thundering vivid, scarlet tales, is no reason why, having made his exit,--after playing out his role,--he should not return in a different characterization and in chiffon garb.

If he is not recognized in the new one upon his entrance it is no evidence that the same spirit does not animate both, and the perfection of detail and artistry in both characterizations is convincing proof of the same dominant spirit.

While the stories necessarily reflect in their style the high aspiration that prompted them, they prove, as O. Henry’s Ghost so vividly remarked, that a leopard can change its spots.

Flashes of the O. Henry who wrote “The Man About Town” are found in the bits of personal conversation from O. Henry’s Ghost, and the old and new are blended in the following birthday greeting: “I give you my gladsome wish for a comrade and gratitude for opening the doors to a scrivener. If it was the olden days I should have been foolish enough to say ‘Have a drink to celebrate.’ Now I shall tell you to take a whiff of ambrosia fit for gods and shall join you with a gladsome spirit. Here’s how!”

The sledge hammer blows wielded by the personality of O. Henry can only dull to insensibility and bring forth a murmur of “I think” and “I believe,” while the darting shafts of O. Henry’s Ghost will pierce the clouds and bring forth the chorus of “I know” to those who, having eyes--see--and having ears--hear!

It is today the same as when Plato said:

“Strange times are these in which we live, forsooth:
When old and young are taught in Falsehood’s School!
And the one man who dares to tell the Truth
Is called at once a ‘Lunatic’ and ‘Fool.’”

But at any rate, they go forth at the request of O. Henry’s Ghost and with the belief that the beauty of thought will be a joyful remembrance of one who was known as O. Henry.

PARMA.

June 27th, 1918.
158 Ocean Boulevard,
Atlantic Highlands,
New Jersey.

Contents

=Comments= 13

=“Over There”= 33

=Foreword= 37

MY TUSSLE WITH THE DEVIL 41

THE CONTEST 57

SLEEPING 67

YEARNING 75

ANIMALS--
Weariness-- I. The King 87
II. The Toiler 88
The Slave 91

FLOWERS--
Missionaries 101

JEWELS--
Multitudes 107

REMEMBRANCES 113

MUNITIONS 119

GOING HOME 127

MY HEARTH 135

THE THREE H’S 143

THE SENSES 161

FANCIES--
Fancies 167
Trusting 170
Thoughts 171
Thinking 172

YESTERDAY--TO-DAY 177

ACTION--REACTION 189

A VISION 195

Transcriber’s Note

Comments

THE COMING OF THE STORIES

From the first we used the Ouija Board not as a toy, but as a serious medium through which we received guidance in our affairs and teachings of the Great Law of Life, for which we were searching. We were determined to have only the truth, and so we eliminated the frivolous and deceiving, who are ever on the watch for the ignorant user of the “Board”--to amuse themselves with his credulity, or through sheer devilishness to lead him to disaster--material and spiritual.

Those with whom we talked were Great Invisible Teachers--who were on the Earth plane to help humanity--and a close relative whose development we followed with intense interest, and to whose advice in critical moments we owe much.

This was the situation when early in September, 1917, we were told that if we would sit at the “Board” each afternoon about four-thirty o’clock, with a positive determination to receive only that which was worth while, and shut the door at once to anyone whose offerings did not reach a high standard, we would receive things that would surprise us.

Accordingly, on September 18, 1917, we waited results--they came as follows:

“_My little talent I suppose you will consider insufficient._”

“Who are you?” we asked.

“_Useless to give name_,” came the answer. “_If you do not know when the story is finished, it is N. G._”

“_I wish to tell the world what is theirs for the asking. To try and give them a new viewpoint in place of their erroneous ideas._”

“_I did not know as much then as I do now. Before I wrote what the Self saw only--now it is what I know._”

“We’ll take a chance--go ahead,” I said.

Then followed a story called “The Contest.”

How do we know it was the spirit of O. Henry? We will let the record speak for itself. The truth always carries conviction, except to minds the doors of which are double-barred.

It was evidently the first time this Spirit had used a Ouija Board, for he was not sure of the location of the letters, and after the first paragraph said:

“_My force is insufficient; it tires me to spell each word so slowly._”

We told him to go as fast as he liked. He soon learned how to apply his force, and all went smoothly.

When the story ended, I wrote the name “_O. Henry_” on a slip of paper and asked if I had guessed correctly. The reply was “_Yes_.”

We were so impressed with the story that I said, “It is good enough for the Atlantic Monthly.”

The comment was, “_If they take it, my revenge would be complete. That is for the ‘Elite,’ I did not belong._”

The next day came first what was evidently a title, “_My tussle with the Devil_.”

We asked, “Who is speaking today?”

“_An imaginative fellow_,” was the reply.

“Is it the same with whom we talked yesterday?” we asked. “_Yes; it is a joy once more to weave a plot._”

A little later, when the work was resumed after an interruption of several days, O. Henry’s Ghost began with:

“_I am glad to see you._”

“Did you miss us?”

“_That’s what!_” was the answer.

The day was rainy and the story rather serious, or so it impressed us, for we asked:

“Why don’t you give us a cheerful story?”

His reply silenced further suggestions. It was:

“_Kindly allow me to express what I feel._”

O. Henry’s individuality was clearly marked from the first and we had no doubt about his genuineness, but an incident which occurred one afternoon may serve to convince the skeptical.

Several times we had been bothered by the interruptions of a boy Spirit called William Mumm, who was possessed with an over-developed sense of humor. Often we knew that O. Henry was being crowded by others who thought that they should be given a chance to express themselves, and once or twice the writing stopped until things quieted down. On this occasion Mumm broke in with, “Henry is giving too many orders.”

On being told in a forceful way what we thought of his interference, he said, “My word! That was a hot shot! I won’t butt in again:”--and he didn’t.

Later, when we asked O. Henry whether others were present, he said, “_They are hanging around, but not butting in._”

As we got better acquainted, there was more conversation of a personal nature before the story for the day was started.

To the question whether before he “crossed over” he had had any real Truth, he said:

“_No, my teaching was hell and damnation._”

We, of course, were curious to know how he discovered us. His answer was in line with what we had been taught--that each person appears as a light, shining with increasing brilliancy as one learns the Truth and lives it. He said:

“_Letting your light so shine led me here--I desired to tell what I felt and knew, and sought an avenue; your beacon beckoned me, and your teacher bade me enter._”

Once when we mentioned a financial pressure he said:

“_That’s the only hell there is on earth--that and lack of love which sends one to rum shops._”

After another break in our work with the stories, we were welcomed with:

“_It has been a long time since we have talked. I wish you joy._”

To our usual question “who is with us?” came the answer:

“_I was called Henry._”

A glimpse into conditions on the “other side” was given when we asked O. Henry whether he had found a friend of whose “passing over” we had told him.

“_No_,” he replied; “_I have not found him. He must be resting, and we make it a point never to disturb, for the rest periods are of the most importance and hasten growth. I shall watch for him when he makes his mansion._”

“What do you mean by that?” we asked.

“_In the beginning of life here we make little progress--unless knowledge of the Truth has been ours before coming over. That is why it is so necessary to learn before leaving the Earth Sphere. Without that one must wander aimlessly or rest and gaze at things of the past--and our associates are other unfortunates who have had closed ears before leaving._

“_When one has reviewed a certain number of lives--or generally a sequence of events--then comes a tender friend who points out advantageous work and study, and which, if followed, always means the beginning of progress and growth. It is only after that has been made use of that we begin our mansion or abiding place._

“_Keep it always in your mind, the foundation stones are Knowledge, Wisdom, Power--and then it is built by the thought and desire of Aspiration, Beauty and Love._

“_I want to impress upon you and all mankind the necessity of ‘Knowing,’ and, what is more to the point, ‘Believing.’_

“_If you will lend me your pencil, most generous person, I may be able to say all I want. Now it seems as if I never would be able to get rid of it all._

“_If you would publish a magazine it would be a ‘hummer.’ The trouble is, there is no periodical which has any one back of it who KNOWS. They all prattle and the almighty dollar is the main thing. Truth would bring them faster than anything if they would only believe it. Let’s work it out! It would be great! Now to work, if you don’t mind._

“_In a sunny nook by a babbling brook I have built my mansion._”

O. Henry was very enthusiastic over the idea of a magazine. Referring to it again, he said, “_Call it the Sphinx. Get at it at once. Have it contain only tales which teach, and Wisdom._”

Once when he talked on until late in the evening, and we became tired, he said, when the lateness of the hour was mentioned:

“_It is all the same here; I forget. My impatience is still that stumbling block. With many thanks--good night._”

One rainy day we were ready earlier than usual and O. Henry was evidently in exceptionally good humor, greeting us with:

“_Well, this is a surprise! It’s bully!_”

“_Kind of nice in here. We do not feel the rain, but we like sunshine better._”

One story we received was not up to the O. Henry standard, and we did not hesitate to say so. Our views must have been rather more forcefully expressed than we realized, for he said:

... “_I have read and had many criticisms of my stories before, but they never came as hard or as fast as this one. Wipe it out._”

With that he redictated the last half of the story, changing it completely and to the satisfaction of all.

With his next story we were particularly pleased, and on our saying so, he said:

“_I thank you and am glad you really like it. Have to watch my P’s and Q’s now or I will lose my publisher. It is great to be compelled to do one’s best. It means the continuation of aspiration. Lying Spirits do not aspire. Having publishers who will accept nothing but the truth and only the best one is capable of is a bit of a novelty. Pity there are not more of them for material, as well as spiritual fiction. You might get Hoover to add that plan for conservation of paper and ink. If we over here had more publishers like you there would be more truth spread broadcast. The trouble is most of the offices accept anything, just so it has a name attached._”

“_What’s in a name?--Nothing._”

“_What’s in a Truth?--Everything._”

Unless the Spirit moving the indicator on the board is an advanced soul, having great power, he usually draws from the persons he is working through. This O. Henry was at times forced to do, and so we understood, when one day, instead of starting a story he said:

“_Your teacher says you hesitate to tell when you are tired. Better to have a perfect pen for two lines, than none at all for twenty. Tell me the moment you become fatigued. There is time for the lot. If you are depleted through my coming, it will be curtailed, if not stopped, and that would be too dreadful! Much better a half a loaf at a time than none at all. Please tell me. Your teacher thinks you have sufficient without what I am dictating, but feels that it is worth while providing you are not in any way injured by the work. I so want to have the opportunity. Do, kind person, tell me and let us go slower. Last night I chattered; no reason for it at all, except the pleasure of doing it, and you were tired, the teacher says, before I began._”

We agreed to be more careful, and O. Henry said:

“_That’s a bargain._”

In speaking of the many plots crowding his mind and which he wanted to express, he said:

“_Riches are a burden at times. I wish to rid myself of them. Quick returns will follow. With much material off my mind I shall be able to develop much, more worth while. Hurry! Life takes up so many hours._”

Before starting a series of stories of a different nature from those given first, he said:

“_My wish is to widen the horizon. It is important for humanity to know. It must recognize the oneness of everything. We will write of more than man. I will give a series. First Beasts--then Flowers and Jewels._”

When these stories were completed, everything seemed to conspire to prevent the devoting of a quiet hour to O. Henry and his stories. Whenever constructive work is done, by which the Truth may be brought to many, the forces of destruction are arrayed in opposition. This we felt to the full. Twice stories were started and stopped after only a few paragraphs had been written. In one it was evident that O. Henry had been pushed aside and a complete sentence injected by some “Power of Darkness.” We at once realized the situation and put the “Board” away.

When next O. Henry came, he said:

“_The time has been long. Why keep the Muse silent? I am simply overburdened with plots._”

When asked the cause of the breaks in the last story he said:

“_I find there are still a number of people who believe they know better how to write my stories than I do._

“_This last time it was ‘Fiends.’ It is important you keep the door closed by demanding you receive only the truth--for that prevents their taking definite hold._”

About this time there appeared in the papers notices of moving pictures made from the O. Henry stories. We asked him what he thought of them, and his answer, concise as usual, was:

“_Foolish rehash of yesterday’s ignorance._”

In commenting on how few believed and how difficult it would be to find a publisher, O. Henry answered:

“_My belief is you will have to do it yourself ultimately, if you cannot find some one who is independent. The trouble is that in a concern, one may believe, while the rest of the company do not yet see._”

The conditions of everyday life became worse. We were able to snatch only a few minutes with O. Henry and asked him if he felt the confusion.

“_It is a regular whirlpool_, he said; _the boat rocks. Until you can have quiet I think it would be wiser to postpone trying to write. My wish is added to yours, for if all disturbance is eliminated we can then accomplish a great deal without effort._”

On New Year’s eve we received greetings from those with whom we had been closely associated in work, and last of all came O. Henry. He said:

“_I do not belong, but I may come to the party, may I not?_

“_I am content to wait until it will be only a pleasure to hold converse and when we can relax to a real confab._

“_They are good stories, if I do say it--but they cannot believe in a leopard changing his spots. Out upon that spot!_

“_An amazing thing that the stolid English are more awake spiritually than Americans, who have not yet been touched vitally. Some day they will awake and arise--and I hope then I can take part in the procession._

“_My greetings and all aid possible for the year to come._”

Several weeks later he said:

“_This is the first opportunity I have had to hold ‘mind’ with you._

“_Interesting expression that, when one realizes how true it is that mind is the only real point of contact, although when on your plane we speak only of the physical nearness of others._

“_Is it true that the hour is to be re-established? If that is the case, we ought to turn out something worth while._”

On being told that the poem, “Sleeping,” which he had given us, was to be read to the Poetry Society, it seemed to appeal to his sense of humor, for he said:

“_If I was not to all appearances dead, that would be my death. I shall have a fearful attack of stage-fright. I do hope they won’t call ‘Author!’_

“_I like this house. It is so restful and harmonious. It is a smiling island of loveliness in a black sea of pitch. I shall stretch here at ease tonight and rest and live happily._”

A. HOUGHTON PRATT.

“Over There”

_O. Henry’s Ghost Answers the Questions
of a Newspaper Man Regarding
“Over There”_

So he desires to know how we folks live?

Queer! the idea humanity hugs to its breast of how different life must of necessity be over here.

Tell him that at present it is New York at its worst, on a day of celebration,--with streets crowded, people pushing in all directions, friends meeting, exchanging greetings and passing on. To us life is the same, with the exception that now time is no longer a factor.

Our emotions are the same--until we learn the wisdom of eliminating all unworthy ones.

Our desires the same--only now they are satisfied almost immediately. We desire to eat and we have food. All is the same, only of finer material, not so dense.

It is as if we were in airships above you--seeing all, comprehending all, and yet unable to make you hear. To the few are given ears attuned to hear and eyes which behold, but humanity as a whole is blind.

If you could by any method make the world realize that to us _here_ each and every THOUGHT affects us more poignantly than all the sentences uttered and that we are uplifted and made joyous by each thought of love sent out, _no matter to whom_, all hate would vanish from the earth.

Clothing? Just the same as ever, only we are glad to discard the old garments for new ones more beautiful, after we have been here for a while, and when that desire comes, the material is at hand with which to create new garments. Verily, over here thoughts become things quickly.

There are those here who do not aspire for newer or better things, and so they remain in their same condition.

Aspiration is the force here which pushes you on to better and greater achievements.

Houses? Certainly we have them; each one to his liking, for he builds it as he desires, with the aid of others; all lend helping hands over here, and life becomes a proper mixture of work, play and study.

Yes, there are places where hate, envy and all the evils still hold sway, and if those are the things which you enjoy, you dwell in that locality.

Whatever you in your soul desire you receive. Ask and it is given you; seek higher and you find; and it is truly to be said: “As a man thinketh so he receives and is.”

Naturally, people of the world are going to say: “O. H. cannot write from above--if what he says is true, he would be below.” Having spent several years in Hell--on earth--after I arrived in this country I was mighty glad to change my environment when I discovered where I had been dwelling,--and that there was no need of remaining, unless I wished,--so I gave notice to the landlord I was moving at once.

The earth is a pretty poor place when you make a hell out of it, and it might be a heaven if we would only have faith, love and aspire.

The world is on a precipice and New York is tottering on the edge! Will you wake up and save yourselves or will you once more be swept away by the flood?

Foreword

“I wish to tell the world what is theirs for the asking.

“To try and give them a new viewpoint--in place of their erroneous ideas.

“Before, I wrote what the Self saw only--now it is what _I know_.”

My Tussle with the Devil

It was the hour when souls simply cling to their bodies by the merest thread--when I met His Satanic Majesty.

He is well named, for he is majestic in every sense of the word--majestic of mien--majestic of gesture, of expression, and a god to look upon.

He is a deceptive person, for one meeting him casually would think he was one of the great and good men of the day--abroad on errands of mercy and with kindness in his heart for all humanity. So carefully does he conceal his identity that he resembles most of mankind--who are one person to themselves and quite another to the world of men.

We met. He knew me, but I had not yet had the pleasure of knowing this majestic lord--or thought I had not--and so was flattered when he accosted me and made me welcome.

“I was told you were coming, and so came to meet you,” he said, with a smile of geniality. “We hoped to have greeted you earlier.”

“Just a minute,” I said. “Who are you? Who told you I was coming?”

Making a sweeping gesture, and ignoring my questions, he continued:

“Our land is fair--as you see--but there are many wonders which I desire to show you. Wonders which are unheard of--not even dreamt of--and which will make you desire to remain among us, I feel confident.”

With this, my arm was taken in friendly fashion, and we proceeded up an avenue lined with trees perfect in form and foliage--passed handsome houses, with playing fountains, flowers, and birds in abundance.

With a magnificent gesture he swept all this out of the way. “The homes of our servants. We enter now the domains of those who rule and where we hope you will abide.”

The turn of the street brought us to an estate situated on the crest of a magnificent mountain. Winding roads of dazzling whiteness and smoothness led through a garden of flowers and wonderful trees. Running streams made music, and the song of birds--with brilliant plumage.

With no word spoken--but many implied by gesture and nod--we reached at last the mansion. Transparent--the walls seemed--heavy the air, with perfume. It was a palace of dreams--resting in the hollow of my hand.

With a smile of winning sweetness he said:

“This is yours. Will you rest?”

“Mine! For what?” I exclaimed. “Do you give palaces like this to all your visitors?”

“Not to all,” he answered; “only to our favored ones.”

“Why am I so favored, then? What have I done to bring me this?”

“Nothing,” he answered, “_as yet_, but we have hopes of great things from you. We expect you will be of great benefit to us; will aid us in promoting our cause.”

“And how?” I queried.

“Come, let us sit and sup and we will talk it over.”

Leading me gently forward, we entered a banqueting hall, where costly viands and sparkling wines reposed among flowers; and gold and silver, and ruby and diamond, sapphire and emerald decked each goblet--while behind our places were fair women, who smiled and breathed perfume upon the air.

Too dazed to remonstrate, I took my place, and, unconscious of what I did, sipped my wine from its jeweled goblet.

Lifting his wine, he said: “To our better acquaintance--our Brotherhood, I hope.”

“To our better acquaintance, certainly--but what do you mean by Brotherhood?”

“That I will explain. In this mountain fastness there is a secret abode, which only the elect can enter, and where the members set in motion great events and accomplish great deeds. We have need of one like you to assist us.”

“What do you feel I can do?” I asked. “My talents are slight. I do not comprehend my selection.”

“Ah! That is not to be wondered at--for you have not correctly gauged your talents and ability.

“Do you realize that you have the greatest talent ever known--in one direction?”

“What!” I gasped.

“Quite true! I will tell you.

“In the beginning you were presented, by lesser gods, with a talent for love of everything, with love for the pure, for the true, for the beautiful. You aspired to be one of the unknown workers for humanity--to create beauty, in poem and song; to weave for them music which would make life an ecstacy.

“To scatter happiness was your ambition. Jealousy was unknown to you, and envy a word you never even thought of.

“Kindness was your pass-word in the realm from which you came--but we, who were observing you, recognized a power much greater than you knew--a power to work results magical in their effect--and so we came near you and sought to make your better acquaintance.

“You were a shy bird, difficult to catch, however, and it took us many eons of time before we finally won your confidence.”

“What was this great ability?” I interrupted.

“You wish to know? That is well, for I see we shall be able to work more harmoniously if your interest is aroused,” he replied. “I will tell you. It was--but why should I say ‘it was,’ rather, it is still, the great gift you possess, and which we desire to have you give to us in all its fullness. Let us review a bit what use you made of it.

“First, you were disappointed in the love of the woman whom you desired, and so began its development--until love for man or woman had no place in your heart.

“Then commenced your clear vision, which showed you the evil which was in all minds and hearts, and you recognized no one could be trusted. Ultimately, you nearly perfected that branch of your gift, and so had an honored seat at our council table--and we desire you again to take your place at its head.”

“But why?” I interrupted, “did I lose that exalted seat?”

“Alas!” he answered, “you went back to your old habits. An animal was the cause of your downfall--a mongrel cur!”

“You interest me,” I said. “Explain how that occurred.”

“You were in a forsaken village--having lost your way and wandered there--and without food. Little by little your strength left you, and you lay down under a tree, with all hope abandoned. A rustle in the dead grass aroused you, and presently a tiny, mangy dog crept up and licked your hand.

“The relief from the loneliness was so great that you foolishly took the cur in your arms.”

“Foolishly!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, foolishly; for that was the beginning of your loss of power. True, the animal led you out to safety and warmth, eventually. But _what_ a seed was sown!

“Where before the harvest was well-nigh perfect, it now had the weeds of Pity and Gratitude---- _So_ do the mighty fall!

“That was a fatal sowing and reaping for you, for it even affected your view of men. You commenced to see in them bits of character before unseen. Such useless things as Consideration, Love and Pity!

“Your habits, too, were affected by this poisonous weed. Where before you had been perfect in all ways vile, you now commenced to give up some of the most brilliant jewels--betrayal of women--the excitement and joy of perfect and exhilarating wines. Why! you even went so low as to prefer sparkling waters from Nature’s sources.”

Holding my jeweled goblet high, I laughed and said: “To what depths can man sink!”

“Ah! I rejoice to see you agree with me. It is well! We shall succeed together admirably, I feel sure,” he made answer.

Then, drawing closer to me, “Now to our desires and agreement.”

“By all means,” I replied. “I am eager to hear your plan. For, certainly, if this domain is part of the reward, it interests me.”

“Good! That is better,” he replied.

“When you first left our abode and joined with others, who had contrary beliefs, we felt it was final--but as we watched and studied your soul--for you know, of course, souls are clearly visible to us--and saw there was within it, still, the desire to continue as one of us, I was given the task of keeping alive that seed, and adding to its force, so that in time a bountiful harvest might repay us.

“We feel that time has arrived.

“As I told you, this palace, with all it contains, its vault of priceless gems--such as are on your goblet, these fair women, and hundreds like them, are yours. Any honor you feel you desire shall be granted, and you shall be the lord of whatsoever you desire to possess.”

At this I glanced around the hall. Looked at the smiling faces--slender, voluptuous forms--at the sparkling gems--at the vista which was spread before me through the open windows--and then I mused upon what I could possess in addition--all honors whatsoever I desired. Coming back, finally, to a study of His Majesty’s face, I found his eyes fixed upon me.

“Will you accept?” he asked.

“That is a little mystery, too, of yours, is it not? You ask if I will accept all that counts in the world, but you have not yet told me what I am to do for it all. Tell me that side of the mystery,” I replied.

“Only a simple thing!

“Renew your association with us and take the leadership of the band which is ready to go forth and sow broadcast the seeds which are so much craved by the world. The seeds of Hate, of Malice, of Licentiousness, of Cruelty.

“Help us to rid the world of gayety which is simple and wholesome. Help us to give them a greater excitement. Let us arouse the idea of hunting within their breasts--but children for game--not birds, which are only beautiful and give song, that would be tame sport!

“Take the lead and aid us to sow Revenge broadcast.”

“Is that all?” I queried.

“All for the present,” he answered. “Later, new things can be brought to successful issue, if you desire. But that will satisfy our Brotherhood for the present.”

“Let us drink to our unity,” he said, raising high his glass and looking with flashing eyes into mine.

I rose to my feet, goblet high.

“To our Brotherhood!” I shouted; “May it be annihilated forever!”

The Contest

_Yucatan--Time: Midnight_

Life met Death in the room of Joe, who lay on a bed in the corner, with a pain-racked body.

Suspense as to the visitant made him almost unconscious, yet thoroughly cognizant. It was as if some part of his brain stopped, while the rest leaped away from the body--then, with a whirl which made him reel, leaped back again.

Gazing at him from a chair which stood in front of the fire was a softly clad woman. In her hands was myrtle and thyme, which made mysterious shadows upon the wall.

His humble room seemed decorated by a master hand. Each individual article took on a luster hitherto unknown.

With a movement, however, his eyes were brought back to the door, through which a figure slowly entered. It was radiant with a light which dazzled. Entering slowly, it stopped at the foot of his bed and said, in a voice sweeter than any music ever heard.

“I am Death! Will you come with me to a Summerland where there is only joy, and pain is unknown?”

“Death!” he gasped. “You, Death! But you do not look as I thought Death did! You are beautiful!”

“Yes,” replied the figure, “I am the most beautiful of all, except one, but my gifts are more beautiful than _all_.

“I bring surcease from trials, freedom from pain, shelter from all storms and peace.

“I,--who am so much feared by mankind,--have only joy and happiness.

“Make ready and come with me! I promise you all you have ever longed for--sunshine, flowers and beauty.”

Keeping his eyes riveted on the figure, Joe sat erect and said:

“How am I to know you are not fooling me? You don’t look like Death. I don’t believe you!”

The figure smiled.

“That is not unusual,” it replied, “for men have a false idea of me. They think I am old and hideous and take from them all they hold dear.

“They do not know I give them all they have earned and bring them the solace of retrieving all past errors.

“I give them the opportunity of seeing how and why they failed.

“I watch their silly strivings for wealth, their many useless mansions, their hates and loves--which are only envy in fancy dress--knowing the time will come when they will be obliged to open the door to me.

“Some welcome me, for they have built their mansion and know it only awaits their coming; that joy and happiness are theirs--love, free from all malice, and beauty in every form.

“They welcome me, because they have built their home on rock and it stands with door open to receive them, and they are not afraid, but rejoice.

“Others, however, fear me and refuse to look at me, saying, ‘You are ugly! Go away!’ And they shut their ears and refuse to be comforted.

“They are afraid, for they have no mansion to which to go, but are homeless and feel that they are outcasts. Why? Not because of me, but because they have forgotten to prepare their mansion and so are homeless and beggars. They cling to worn-out trumpery, keeping much more from them than they possess.

“Give up this mansion of yours and come and follow me to new fields which are filled to overflowing.”

Joe still stared, too much overcome to reply, when from the chair by the fire a figure arose.

It was clad in soft clinging garments, with a veil which hid the face, and the voice was deep and harsh, with an undertone of sadness.

“Wait! Not yet can he give you his answer. He must choose between us.”

At this Joe turned his eyes toward the new speaker, and seemed to find once again the ability to speak.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Life!” the figure replied. “Life! With all its dreams, its passions, its joys. Life! which has given you all your pain and misery. Life! which has snatched from you all your youth, your joy, and given you only disillusionment!

“Life! which promised you happiness, health, wealth, fame!

“Life! which dances and sings and has no need for tomorrow. Will you stay with me? See! I hold out to you healing herbs that will bring forgetfulness and give you power to go on and achieve what you desire.

“See! I offer you fame!

“You shall be able to sit above others,--to cast them forth, to spit upon them. You shall be lord of the cities. Fairest women shall smile and caress you; men shall sue you for recognition. Will you stay?”

Joe made a motion of assent.

There was a moment’s stillness, then, with a laugh which froze his blood, Life said:

“Again I win, and your beauty and your gifts are spurned, Death! Again I win.”

Death smiled and said: “I am content. Show him your face!”

At this command the figure began to unwind from the head the drapery which had enveloped it, and Joe, with staring eyes, looked into a hollow shell, a skeleton!

Sleeping

Gangs
In suits of gray
Worked upon the highway
In a Southern State.
Stones
Were their companions,
Coarse food
Their nourishment.

Cruelty
Met often with Greed
And Fear
Lived with Hatred,
When Love
Sought entrance
On a night
In June,
Trying
All the entrances
Unavailingly,
And tiring at last.

Kindness came
And whispering
In Love’s ear
Said:
“Down the road
You will find open several houses.
Better go!
I will watch here.”

Love
Gave thanks,
And with bounding steps
Went gayly to the Highway.
The sun
Was hot
And the stones were sharp,
But the time for rest was near,
And a little ripple
Was running along the highway,--
A tiny little wave
Of Joy.

Love
Seeing this,
Danced with glee
And began to sing:
“Come with me
Where the flowers bloom
And birds make music
All the noon.

“Sunshine
Dances,
Girls give glances
To the moon.

“Friends
Take chances,
Gay their fancies,
Come with me.”

Startled
Glances went down the line,
And Love swept on
To the end,
Seeking
Entrance in each heart
And sending thrills
With delight,
Until
To each one
Passed the word
“Love is here!”

Backs
Grew straighter,
Faces brighter,
Down the line.

God
Crept nearer
Saying:
“Come with me!
Take
No chances
With the sleepers--
Come with me!”

And down
The highway
Swept the summons,
“Come with me!”

Gray garments
Changed
To gold,
And only
Hatred
And Fear
Were left uncalled
From their sleep.

Yearning

The lamps on the street throw fitful shadows upon the pavements, which glisten with many raindrops.

Walking slowly, with bent shoulders and bowed head, is a man with slightly graying hair. Round and round the square he walks, glancing neither to the right nor left, until finally, wearying, he crosses the street and enters a house where the curtains are closely drawn.

Bits of smilax, rose leaves and trodden violets can be seen about the steps, and as he opens the door, the air is charged with escaping perfume.

With a hasty glance at the heavy draperies which conceal the opening to _the_ room, he mounts hurriedly the stairs, and with trembling hands turns the knob of a door.

Gently he pushes it wide, and the soft gleam of the lamp plays upon the silken draperies of a woman’s room.

No sound breaks the stillness as the man closes the door and with a heartbroken cry throws himself upon his knees by the bedside.

His frame shakes from head to foot as his arms are thrown across the bed which had so recently held all his world.

At last, worn out by the battle, his body relaxes, and released from its leash, the spirit meets the occupant of the room.

Clasped in his arms, with gentle, loving fingers she strokes his face and says:

“I am still here with you--always, as you are now with me.”

His clasp tightens as he sobs:

“I thought that you were dead--that you had left me.”

“Loving you, how could I leave you?” she answered. “And there is no such thing as death! One only changes!

“I am just as you are now; and as we have been each night we have gone out together. The only change is that during a few hours you go back to the world of business, while I wait for you in the land of art.

“Dry your eyes, beloved, for when you weep, you keep me from creating the beautiful things we have longed for. All the material is here at my hand, but I must be free to work.

“The clocks of the city are striking the hour for you to begin your work and for me also. Go now! And tonight we will tell each other of what we have accomplished.”

The striking of the hour breaks the stillness of the room, and the man by the bedside stirs and then gazes with unseeing eyes at the empty bed and the room with its softly glowing lamp.

A well-remembered perfume floats upon the air and his hair is brushed as by a fairy wind.

With arms outstretched, he rises to his feet.

“Tell me it is true! That, if it was a dream, that dreams are the truth of life! Give me some sign that I may know, my darling. I must know! I must! Give me some little sign!”

As he gazes at the curtain which conceals the doorway, there is a faint rustle of silken drapery, and a shadow seems upon it for just a moment.

The lamp burns low, the man sits motionless.

“Was it true? Was it a sign, or was it only a movement by the wind?”

II.

Seated on the sidewalk, crying bitterly, is a small boy, holding in his arms a dog.

The grief of the child attracts a passer-by, who questions:

“What is the trouble, little man?”

Between sobs, the child explains that he missed his pet and found it in the road.

“He didn’t come when I called. He always minds. And now he doesn’t tell me anything! Why doesn’t he?”

“Let me see, little man,” says the stranger, and stoops to take the dog, which the boy clasps more tightly.

Putting his hand on the child’s head: “Poor little man! I am sorry, but your little friend will never do any of those things again, for he is dead.”

With a cry of joy the child jumps up, and says:

“Is that it? Well, that’s all right; for now he will always stay where I am.”

With a quick gesture the man put out his hand and caught the child.

“What do you mean by that? Why are you happy, now, when I tell you he is dead?”

Gazing upward at the man’s face, the child answers:

“Why! Mother told me so. She says there is no death--there only is another life--and when we love any one very much they never leave us.

“She says that when it’s daylight we cannot see them because they are so beautiful, but that at night we can, when we go to sleep--and that’s our real life--when we think we are only sleeping.”

The man clutched at the child almost wildly.

“You believe that, little man?”

“Of course! It’s true! Now, I must take Fido to mother, for she knows what to do to make him beautiful--and then tonight we’ll play hide-and-seek, as we were going to this morning.”

With a happy and joyous “good-bye” ringing in his ears, the man gazed at the little figure flying down the street.

“I wonder! Yes! It was a sign, for is it not said--‘A little child shall lead them!’”

Animals

My wish is to widen the horizon.
It is important for humanity to _know_.
It must recognize the oneness of
everything.
We will write of more than man.
I will give a series: First--Beasts;
then, Flowers and Jewels.

Weariness

I.--THE KING

Pacing forward--backward--backward--forward, to and fro--a King.

With world weary eyes he gazes out of his window in search of his soul’s desire.

Before him a seething mass of heads, with eyes riveted upon him. Immovable, he stands and contemplates them.

Of what do they think?

Have they souls which long and cry out, day and night, for liberty?

Or are they satisfied with the narrow ring in which they move?

Do they know the joy of freedom: of vast expanses?

A surge of hatred passes through him and he has a longing to slay that sodden mass. Then it passes, and with a weary movement once more he paces to and fro.

Of what does _he_ think?

Does he know that once again has been enacted an old drama and a King sold into captivity, or does he feel that it should be said:

“Forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

II. THE TOILER

Up--down--down--up--from early morn.

Up--down--with slow and steady strides, until the rich brown earth holds up eager hands to receive its gifts.

Up--down--down--up--wearily plods the Toiler until the sun is high, when, with a long-drawn sigh, the time of rest is welcomed.

A bit of shade, a refreshing drink, and a little rest before the weary round begins again.

Up--down--down--up--day in and out.

“‘Monotonous,’ you say? Yes! if only the thought of the weary rounds is held. Compensation comes from a pat on the neck, which tells of appreciation and affection and the knowledge of being a necessary part of the whole. The harvest _I_ sow is reaped and lessens in other lands the harvest of the Reaper.

“Up--down--down--up, with a stronger pull, for I am doing my bit, and

“‘To him who is faithful in small things much shall be given.’”

The Slave

I.

Near the door sits an impressive looking man.

“It is growing dark, mademoiselle; just turn up the light.”

The interior is flooded with light at this command.

In a far corner lies a spaniel, gazing with pain-stricken eyes at the man. He is too worn in spirit to do more than give a feeble move, now and then, to first one ear and then another. But worn and spent as he is, his eyes are alert for movement on the part of the man, and as the man rises from his chair, the dog utters a faint cry of fear and begins to shake; but his trembling gradually ceases as the man goes in the opposite direction, and he closes his eyes in complete weariness.

Each moment has seemed hours to him, for fear has dragged at his soul.

What new torture awaited him when that huge form moved--to what unknown horror was he to be compelled to submit?

Helpless--chained--and too weak to fight, he was at the mercy of THAT, which sat in front of him.

_It_ looked like his beloved master in form, but the voice was different and the touch----

At the thought of the hand which had caressed him only two days, or was it two years ago, he gave a little whimper, which was quickly stifled as he recalled that the slightest move on his part brought that which gave him only misery--pulling, testing, delicate nerves pressed, and pain indescribable.

Silence reigns, and at last, worn out, he closes his eyes and sleeps.

Once more he is in a room where sparkles a glowing fire, and, with ears alert, listens for a well-known step. Joy permeates him as it comes nearer and nearer, and then the door opens.

With a waving of banner and joyous greeting he leaps to meet a caress and welcome:

“Well, old boy! Glad to see me? Bring me my slippers. There’s a good fellow.”

The joy of taking some part of that dear one close to him and carrying it where he knew it belonged! The excitement of returning and hearing “Right you are, old boy! now the other,” and then the delicious sense of work well done and the praise earned, and the happiness and joy of the hand on his head, while both relaxed to the warmth of the fire.

A sudden pang of pain rouses him, and the remembrance is shattered and dismay takes its place.

What has happened? All he can recall is standing on the doorstep, waiting for that promised walk, and suddenly a jerk, and he is flying through the air and is thrust into a black and yelling mass of his brothers.

Then a brilliantly lighted place and a gruff voice, which says:

“That’s the one. He’s a thoroughbred. Bring him.”

Running, darting this way, that way, snapping at his brothers who bar his escape, he dashes here, there, everywhere, looking in vain for an outlet, only to be cornered at last, with the same kind of a jerk which had torn him away from his doorstep.

“Put up a fight, didn’t he? The experiment will be all the more interesting now, for the nerves are excited.”

Then, straps and buckles which held him down, and cruel wires which prevented his breathing, and then THAT which was at the back of the room, standing over him with shining things, and then such pain as made him forget all things as he sank down--and down--and down!

With a start, he realizes there has been a movement in the room, and a shadow looms toward him. In vain to shrink--to avoid that hand which will soon be upon him, for he is chained and unable to move.

What new terror awaits him?

His heart beats to suffocation and his eyes seek dumbly for aid.

Nearer and nearer comes the shadow, and he abandons all hope, and with a cry of despair his body relaxes, as a figure looms over him.

Again the firelit room and a loved voice:

“Come, boy! Let’s to bed and sleep.”

With a mighty struggle he forces the spirit to rise, and once more opens his eyes, to find the fire light vanished and the loved voice silent--only a looming doom with shining things over him, and a voice, angry with thwarted ambition.

“Too late! He’s dead.”

But a spark of the spirit still lingers in the body, and the faithful eyes see a firelit room and a beloved form, and with a farewell wave of his banner, obeys the command:

“Let’s sleep!”

FREEDOM

II.

Worn and weary, a man enters a room where a fire burns upon the hearth.

Throwing himself into a chair, he glances at the vacant rug at his feet, and, with a sob in his voice, says:

“Old Boy! No slippers for me tonight by my old faithful.”

No sound breaks the stillness, and he gazes forelornly towards his room.

Then he sits erect--rigid, for through the door comes a dearly loved figure, head high and banner waving in anticipation of “Well done, good and faithful servant,” and love shining in his eyes, and in his mouth--a slipper!

With suspended breath the man watches, and even at the touch of cold nose upon his hand, remains rigid. Then, with a cry, he throws out his arms to encircle his comrade--only empty air greets him.

But at his feet lies--a slipper!

In stupefaction he looks at it, and then around the room.

Nothing!

Nothing? No! surely something is still in the familiar place--something which is faithful always and remains where love keeps the place!

A light of understanding breaks over the man’s face as he takes the slipper.

“Oh! ye of little faith!”

Flowers

Missionaries

I.

Just outside of a walled city there is a field of white--little, delicate, slim emissaries of peace, wafting their messages of healing broadcast. With a ringing of delicate musical bells, they say: “Come with me! Here is joy and peace.”

Within the walls a lonely watcher in a tower looks and listens.

Hidden from view are the tools of trade.

Gazing on the field, he muses on the infallibility of the law, which with undeviating regularity brings forth the thousands of tiny Heralds. Surely they are a symbol of some part of that Great Whole--some plan is back of their being!

He looks over the walled city which he guards, and nowhere is there anything which is as wonderful as what lies outside.

Ah! now he knows!

_Outside_ is Freedom--with all its loveliness and fragrance.

_Outside_ is God’s World with only bells, orchestra of rustling leaves and the waving baton of the trees.

_Outside_ all is Peace--Harmony.

And what is within ---- ----?

Envy, Vice, Hatred, and stalking ever at the head Fear--as Leader--whose orchestra is made up of glittering instruments of torture, deafening batteries, and with Triumph as the theme.

With gold, jewels and honors he lures to his band all within the walls, murmuring:

“My lands shall include all things. Nothing shall exist which is as perfect as my Empire.”

But----

_Outside_--are dainty, delicate, slim bits of loveliness, which, with gentle nods and soft waves of perfume bring the message that, Outside, all is as God intended, for----

“Consider the lilies! They toil not, neither do they spin, and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

Jewels

Multitudes

Within the darkest recesses there is a vast multitude seeking expression--rising with each multitude a little higher.

Rubies, who gather to themselves the fading glory of the sun, secretly desire the millions of rays which the diamond has secured,--while Sapphires, holding the blue winged lights of the moon,--seek in vain to acquire the rustling of trees and grasses, the running of water,--within their form.

Insensate?

Round and round the spiral they travel,--ever spurred, by the force lying within each and every one, to be more than they are and to express All!

* * * * *

I recall my youth, in fancy, as so many jewels tied to dark recesses while aspiring;--The desire to voice the Rubies of Multitudes, in Dislike and Hatred--reveling in the Emeralds of wealth, and desire for honors--while ever knocking at my door was the Sapphire, laden with gifts of Aspiration.

In vain the Diamond beckoned,--in vain sought to convince me that within _that_ recess was all I desired--that _there_ was to be found, mingled together All as One.

* * * * *

The Multitudes hurry past, unconscious that in their path lies the Diamond. Hurrying, scurrying, they push and jostle in a vain endeavor to amass Rubies, Emeralds and Sapphires, little realizing that in their own door yard lies the most priceless jewel of all:

The Diamond of Love.

I was of the Multitude:--

* * * * *

Reason said:

“Seek Emeralds. What matter if you borrow Rubies of Hatred to gain! Seek Emeralds!”

* * * * *

Mind said:

“What are Emeralds? It is Sapphires you desire. Sapphires--which lead you by a radiant path to the sky--to starry realms--to lands where Inspiration dwells.

“Seek!

“Seek Sapphires!”

* * * * *

Spirit said:

“You are wrong. It is none of these you desire. Seek the Diamond. Search for it high and low. Do not be beguiled by colors which lure. Seek the purest of all.

“Seek!

“Search for Diamonds!”

Alas! the colors of the rainbow caught me and I bathed in its rays.

Now I go seeking! Seeking everywhere--Diamonds--only Diamonds.

Remembrances

I.

THE SENTINELS:

Uniforms of green--hardy and erect, they wait until mustered--keeping watch throughout the seasons.

* * * * *

THE ARMY:

In glittering array the army stands for inspection.

Russet, gold and green are their uniforms, with trimmings of scarlet.

Unmoved they will stand and receive all onslaughts--and if some fall in the battle, those remaining will still be firm of purpose--turning ever a smile of welcome and holding out arms to those who seek them.

Red and russet and gold----

Green and bronze and scarlet----

How brave in all their glory--how steadfast to their purpose--how gratefully do they bend their heads when a wave of love goes to them!

Majestic--serene--content to fill their allotted place--asking not the perfume of lilies, nor scent of roses--seeking not the sparkling splendor of jewels--content with the Emerald, Ruby and Topaz, which they hold within their own domain.

So muses the recruit, as with head high and shoulders back he wanders through the woods--saying farewell to all the friends of his boyhood.

The Sentinels!

How they have guarded the old home from the blasts!

How joyfully have the regiment given of their life, in order that others might revel in their force, and uniting to protect all who sought their shelter. This was what he must keep ever in mind--to follow his army friends and do with gladness whatever came his way--without thought of honors--only with love for all--and cheerfully obey.

Taking a bit of the uniform of his sentinel friends, and a bit of russet and gold and scarlet, too, he softly places them in his pocket and with a salute goes out to join his company.

Munitions

_Hardware Store--Time: Midday_

Gazing out of a window which overlooked a training field for soldiers was a grizzled old man. Time had left his impress with no gentle mark, yet around the eyes was a lingering spark of youth, and about the mouth the lines told of a gentle and loving spirit.

As his eyes roamed over the field a small squad came into view, marching in “twos” and wheeling into “fours” and “right about,” as the command was given.

The gaze of the man grew more intense, and the lines about the mouth deepened, while, slowly, a flush of pride, which could not be controlled, swept over the face, and unconsciously his shoulders squared and his back straightened as his son came into view.

The straight boyish figure marched and wheeled in perfect unison with his comrades, but there was an indefinable power in the set of his head and poise of the body, which bespoke determination and control beyond the ordinary.

Suddenly the silence is broken by a voice, and the man, with a start, turns from the window and faces a customer who has entered so quietly that even the bell on the door has failed to make any sound.

“Good-day to you, sir,” said the customer. “I have been searching the town for some munitions. Have you any?”

“A complete stock--of everything,” the old man answered.

“Well, I want both large and small. Something suitable for a double-barrel and a self-repeater. Can you supply me?”

“Yes. How much of each will you have?”

The man hesitated, and then putting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a bundle of notes and handful of gold.

“That is all I have. Wrap up all you can give me for that amount.”

The old man gazed at the money and then his eyes traveled toward the field where young boys eagerly answered to the commands sent forth: Forward! March!

Turning to his shelves, he took down, first, a box marked “For double-barrel,” and wrapped it up. Then, next, came a box labelled “self-repeater--all sizes,” and then, with great care, came the last--“deadly mixture--guaranteed.”

Each one he made into a separate package and then pushed them toward his visitor, who thanked him and departed.

Gathering up the gold and bank notes, the old man went to a safe in the far corner, and, opening the door, took out a drawer marked “Munition Fund” and put the money into it, smiling as he did so.

Taking his place again at the window, he gazed over the field, lost in thought, and reviewing in memory the years of his youth, when he, too, obeyed the command “Forward! March!”

A sound made him turn, and he was confronted by his customer, who, in a state of extreme anger, waved his packages at him, exclaiming:

“I asked for munitions! See what you have given me!”

The old man came forward, and taking the boxes, proceeded to read:

“For double-barrel--warranted, ‘Kindness!’

“For self-repeater--guaranteed, ‘Joy!’

“Deadly mixture--‘Love’!

“Well, my friend, what is wrong? This is all as it should be!”

“Should be? I wanted gunpowder and cartridges--not that stuff!”

“You have lost your way, my man. On this planet those are our only munitions.”

Going Home

The sky was heavy with menacing clouds, and wind--howling dismally as it blew through the trees--when I met a wayfarer who was walking, with downcast eyes, along the highway which skirted the town.

Gazing at him sharply, I met a furtive glance, which held within it pleading, and yet had an assurance which was compelling. He hesitated when we came abreast, and as I felt in the mood for converse, I bade him “Good-evening.”

“It is a _good_ evening, is it not,” he replied. “Good, in its freedom of elements. They make merry tonight.”

This was a strange answer, and my curiosity was piqued, and I felt constrained to lead him on further.

“You feel the elements are enjoying themselves?” I asked.

“Thoroughly,” he answered, “but one never knows what their decision will be.”

“Decision! What do you mean?”

“Whether they will be content with a simple little frolic or if they have mischief in their minds,” he answered.

“Mischief! in their minds! Surely that is a strange expression to use regarding the wind and clouds.”

“Strange? You, too, find it strange?”

As he spoke he looked at, and yet again, not at me, but through me, and then continued:

“To me there is nothing in all the Universe without mind. All is alive and all make merry or are sad--bring joy or sorrow, as their bent may be. Just as man can be kind, or cruel, make beautiful the world or destroy, so do the Beings dwelling in the elements.

“Tonight they will tell me whether I make merry or pass out in sorrow.”

“That is a strange thing you say! ‘Make merry or pass out in sorrow.’ What does that portend?” I questioned.

“Sir,” he answered, “you do not understand, and yet you look to me as one of us.

“Tonight I am going home and I have not yet made the necessary decision as to my going--whether it shall be a right merry leave-taking or one of sadness. Today a winged messenger came and told me my exile was ended and I could start for my home tonight.”

“And where is your home?” I asked.

“That is for me to decide.”

“For you to decide! Is it not where you lived last?” I asked.

“Alas! no. I have lost that beautiful place, but there are others for me to choose from. Or, perhaps, I shall elect to remain here a little longer--I have left so much undone. I find so many words unspoken which would have given joy, perhaps,--so many things postponed. I did not give heed to the passing of hours for I felt years were before me. But the summons has come and I am to go home--to go to the house I have been building.”

His eyes were fixed on the horizon and my gaze followed him, for so intent was he that I felt there was some thing there I could see. Then, suddenly, the wind swept past us with a mighty gust. The trees bent beneath its force, and, with a sudden upflinging of his head he turned toward me, and said, pointing to the horizon:

“See! There is my road and just at the end of the lane my home. Yes! after all, it will be good to go back. The weeds are in the garden and it seems neglected, for no love has entered into the care of it; but there are blossoms among the grass which has overgrown the doorstep, and I can make it beautiful, after all. Just a little care, a bit of love, and time spent in taking out the nettles, and--yes, it can be made a home. See! there are children down the street. I can build swings and make toys for their playthings, and it can be a merry place.”

Watching him with amazement, I moved along at his side, speaking no word, until we came to a little shanty all by itself, on the dreariest part of the bluff. It was forbidding, and I remembered it was the place of the old miser and renegade of the town. As we reached the door a sudden noise within made me pause, and I pushed open the rickety door. From a corner of the hut came a voice:

“So you have come at last! I have just been waiting until you reached me, for I am going home. Going home to just a little place like this, but it has flowers in its yard and there are children who need me.”

There came a sudden terrific whirl of wind and dust--the door slammed to and my knees shook,--for I was alone--no soul in sight, no habitation--only scurrying clouds and trees bending under the blast, while above me floated down a voice:

“I am going home! Are you ready? Make ready! for soon you, too, will be

GOING HOME

My Hearth

Grandfather sits in an old armchair. The back of it boasts an anti-macassar in many colors, while the seat has a patchwork cushion.

Grandmother occupies a low rocker, which moves slowly to and fro, as she softly hums the hymn of the Sunday service.

Keeping silence is grandfather’s “long suit”--while making, in reality, _my_ life.

He is a sturdy old chap, with a will and determination which has carried him beyond anti-macassars and patchwork cushions, and centered itself upon me. No fly was ever more helpless!

I make the announcement:

“Life is going to give me something more than this country town.”

Silence reigns on the left of the hearth, and creak! creak! and a gentle hum answers me from the right.

Minutes, which seem hours, pass--but emboldened by the pictures seen in the coals, once more a voice is heard:

“When I am grown up I am going to the city! and I am going to travel! and I am going around the world! and I am going to make a _heap_ of money and be famous!”

Silence!

Creak--creak!!

Half of eternity passes--when once more, emboldened spirit takes hold of courage and dares to speak.

“I have made up my mind and I am going to do what I said, and _nothing_ shall keep me from it!”

Silence!

Creak--creak!!

Years pass in review. The coals burn to ash, and from a far-off sphere issues a voice:

“I’ll have none of that nonsense. You’ll do what you are told to do!”

Silence!

Creak--creak!!

The pictures fade. A clock strikes. The chair groans and grandfather goes in search of his lantern.

Creak--creak! and then the touch of a gentle hand and a voice made sweet from singing many hymns:

“Make your pictures, my boy, for they will come true. Make them, hold them, and most of all _believe_ in them. Good night.”

Silence!

Creak--creak!!

The Three H’s