Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

Straight to the very place went Yan and found the tracks. One like those he had seen in the mud long ago, another a large unmistakable print, the mark of the Sandhill Stag.

How the wild beast in his heart did ramp—he wanted to howl like a wolf on a hot scent; and away they went through woods and hills, the trail and Yan and the inner wolf.

All day he followed and, grown crafty himself, remarked each sign, and rejoiced to find that nowhere had the deer been bounding. And when the sun was low the sign was warm, so laying aside unneeded things, Yan crawled along like a snake on the track of a hare. All day the animals had zigzagged as they fed; their drink was snow, and now at length away across a lawn in a bank of brush Yan spied a _something_ flash. A bird perhaps; he lay still and watched. Then gray among the gray brush, he made out a great log, and from one end of it rose two gnarled oaken boughs. Again the flash—the move of a restless ear, then the oak-boughs moved and Yan trembled, for he knew that the log in the brush was the form of the Sandhill Stag. So grand, so charged with _life_. He seemed a precious, sacred thing—a King, fur-robed and duly crowned. To think of shooting now as he lay unconscious, resting, seemed an awful crime. But Yan for weeks and months had pined for this. His chance had come and shoot he must. The long, long strain grew tighter yet—grew taut—broke down, as up the rifle went. But the wretched thing went wabbling and pointing all about the little glade. His breath came hot and fast and choking—so much, so very much—so clearly all, hung on a single touch. He laid the rifle down, revulsed—and trembled in the snow. But he soon regained the mastery, his hand was steady now, the sights in line—'twas but a deer lying out there. But at that moment, the stag turned full Yan's way, with those regardful eyes and ears, and nostrils too, and gazed.

"Darest thou slay me?" said an uncrowned, unarmed king once, as his eyes fell on the assassin's knife, and in that clear, calm gaze the murderer quailed and cowed.

So trembled Yan; but he knew it was only stag-fever, and he despised it then as he came in time to honor it; and the beast that dwelt within him fired the gun.

The ball splashed short. The buck sprang up and the doe appeared. Another shot, then as they fled, another and another. But away the deer went, lightly drifting across the low round hills.

They say a wild beast cannot look a man in the eyes; Yan found it hard to look a wild beast in the eyes when he was trying to take its life.

V

He followed their trail for some time, but gnashed his teeth to find no sign of blood, and he burnt with a raging animal sense that was neither love nor hate. Within a mile there was a new sign that joined on and filled him with another rage and shed light on many a bloody page of frontier history, a moccasin-track, a straight-set, broad-toed, moosehide track, the track of a Cree brave. He followed in savage humor, and as he careered up a slope a tall form rose from a log, raising one hand in peaceable gesture. Although Yan was behind, the Indian had seen him first.

"Who are you?" said Yan, roughly.

"Chaska."

"What are you doing in my country?"

"It was my country first," he replied, gravely.

"Those are my deer," Yan said, and thought.

"No man owns deer till he kills them," said Chaska.

"You better keep off any trail I'm following."

"Not afraid," said he, and made a gesture to include the whole settlement, then added, gently, "No good to fight, the best man will get the most deer anyhow."

And the end of it was that Yan stayed for several days with Chaska and got, not an antlered buck indeed, but, better far, an insight into the ways of a man who could hunt. The Indian taught him _not_ to follow the trail over the hills, for deer watch their back track, and cross the hills to make this more easy. He taught him to tell by touch and smell of sign just how far ahead they are, as well as the size and condition of the deer, and not to trail closely when the game is near. He taught him to study the wind by raising his moistened finger in the air, and Yan thought, "Now I know why a deer's nose is always moist, for he must always watch the wind." He showed Yan how much may be gained by patient waiting at times, and that it is better to tread like an Indian with foot set straight, for thereby one gains an inch or two at each stride and can come back in one's own track through deep snow. And he also unwittingly taught him that an Indian _cannot_ shoot with a rifle, and Natty Bumpo's adage came to mind, "A white man can shoot with a gun, but it ain't accordin' to an Injun's gifts."

Sometimes they went out together and sometimes singly. One day while out alone Yan had followed a deer-track into a thicket by what is now called Chaska Lake. The sign was fresh, and as he sneaked around there was a rustle in the brush. Then he saw the kinnikinic boughs shaking. His gun flew up and covered the spot. As soon as he was sure of the place he meant to fire. But when he saw the creature as a dusky moving form through the twigs, he awaited a better view, which came, and he had almost pulled the trigger when his hand was stayed by a glimpse of red, and a moment later out stepped—Chaska.

"Chaska," Yan gasped, "I nearly did for you."

For reply the Indian drew his finger across the red handkerchief on his brow. Yan knew then one reason why a hunting Indian always wears it; after that he wore one himself.

One day a flock of prairie chickens flew high overhead toward the thick Spruce woods. Others followed and it seemed to be a general move. Chaska looked toward them and said, "Chickens go hide in bush. Blizzard to-night."

It surely came, and the hunters stayed all day by the fire. Next day it was as fierce as ever. On the third day it ceased somewhat and they hunted again. But Chaska returned with his gun broken by a fall, and after a long silent smoke he said:

"Yan hunt in Moose Mountain?"

"No!"

"Good hunting. Go?"

Yan shook his head.

Presently the Indian, glancing to east, said, "Sioux tracks there to-day. All bad medicine here." And Yan knew that his mind was made up. He went away and they never met again. Like everything Indian, he is gone, his family is gone, his hunting grounds are gone, and to-day all that is left of him is his name, borne by the lonely lake that lies in the Carberry Hills.

VI

"There are more deer round Carberry now than ever before, and the Big Stag has been seen between Kennedy's Plain and the mill." So said a note that reached Yan away in the east where he had been chafing in a new and distasteful life. It was the beginning of the hunting season, the fret was already in his blood, and that letter decided him. For awhile the iron horse, for awhile the gentle horse, then he donned his moosehide wings and flew as of old on many a long hard flight to return as so often before.

Then he heard that at a certain lake far to the eastward seven deer had been seen; their leader a wonderful buck.

With three others he set out in a sleigh to the eastward lake and soon found the tracks. Six of various sizes and one large one, undoubtedly that of the famous Stag.

How utterly the veneer was torn to tatters by those seven chains of tracks. How completely the wild paleolithic beast stood revealed in each of the men, in spite of semi-modern garb, as they drove away on the trail with a wild excited gleam in every eye.

It was nearly night before the trail warmed up, but even then, in spite of Yan's earnest protest, they drove on in the sleigh. And soon they came to where the trail told of seven keen observers looking backward from a hill, then an even sevenfold chain of twenty-five foot bounds. The hunters got no glimpse at all, but followed till the night came down, then hastily camped in the snow.

In the morning they followed as before, and soon came to where seven spots of black, bare ground showed where the deer had slept.

Now when the trail grew warm Yan insisted on hunting on foot. He trailed the deer into a great thicket and knew just where they were by a grouse that flew cackling from its farther side.

He arranged a plan, but his friends would not await the blue-jay's "all-right note," and the deer escaped. But finding themselves hard pressed they split their band, two going one way and five another. Yan kept with him one, Duff, and leaving the others to follow the five deer, he took up the twofold trail. Why? Because in it was the great broad track he had followed for two years back.

On they went, overtaking the deer and causing them to again split. Yan sent Duff after the doe while he stuck relentlessly to the track of the famous Stag. As the sun got low, the chase led to a great half-wooded stretch, in a country new to him; for he had driven the Stag far from his ancient range. The trail again grew hot, but just as Yan felt sure he soon would close, two distant shots were heard and the track of the Stag as he found it then went off in a fear-winged flight that might keep on for miles.

Yan went at a run and soon found Duff. He had had two long shots at the doe.

The second he thought had hit her. Within half a mile they found blood on the trail; within another half mile the blood was no more seen and the track seemed to have grown very large and strong. The snow was drifting and the marks not easily read, yet Yan knew very soon that the track they were on was not that of the wounded doe, but was surely that of her antlered mate. Back on the trail they ran till they solved the doubt, for there they learned that the Stag, after making his own escape, had come back to change off; an old, old trick of the hunted whereby one deer will cleverly join on and carry on the line of tracks to save another that is too hard pressed, while it leaps aside to hide or fly in a different direction. Thus the Stag had sought to save his wounded mate, but the hunters remorselessly took up her trail and gloated like wolves over the slight drip of blood. Within another short run they found that the Stag, having failed to divert the chase to himself, had returned to her, and at sundown they sighted them a quarter of a mile ahead mounting a long snow slope. The doe was walking slowly with hanging head and ears. The Buck was running about as though in trouble that he did not understand, and coming back to caress the doe and wonder why she walked so slowly. In another half mile the hunters came up with them. She was down in the snow. When he saw them coming, the great Stag shook the oak-tree on his brow and circled about in doubt, then fled from a foe he was powerless to resist.

As the men came near, the doe made a convulsive effort to rise, but could not. Duff drew his knife. It never before occurred to Yan why he and each of them carried a long knife. The poor doe turned on her foes her great lustrous eyes; they were brimming with tears, but she made no moan. Yan turned his back on the scene and covered his face with his hands, but Duff went forward with the knife and did some dreadful, unspeakable thing, Yan scarcely knew what, and when Duff called him he slowly turned, and the big Stag's mate was lying quiet in the snow, and the only living thing that they saw as they quit the scene was the great round form bearing aloft the oak-tree on its brow as it haunted the nearer hills.

And when, an hour later, the men came with the sleigh to lift the doe's body from the crimsoned snow, there were large fresh tracks about it, and a dark shadow passed over the whitened hill into the silent night.

* * * * *

What morbid thoughts came from the fire that night. How the man in Yan did taunt the glutted brute. Was this the end? Was this the real chase? After long weeks, with the ideal alone in mind, after countless blessed failures, was this the vile success a beautiful, glorious, living creature tortured into a loathsome mass of carrion?

VII

But when the morning came the impress of the night was dim. A long howl came over the hill, and the thought that a wolf was on the trail that he was quitting smote sadly on Yan's heart. They all set out for the settlement, but within an hour Yan only wanted an excuse to stay. And when at length they ran onto the fresh track of the Sandhill Stag himself, the lad was all ablaze once more.

"I cannot go back—something tells me that I must stay—I must see him face to face again."

The rest had had enough of the bitter frost, so Yan took from the sleigh a small pot, a blanket, and some food, and left them, to follow alone the great sharp imprint in the snow.

"Good-by—good luck."

He watched the sleigh out of sight, in the low hills, and then felt as he never had before. Though he had been so many months alone in the wilds he had never known loneliness, but as soon as his friends were gone he was overwhelmed by a sense of the utter heart-sickening dreariness of the endless, snowy waste. Where were the charms that he had never failed to find until now? He wanted to recall the sleigh, but pride kept him silent.

In a little while it was too late, and soon he was once more in the power of that fascinating endless chain of tracks. A chain begun years ago, when in a June the track of a mother blacktail was suddenly joined by two little ones' tracks; since then the three had gone on winding over the land, the trail-chains they were forging. Knotted and kinked, and twisted with every move and thought of the makers, imprinted with every hap of their lives, but interrupted never wholly. At times the tracks were joined by that of some fierce foe, and the kind of mark was changed, but the chains went on for months or years, now fast, now slow, but endless, until some foe more strong joined on and there one trail was ended. But this great Stag was forging still that mystic chain. A million roods of hills had he overlaid with its links and scribbled over in this oldest script with the story of his life. If only our eyes were bright enough to follow up that twenty thousand miles of trail, what light unguessed we might obtain on the wild things' lives and thoughts.

But skin deep, man is brute. Just a little while ago we were mere hunting-brutes—our bellies were our only thought, that telltale line of dots was the road to food. No man can follow it far without feeling a wild beast prickling in his hair and down his spine. Away Yan went, a hunter-brute once more, all other feelings swamped.

Late that day the trail, after many a kink and seeming break, led into a great dense thicket of brittle, quaking asp. Yan knew that the Stag was there to lie and rest. The deer went in up-wind, of course. His eyes and ears would watch his trail, and his nose would guard in front, so Yan went in at one side, trusting to get a shot. With a very agony of care he made his way, step by step, and, after many minutes, surely found the track, still leading on. Another lengthy crawl, with nerves at tense, and then the lad thought he heard a twig snapped behind him, though the track was still ahead. And after long he found it true. Before lying down the Stag had doubled back, and while Yan had thought him still ahead, he was lying far behind, so had gotten wind of the man and now was miles away.

Once more into the unknown north away, till cold, black night came down; then Yan sought out a sheltered spot and made a tiny, red man's fire. As Chaska had taught him long ago—"Big fire for fool."

When the lad curled up to sleep he felt a vague wish to turn three times like a dog, and a well-defined wish that he had fur on his face and a bushy tail to lay around his freezing hands and feet, for it was a night of northern frost. Old Peboan was stalking on the snow. The stars seemed to crackle, so one could almost hear. The trees and earth were bursting with the awful frost. The ice on a near lake was rent all night by cracks that went whooping from shore to shore; and down between the hills there poured the cold that burns.

A prairie-wolf came by in the night, but he did not howl or treat Yan like an outsider now. He gave a gentle, doglike "_Woof, woof_," a sort of "Oho! so you have come to it at last," and passed away. Toward morning the weather grew milder, but with the change there came a driving snow. The track was blotted out. Yan had heeded nothing else and did not know where he was. After travelling an aimless mile or two he decided to make for Pine Creek, which ought to lie southeastward. But which way was southeast? The powdery snow was driven along through the air, blinding, stinging, burning. On all things near it was like smoke, and on farther things, a driving fog. But he made for a quaking asp grove, and there, sticking through the snow, he found a crozier golden-rod, dead and dry, but still faithfully delivering its message, "Yon is the north." With course corrected, on he went, and, whenever in doubt, dug out this compass-flower, till the country dipped and Pine Creek lay below.

There was good camping here, the very spot indeed where, fifteen years before, Butler had camped on his Loneland Journey; but now the blizzard had ceased, so Yan spent the day hunting without seeing a track, and he spent the night as before, wishing that nature had been kinder to him in the matter of fur. During that first lone night his face and toes had been frozen and now bore burning sores. But still he kept on the chase, for a something within had told him that the Grail was surely near. Next day a strange, unreasoning guess sent him east across the creek in a deerless-looking barren land. Within half a mile he came on dim tracks made lately in the storm. He followed, and soon found where six deer had lain at rest, and among them a great, broad bed and a giant track that only one could have made. The track was almost fresh, the sign unfrozen still. "Within a mile," he thought. But within a hundred yards there loomed up on a fog-wrapped hillside five heads with ears regardant, and at that moment, too, there rose up from the snowy top a great form like a blasted trunk with two dead boughs still on. But they had seen him first, and before the deadly gun could play, six beacons waved and a friendly hill had screened them from its power.

The Sandhill Stag had gathered his brood again, yet now that the murderer was on the track once more, he scattered them as before. But there was only one track for Yan.

At last the chase led away to the great dip of Pine Creek. A mile-wide flat, with a long dense thicket down the middle.

"There is where he is hiding and watching now, but there he will not rest," said something within, and Yan kept out of sight and watched; after half an hour a dark spot left the willow belt and wandered up the farther hill. When he was well out of sight over the hill Yan ran across the valley and stalked around to get the trail on the down-wind side. He found it, and there learned that the Stag was as wise as he—he had climbed a good lookout and watched his back trail, then seeing Yan crossing the flat, his track went swiftly bounding, bounding——

The Stag knew just how things stood; a single match to a finish now, and he led away for a new region. But Yan was learning something he had often heard, that the swiftest deer can be run down by a hardy man; for he was as fresh as ever, but the great Stag's bounds were shortening, he was surely tiring out, he must throw off the hunter now, or he is lost.

He often mounted a high hill to scan the white world for his foe, and the after-trail was a record of what he learned or feared. At last his trail came to a sudden end. This was a mystery until long study showed how he had returned backward on his own track for a hundred yards then bounded aside to fly in another direction. Three times he did this and then passed through an aspen thicket and, returning, lay down in this thicket near his own track so that in following, Yan must pass where the Stag could smell and hear him long before the trail brought the hunter over close.

All these doublings and many more like them were patiently unravelled, and the shortening bounds were straightened out once more till, as daylight waned, the tracks seemed to grow stale and the bounds again grow long. After a little, Yan became wholly puzzled, so he stopped right there and spent another wretched night. Next day at dawn he worked it out.

He found he had been running the trail he had already run. With a long hark back, the doubt was cleared. The desperate Stag had joined onto his old track and bounded aside at length to let the hunter follow the cold scent. But the join-on was found and the real trail read, and the tale that it told was of a great Stag wearing out, too tired to eat, too scared to sleep, and a tireless hunter after.

VIII

A last long follow brought the hunt back to familiar ground—a marsh-encompassed tract of woods with three ways in. There was the deer's trail entering. Yan felt he would not come out there, for he knew his foe was following. So swiftly and silently the hunter made for the second road on the down-wind side, and having hung his coat and sash there on a swaying sapling, he hastened to the third way out, and hid. After awhile, seeing nothing, Yan gave the low call that the jaybird gives when there's danger abroad in the woods.

All deer take guidance from the jay, and away off in the encompassed woods Yan saw the great Stag with wavering ears go up a high lookout. A low whistle turned him to a statue, but he was far away with many a twig between. For some seconds he stood sniffing the wind and gazing with his back to his foe, watching the back trail, where so long his enemy had been, but never dreaming of that enemy in ambush ahead. Then the breeze set the coat on the sapling afluttering. The Stag quickly quit the hillock, not leaping or crashing through the brush—he had years ago got past that—but, silent and weasel-like, threading the maze he disappeared. Yan crouched in the willow thicket and strained his every sense and tried to train his ears to watch the harder. A twig ticked in the copse he was in. Yan slowly rose with nerve and sense at tightest tense, the gun in line—and as he rose, then also rose, but fifteen feet away, a wondrous pair of bronze and ivory horns, a royal head, a noble form behind it, and face to face they stood, Yan and the Sandhill Stag. At last—at last, his life was in Yan's hands. The Stag flinched not but stood and gazed with those great ears and mournful, truthful eyes, and the rifle leaped but sank again, for the Stag stood still and calmly looked him in the eyes, and Yan felt the prickling fading from his scalp, his clenched teeth eased, his limbs, bent as to spring, relaxed and manlike stood erect.

"Shoot, shoot, shoot now! This is what you have toiled for," said a faint and fading voice, and spoke no more.

Yan remembered that night when he, himself, run down, had turned to face the hunting wolves. He remembered that night when the snow was red with crime and down between them now he dimly saw a vision of an agonized and dying doe, with great, sad eyes, that only asked, "What harm have I done you?" A change came over him and every thought of murder went from Yan as they gazed into each other's eyes—and hearts. For different thoughts and a wholly different concept of the Stag, coming—coming—had come.

* * * * *

"Oh, beautiful creature! One of our wise men has said, the body is the soul made visible; is your spirit then so beautiful—as beautiful as wise? We have long stood as foes, hunter and hunted, but now that is changed and we stand face to face, fellow-creatures looking in each other's eyes, not knowing each other's speech—but knowing motives and feelings. Now I understand you as I never did before; surely you at least in part understand me. For your life is at last in my power, yet you have no fear. I knew of a deer once, that, run down by the hounds, sought safety with the hunter, and he saved it—and you also I have run down and you boldly seek safety with me. Yes! you are as wise as you are beautiful. We are brothers, oh, bounding Blacktail! only I am the elder and stronger, and if only my strength could always be at hand to save you, you would never come to harm. Go now without fear, to range the piney hills; never more shall I follow your trail with the wild wolf rampant in my heart. Less and less as I grow do I see in your race mere flying marks, or butcher-meat. We have grown, little brother, and learned many things that you know not, but you have many a precious sense that is wholly hidden from us. Go now without fear of me.

"I may never see you again. But if you only would come sometimes and look me in the eyes and make me feel as you have done to-day, you would drive the wild beast wholly from my heart and then the veil would be a little drawn and I should know more of the things that wise men have prayed to know. And yet I feel—it never will be—I have found the Grail. I have learned what Buddha learned. I shall never see you again. Farewell."

JAPANESE FLOWER ARRANGEMENT

By Theodore Wores

ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PAINTINGS BY THE AUTHOR

While it is generally recognized that flower arrangement affords an excellent opportunity for the display of good taste and artistic judgment, we by no means consider it, as in Japan, an art distinct in itself.

In Japan the art of flower arrangement is as highly regarded as music, poetry, or painting; and in order that one may become expert therein, it is deemed necessary to devote quite as much attention, time, and study to this as to any other form of art. We look upon flower arrangement in general as merely the result of individual taste, but a Japanese regards it from a very different point of view. He is governed, in this accomplishment, by numerous and well-defined rules which can only be acquired by long and patient study. It would be impossible, without this knowledge, to compose an arrangement of flowers which would meet with the approval of competent critics. It would, in fact, be quite as hopeless as for a musician to compose great masterpieces of music without previous training and careful study. The art of flower arrangement is not only practised by women and girls, but by men as well, for it is an accomplishment indispensable for all who would make any pretence to learning and culture.

During a conversation between a Japanese friend and myself, I once remarked that a certain young lady was not very pretty. "You are quite right," he answered, "but she is very clever at flower arrangement."

There are six or seven schools of flower arrangement, and while they differ more or less as to details, the fundamental principles are alike in all.

In spite of the fact that flowers are so inseparably associated with everything Japanese, it would be a mistake to assume that Japan is a land of flowers for wild, as well as garden flowers, are far more profuse in many sections of this country. Japan is, however, rich in cultivated flowers that are grown in great profusion in garden and nursery in the suburbs of all the cities.

Flower sellers, carrying their fragrant burdens in huge baskets, are met with everywhere, and they are patronized by the poor as well as by the rich, for the prices are low enough to bring them within the reach of all. Although there are many varieties of flowers, few, comparatively, are used in flower arrangement for the Japanese limit their choice to those with which they are most familiar and such as are most closely associated with the different months or seasons, seldom or never using rare or unknown flowers.

The reason given for this is that a thorough knowledge of the character of the flowers and the conditions under which they grow is indispensable, in order that a proper and effective use of them may be made.

The following may be mentioned as the popular flowers of Japan, and most closely associated by the Japanese with the different seasons of the year:

The first to appear is the plum blossom, which is hailed with delight as the harbinger of spring, and enjoys, therefore, the greatest popularity.

The plum is closely followed by the cherry blossom, which almost rivals the former as a favorite.

The next, and the last of the spring flowers, is the Wistaria. Summer's flowers include the peony, iris, and the lotus; while autumn claims one of the chief favorites, the chrysanthemum, and also the morning-glory.

Winter has no flowers, but here the poetic imagination of the Japanese fills the void; for when trees and landscape are whitened with snow, he converts this, in his picturesque fancy, into "winter flowers," and this exquisite love and appreciation of all that nature affords in her various phases, is a strongly developed trait, common to all classes of Japan.

Certain flowers are considered lucky and others unlucky—the latter including all such as are supposed to possess poisonous qualities. I found, for instance, that one of the wild flowers, a beautiful scarlet lily, known as the Shibuta-no-hanna, which I greatly admired, was regarded with disfavor and was never used for decoration or flower arrangements, for the reason that it was a flower of ill omen.

On the other hand, a favorite arrangement, formed of a combination of pine, bamboo, and plum blossoms, is symbolic of good luck and everlasting happiness. It is frequently used on festive occasions and figures conspicuously in the New Year's decorations that are arranged over gate and doorway.

The first glimpse that I obtained of a flower arrangement scene in Japan was presented to me under conditions that made a most pleasing and lasting impression.

The little daughter of one of my neighbors in Tokio, who gloried in the name of Kosakurasan, little Miss Cherryblossom, had kindly consented to pose for a picture upon which I was engaged. During the several sittings that I received from this little lady of eight she told me much of her short but eventful life. She attended school, and explained that aside from the regular instructions she received, her parents had engaged a very accomplished young lady to give her sisters and herself a lesson in flower arrangement once a week at home.

I was much interested to know more about this floral study and expressed a desire to be present on one of these occasions.

A few days later little Miss Cherry-blossom appeared at my studio-door with a large bunch of chrysanthemums in her arms and an invitation from her mother to be present at a lesson which the teacher was about to give. I accompanied my little friend, and arriving at her home, was ushered into a room where I found the teacher and pupils deeply absorbed in their interesting study. I watched the proceedings with great interest, and though I failed to comprehend much of what the teacher endeavored to impart to her pupils, it gave me great pleasure to observe the interesting group. These bright-eyed, prettily dressed little Japanese maidens, earnestly engaged in their interesting occupation and surrounded by quantities of flowers, formed such a charming and delightful scene, that I decided on the spot to make it the subject for a picture.

Later on I carried out this idea, and the illustration which appears on p. 211, gives an impression of the result. I engaged a famous old professor to arrange the chrysanthemums as they appear in the picture. The old man came to my studio bringing the flowers which he had carefully selected, and spent over an hour in making the arrangement. Several times, when it was almost completed, he pulled it to pieces and began again, exclaiming that it was not good enough. "It would pass," he said, "for ordinary purposes;" but since it was to serve as a model to be copied into the picture, nothing but absolute perfection would satisfy him.

This old professor was famous in his art and enjoyed great distinction and consideration—as much so as any famous poet or painter.

Aside from his occupation as a teacher, he was frequently engaged by wealthy people and by proprietors of tea-houses to make arrangements of flowers for dinner-parties and other festive occasions. Many methods are known and employed for keeping cut flowers fresh; and some of the famous professors of this art claim to possess the secret of certain ingredients, which, added to the water containing the flowers, have a stimulating effect and greatly prolong their life. The successful application of this process, known as mizuage, requires much experience, certain plants requiring a strong and others a weak solution.

One enthusiastic exponent of this art declared to me that many years ago, at a flower arrangement competition, given by a famous Daimio, he had received the first prize for an arrangement of bamboo, which, to the surprise of everyone, remained fresh and unfaded for twenty-seven days. This had been accomplished—without the use of water—by injecting a certain tonic into an opening which he had bored at the top of the bamboo stalk.

On another occasion, when he had arranged a combination of bamboo and morning-glory, he had carefully wrapped strips of paper around each of the flowers early in the morning before they had opened. Later in the afternoon, and just before this flower arrangement was to be shown to a company of guests, he had removed these paper wraps, and, by pouring a certain liquid into the water, had caused the flowers slowly to unfold before the eyes of the delighted spectators.

Entertainments of this character, where guests are invited to view various arrangements of flowers made especially for the occasion, are often given. Sometimes a guest is invited to make an extemporary arrangement, the flowers and everything necessary being provided for the purpose.

On one occasion, on a visit to the girls' high school in Kioto, I found a class of twenty or thirty girls receiving a lesson in flower arrangement. The professor, an old and distinguished-looking man, was seated before a low stand with a heap of flowers and shrubs at his side, and as Japanese houses are not provided with tables and chairs, the pupils and master were seated on the matted floor.

The teacher selected a few sprays from the heap and after carefully trimming off the decayed leaves and twigs, proceeded to arrange the blossoms in a vase standing before him. The lines given to the branches and stems of flowers were not always natural, but the character was given by much twisting and bending, as well as in the manner in which they were fastened in the vase; the stems of the flowers being held firmly in place by two short sticks of wood, wedged in tightly across the neck of the vase. In some instances a forked twig serves the same purpose. The chief feature of Japanese flower arrangement is simplicity, and usually but few flowers are required. The object of this device, therefore, is to give to the stems a firm position and enable them to rise erect out of the centre of the vase. Sometimes small metal crabs, or tortoises, are utilized as wedges.

As the professor arranged the flowers, he carefully explained his method to a group of five or six girls who were seated opposite to him. He impressed upon them the fact that flower arrangements are linear in character: being, in most instances, based on three lines rising gracefully from the neck of the vase. The centre or principal line should be the longest, the second one-half, and the third one-fourth the length of the first. He cautioned them against allowing these three stem-lines to cross one another in a way to form angles, nor should they be permitted to run in parallel lines. Other arrangements are based on five and seven lines and sometimes as many as nine or eleven, but these are uncommon and are rarely seen.

During the lesson the professor imparted much instructive information to his pupils. Among other things he told them that in the art of flower arrangement the student must be guided by nature and a careful study and observation of the character and habits of the flowers employed. Everything unnatural and inappropriate must be strictly avoided. Flowers of different seasons should never be arranged together, and no flower, however beautiful, should have a place in such arrangement out of its proper season.

Symmetry in flower arrangement should be avoided, and under no circumstances should both sides of a composition correspond or match. (This principle, it may be said, is observed in all forms of Japanese art.) It would be in very bad taste, for instance, to allow two vines to hang symmetrically from either side of a suspended vase, or even for a flower of one color to be placed between two of another color.

One of the fundamental rules of this art is that all flower arrangements should fit into a triangle, either vertical or horizontal, and that in itself serves more or less as a restriction against symmetrical compositions. Great attention should be given also to the manner in which the stems rise out of the water, as they should present a strong and vigorous appearance, and hold, in fact, the same relation to the flowers that the trunk of a tree bears to the branches and foliage overhead. Plants that grow erect should be given an upright direction in floral arrangements, while such, for instance, as grow overhanging the banks of streams or cliffs should be arranged in a hanging position. The professor demonstrated all this with numerous examples which he made and then distributed to the pupils.

Each girl, upon receiving a finished example, made a low bow to the master; and retiring to the other end of the room, proceeded to take the flowers apart and rearrange them as before.

After having accomplished this to the best of her ability, she returned with it to the teacher's desk, when he pointed out to her any defects it might contain.

The Japanese divide plants and flowers, without any regard to scientific facts, into the male and female sex. Trees, mountains, and streams are likewise classified as their fancy wills. This division of flowers and plants into sexes forms an important consideration in the art of flower arrangement. In a composition in which delicate plants and slender vines are used in connection with stems of trees, the latter represent the male element and should always form the centre or backbone of the arrangement and serve as a support for the former, the female element.

The various vessels used for holding the flowers form a very important feature in the art of flower arrangement, and a great many varieties are utilized for this purpose. Certain arrangements require long-necked vessels of earthenware or bronze, while broad and shallow ones are used for others. A great variety of baskets, known as flower baskets, are also used. These vary in shape and size, and some are suspended, while others are placed upon the ground. They always contain an inner vessel for holding water.

Another form of vessel very extensively used is one made of a cylinder of bamboo. This is generally formed from a section cut near the root, where the form is irregular and the joints are close together. These bamboo tubes are from one to two feet in height and from three to six inches in diameter, and sometimes have holes cut in the sides for inserting flowers.

Bamboo vases in the forms of boats are often hung in Japanese rooms. Imitation well-buckets, made of lacquered wood or porcelain, are also employed for holding flowers. Always used in pairs, they are generally suspended over a pulley by a silk rope, and make a very effective and pleasing decoration for a room.

One of the most important results of the study of this floral art has been in the direction of simplicity. It has created a love and an appreciation for the beauty of a single flower—for in its color and form, in its graceful stem and well-formed leaves, the votaries of this art find far more enjoyment than in confused masses of many colored flowers.

While there is, no doubt, much in Japanese flower arrangement that is unintelligible to us and would fail to appeal to the uninitiated, there is also much that would be understood and admired everywhere by persons of good taste. It is indeed a wonder that our attention has not been more generally drawn to this interesting study, so suggestive of a new and promising field of artistic possibilities.

Flower arrangement in Japan, like music, painting, and architecture, is in harmony with the peculiar and unique civilization of that country, and could not, therefore, be taken literally and grafted on to a civilization so radically different as our own. The principle, however, might be adopted and developed on lines in harmony with our arts and to the enrichment of our civilization. As an art it is full of possibilities, and would not only bring us into closer communion, and into a better understanding with nature and the floral world, but would also exercise a most æsthetic influence and add an unknown charm to our daily lives.

DANIEL WEBSTER

WITH UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPTS AND SOME EXAMPLES OF HIS PREPARATION FOR PUBLIC SPEAKING

By George F. Hoar

SECOND PAPER

The impression made by Webster's personality, referred to at the beginning of these papers, partly accounts for the eagerness with which everything he said or did is caught up, even at second hand. In any gathering, however brilliant, the whole company pricks up its ears and listens if one of them says, "I shook hands with Daniel Webster," or "I once heard him speak," or "I saw him go by in the street." So it seems well worth while to include among these very important and characteristic papers of Mr. Webster, now published for the first time, not only several of his letters, but a few notes that might seem trifling and insignificant if they related to anybody else.

The following letters written from London show Mr. Webster's opinion of the English lawyers and public speakers, and his keen interest in everything relating to agriculture. The alarm which was excited by the fear of a dishonor of the drafts of the Bank of the United States is an interesting fact in our financial history:

"LONDON, June 9, '39.
"MY DEAR SIR,

"On Monday morning, the 2nd inst, we arrived at Lpool, after a passage of 14½ days, or rather less, from Pilot to Pilot. For a great part of the way we had calm, the rest, light winds ahead; which same light winds have so retarded the sailing ships, that we were in Lpool several days before the N. Y. Packet of May 1., tho' we left the 18th. We staid in Lpool 2 days, went to Chester, and thence struck off & hit the Lpool & London Rail Road, & got to London, on the evening of the 5th. The sixth, it was rainy. I went out, quite alone, looked into all the Courts—the whole four were sitting—I saw all their venerable wigs. I stayed long enough to hear several Gentlemen speak. They are vastly better _trained_ than we are. They speak short. They get up, begin immediately, & leave off when they have done. Their manner is more like that of a school boy, who gets up to say his lesson, goes right through it, & then sits down, than it is like our more leisurely & elaborate habit. I think Sergeant Wilde, who is esteemed a long speaker, argued an insurance question in 15 minutes, that most of us would have got an hour's speech out of. The rooms are all small, with very inconvenient writing places, & almost nobody present, except the wigged population. I went to the Parliament Houses (Houses not in session). They are very small rooms. Where the Lords sit, I was sure, must be the old painted chamber where the Comees. of conference used to meet. On entering it, I asked the guide, _what Comee. room that was_—he turned to rebuke my ignorance, & exclaimed, "this is the House of Lords." I was right, however. The H. of C. was burnt, you know, some time ago, & the H. of C. now sit in what was the H. of L., & the Lords sit, temporarily, in the old painted chamber. All these accommodations are small & paltry; & new buildings are in progress for the use of both Houses.

"The political state of things is quite unsettled. All sorts of expectations exist, as to what shall happen. The ministry, most certainly, are very weak, in public estimation, & as clearly not very strong in their own. But Lord Wellington, whose weight & influence are, at this moment, prodigious, does not want office; & it is said that both he & Sir Robt. see the difficulty which they would be obliged to encounter, if in power, in consequence of the state of things in Ireland. Mr. O'Connell is king of Ireland; & it is thought that nothing but military power could keep the peace in that kingdom of his under an administration which he should oppose. Some speak of a dissolution of Parliament—others say, the Queen will rather give way to radicalism, than receive the tories into power. A new election, in the opinion of some, would give the Tories a working majority of 70 members. On all these topics, I have seen too little, & know too little, to be able to form any opinion for myself. As yet, I have not attended any Debates in Parliament, but purpose to go to the H. C. to-morrow Evening to witness a second Debate on the Jamaica Question. As to private matters, I will write you, if possible, in season for the same conveyance which takes this,—if not, I will write by the next. I propose to send this by the Lpool, which sails on the 13th.

* * * * *

"June 12.

"I attended the Debate on the Jamaica Question. The great guns were not fired, but the Debate was handsomely conducted. Sir Ed. Sugden began it. He is not remarkably interesting as a political Speaker. Mr. Labouchere, Mr. Gladstone, Sir George Grey, all young men, followed & spoke well.

"Pray remember me to all friends. Write me often, & tell me all the news. Send my regards Mr. Blake, & let me know how he is.

"Yrs truly
D. WEBSTER.

"Be sure to let no one single thing from me ever get into the newspapers."

* * * * *

"LONDON, Sep. 20, 1839.
"MY DEAR SIR

"I have recd. your letter, respecting the two acceptances. I had thought they were both provided for. As the Boat goes to-morrow, and as I returned to London only last evening, I may not be able to arrange so as to write by this opportunity; but by the _very next_, I will cause you to hear from me. We have been about six weeks, having run over much of England, & something of Scotland. Of course we could stay but little time in any one place, nor were we able to see much below the surface of things. But the agriculture, and the general of things, in England & Scotland, I have looked at, pretty attentively. Taken together, England exhibits a high wrought, exact, elaborate system of art & industry. Every productive power is carried to the utmost extent of skill, & maintained in the most unceasing activity. Constant attention & close calculation pervade everything. Rent is high, but prices of produce are high also. About thirty shillings, Sterling, say seven dollars, or thereabouts, may be regarded, perhaps, as near the average rent of good land in England. In some parts, it is much higher, say ten dollars, or, rent & tithes together, perhaps fifteen. The land is vastly productive, & prices are high. A gentleman told me yesterday that he had sold, some weeks ago, his wheat crop, at eleven pounds Sterling, pr acre, standing, & his oat crop for eight. This will shew you the aggregate of product & price. Forty bushels of wheat, & fifty or even sixty of oats, are not an uncommon yield to the acre. The land is naturally good, & is made the subject of the most careful & skilful cultivation. In the course of forty years, the _turnip_ has vastly enriched England. It feeds millions of sheep, whose wool & flesh command high prices, & the feeding of which in the field, during the winter, say ten sheep to the acre, enriches the land, for the succeeding crop of wheat. Then, too, lime is used extensively, & every bone ground up, for bone dust, which is found a most powerful manure. And when the lands require it, a complete system of underground draining is practised, especially in Scotland, which produces the best effects. Agricultural labor is not more than half as dear in England, as in the U. S.

"(I shall add a P.S. if I learn anything before this P. M. of this matter of the U. S. Bank & Hottinguer.

"(4 P. M. Mr. Jaudon has been to Paris. Rothschilds have accepted the Bills of the Bk. U. S. for the honor of the Bank. It is thought the Bank may have drawn, under an understanding with Hottinguer's agt. in U. S. of which his principals were not seasonably advised. It is an unlucky affair, at least, & will much prejudice American interests and credits here."