The lady, or the tiger? and other stories

THE LADY, OR THE TIGER?
AND OTHER STORIES.

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON

RUDDEB GRANGE
THE LATE MRS. NULL
ARDI8 CLAVERDEN
THE HOC8E OF MARTHA

POMONA'S TRAVELS

THE ADVENTURES OK CAPTAIN HORN

MRS. CLIFF'S YACHT

THE GIRL AT COBHURST
THE LADY OR THE TIGER
THE CHRISTMAS WRECK
THE BEE-MAN OF ORN
AMOS KILBRIGHT

THE RUDDER GRANGERS ABROAD
THE WATCHMAKER'S WIFE
A STORY TELLER'S PACK
AFIELD AND AFLOAT
JOHN GAYTHER'B GARDEN

A CHOSEN VIEW

ROUNDABOUT RAMBLES
TALES OUT OF SCHOOL
A JOLLY FELLOWSHIP
THE FLOATING PRINCE
THE TING-A-LING TALES
THE STORY OF VITEAU
I'K.U.-..\M.I V « OMD1 « 1KD
THE CLOCKS OF RONOAINE
THE QUEEN'S MUSEUM
FANCIFUL TALES

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S S0JVS

THE LADY, OR THE TIGER?

AND OTHER STORIES

FRANK R. STOCKTON

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

COPYRIGHT, 1884, 188ft, BY

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

COPYRIGHT, 1012, BY
WILLIAM S. STOCKTON

COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
MARIE LOUISE STOCKTON AND FRANCES A. STOCKTON

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this book
may be reproduced in any form without
the permission of Charles Scribner's Sons

REPLACING

1SS

CONTENTS.

MM
THE LADY, OR THE TIOKB? 1

THE TRANSFERRED OHO8T ........ 11

•THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE 38

•OUR ARCHERY CLUB . . . «

THAT SAME OLD 'COON 74

HIS WIFE'S DECEASED 8IST1R 99

OUR STORY 115

MR. TOLMAN ... 134

ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS 1M

OUR FIKE-8CRKKN 178

A PIECE OF RED CALICO 187

EVERY MAN BIS OWN LETTER-WRITER . ... IS*

V

jvi<J4.5G5

THE LADY, OR THE TIGER?

. the. very olden time, there lived a semi-barbaric
king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and
sharpened by the progress' V2ress of distant Latin
neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammelled,
as became the half of him whichwas barbaric. He was
a man of exuberant fancy, and(.withal, of an authority
BO irresistible thaQat his will, he turned his varied
fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-
communing : and, when he and himself agreed upon
any thing, the thing was done. i'JWhen every member
of his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in
its ap{>ointed course, his nature was bland and genial ;
but whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his
orbs got out of their orbits, he was blander and more
genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to
make the crooked straight, and crush down uneven
places.

Among the borrowed notions by which his barbar^m
had become semifled was that of the public arenatjn
which, 8y exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the
minds of his subjects were refined and cultured. •

2 THE LADY, OR THE TIGER t

But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy as
serted itself. The arena of the king was built, not to
£*ve; the\ peOjJlfc ii ppportunity of hearing the rhapso
dies of trying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the
jne'vjtAbJ6'<boncllisi*on''o/ a conflict between religious
bpihio'iM aitl hdngry-jaws, but for purposes far better
adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of
the people,.,. This vast amphitheatre, with its encircling
galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages,
was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was pun
ished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impar
tial and incorruptible chance.

When a subject was accused of a crimex>f sufficient
importance to interest the king, publicjnotice was given
that on an appointed day the fate of the accused per
son would be decided in the king's arena, — ^structure
which well deserved its name ; for. although its form
and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose ema
nated solely from the brain of this man, who, every
barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which he owed
more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who in
grafted on every adopted form of human thought and
action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism/]

When all the people had assembled in the galleries,
and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on
his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he
gave a signal,' a door beneath him opened, and the
accused subject stepped out into the amphitheatre.
Directly opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed
space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side.
It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial,

THE LADY, OR THE TIGER t 8

to walk directly to these doors and open one of them.
He could open either door he pleased :.be was subject to
no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned
impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the
one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and
most cruel that could l>e procured, which immediately
sprang upon him, and tore him to pieces, as a punish
ment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the
criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were
ci.-tn-r-i. great waiU went up t'ruin :lu- hired iu<>urn»-rs
posted on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast audi
ence, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended
slowly theu homeward way, mourning greatly that one
so young, and fair, or so old and respected, should have
merited so dire a fate.

But, if the accused person opened the other door,
there came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to
his years and station that his majesty could select
i.. among his fair subjects j and to this lady he was im
mediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It
mattered not that he might already possess a wifq and
family J or that his affections might be engaged upon
an object of his own selection : the king allowed no
such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his
great scheme of retribution and reward, i The exercises,
as in the other instance, took place immediately, and
in the arena. .^Another door opened beneath the king,
antj) a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and
dancing maidens blowing joyous airs on^ golden horns
and treading an epithalamic measure^ advanced to
where the pair stood, side by side ; and the wedding

4 THE +ADY, OR THE TIGER f

Wft§ promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay
brass bells rang forth their merry peals, the people
shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded
by children strewing flowers on his path, led his bride
to his home.

This was the king's semi-barbaric method of admin
istering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The
criminal could not know out of which door would come
the lady : he opened either he pleased, without having
the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was
to be devoured or married. On some occasions the
tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the
other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only
fair, they were positively determinate : ^ the accused
person was instantly punished if he found himself
guilty ; and, if innocent, he was rewarded on the spot,
whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from
judgments of the king's arena.

rhe institution was a very popular one. "When the
people gathered together on one of the great trial
days< they/ never knew whether they were to witness a
bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. ,This element
of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it
could not otherwise have attained. Thus, the masses
were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of
the community could bring no charge of unfairness
against this plan ; for did not the accused person
have the whole matter in his own hands 2,)

This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming
as his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent
and imperious as his own. As Li Ubual in buch cases,

THE LADY, OR TUB TIGERf 5

the was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him
above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young
man of that fineness of blood and lowness of station
common to the conventional heroes of romance who
love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satis
fied with her lover {for he was handsome and brave to a
degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom ;/an<|8he loved
him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in it
to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love
affair moved on happily for many months, until one
day the king happened to discover its ^xistence. ^He
did not hesitate nor waver in regaixl to his duty in the
premises. ! The youth was immediately cast into prison,
and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's
arena. This, of course, was an especially important
occasion ; and his majesty, as well as all the people,
was greatly interested in the workings and develop
ment of this triaL] Never before had such a case
occurred ; never before had a subject dared to love
the daughter of a king. In after-years such things
became commonplace enough ; but then they were^in
no slight degree^) novel and startling.

The tiger-cages of the kingdom were eearched for
the most savage and relentless beasts, from which the
fiercest monster might be selected for the arena ; and
the ranks of maiden youth and l>eauty throughout the
landjwere carefully surveyed by comi>eU'nt judges, in
order that the young man might have a fitting bride in
case fate did not determine for him a different destiny.
Of course, everybody knew that the deed with which
the aoonml was charged had been done. lie had

6 THE LADY, OB THE TIGER f

loved the princess* and neither he, she, nor any one
else thought of denying the fact] but the king would
not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere
with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took
such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how
the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed
of; and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in
watching the course of events, which would determine
whether or not the young man had done wrong in
allowing himself to love the princess, j

The appointed day arrived. From far and near the
people (gathered, and) thronged the great galleries of
the arena; and crowds, unable to gain admittance,
massed themselves against its outside walls. The
king and his court were in their places, opposite the
twin doors, — those fateful portals, so terrible in their
similarity.

All was ready. The signal was given. : A door
beneath the royal party opened ^ and the lover of the
princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair,
his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admira
tion and anxiety. Half the audience had not known
•o grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder
the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for
him to be there !

As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned, as
the custom was, to bow to the king : but he did not
think at all of that royal personage; his eyes were
fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her
father. Had it not been for the/moiety of barbarism
In her nature, it is probable that lady would not have

THE LADY, OB THE TIGER f ([

been there ; but her intense and fervid soul would not
allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she
was so terribly interested. From the moment that the
decree had gone forth, that her lover should decide his
fate in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing,
night or day, but this great event^and the various sub
jects connected with it. Possessed of more power,
influence, and force of character than any one who
had ever before been interested in such a case, she had
done what no other person had done, — she had poe-
MBsi'd herself of tli.- -rent «.f tli«- doOIS. Mir knew in
which of the two rooms, that lay behind those doors,
stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in
which waited the lady. Through these thick doors,
heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it was
impossible that any noise or suggestion should come
from within to the person who should approach to
raise the latch of one of them ; but gold, and the
power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to
the princess.

And not only did she know in which room stood the
lady/ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should
her door be opened,! but she knew who the lady was.
It was one of the(/airest andjloveliest ipf the\damsels
of the court who had been selected as the reward of
the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the
crime of aspiring to one so far above him ; and the
princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined
that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances
of admiration upon the |H?rson of her lover, and some
times she thought these glances were {'

LADY, OH THE TIGER?

even returned. Now and then she had seen them talk.
Ing together ; it was but for a moment or two, but
much can be said in a brief space ; it may have been
on most unimportant topics, but how could she know
that ? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise
her eyes to the loved one of the princess ; and, with
all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to her
through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she
hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind
that silent door.

When her lover turned and looked at her, and his ey€
met hers^fts she sat there paler and whiter than any one
in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw,
by that power of quick perception which is given to
those whose souls are onevthat she knew behind which
door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the
lady. He had expected her to know it^He under
stood her nature, and his soul was assuVed that she
would never rest until she had made plain to herself
this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the
king. The only hope foi; the youttym which there was
any element of certaintyjwas^based upon^the success
of the princess in discovering this mystery ; and the
moment he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded,
f as in his soul he knew she would succeed J)

Then it was that his quick and anxiousT^lance asked
the question: " Which?" It was as plain to her as
if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not
an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a
flash ; it must be answered in another.

Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before

THE LADY, OR TIIE TIGER f 9

ber. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick
movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw
her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the
arena.

He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked
across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating,
every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably
upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he
went to the door on the right, and opened it.

7 ° I? *& - trte-- r<« j j c - ~* i*~ '~£>

Now, the point of the story is this : Did the tiger
come out of that door, or did the lady ?

The mgre we, reflect upon this question, the harder it
is to answer, fit involves a study of the human heart
which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out
of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it,
fair reader, not as it) the decision of the question de
pended \ipon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-
barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the
combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost
him, but who should have him ?

How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams,
had she started in wild horron and covered her face
with her hands as she thought of her lover opening
the door on the other side of which waited the cruel
fangs of the tiger !

But how much oftener had she seen him at the other

door ! How in her grievous reveries had she gnaahed

her teeth] and torn her hair, wheuj she saw his start of

rapturous <1. -lii»ht as he opened tne door of the lady!

v- ^low her soul had burned iu auony when she had seen

10 THE LADY, OR THE TIGER t

him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek
and sparkling eye of triumph ; when she had seen him
lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of
recovered life ; when she had heard the glad shouts
from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy
bells ; when she bad seen the priest, with his joyous
followers, advance to the couple, and make them man
and wife before her very eyes ; and when she had seen
them walk away together upon their path of flowers, fol
lowed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multi-
/tude, in which her one despairing shriek was lost and
drowned !\

Would "it not be better for him to die at once, and
go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-
barbaric futurity?

And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood !

Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but
it had been made after days and nights of anguished
deliberation. She had known she would be asked; she
had decided what she would answer,* and, without the
slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the
right.

The question of her decision is one not to be lightly
considered, and it is not for me to presume to set my
self up as the one person able to answer it. And so I
leave it with all of you : Which came out of the opened
door, — the lady, or the tiger ?

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

THE country residence of Mr. John Hinckman was
a delightful place to me, for many reasons. It
was the abode of a genial, though somewhat impulsive,
hospitality. It had broad, smooth-shaven lawns and
towering oaks and elms ; there were bosky shades at
several points, and not far from the house there was a
little rill spanned by a rustic bridge with the bark on ;
there were fruits and flowers, pleasant people, chess,
billiards, rides, walks, and fishing. These were great
attractions ; but none of them, nor all of them together,
would have been sufficient to hold me to the place very
long. I had been invited for the trout season, but
should, probably, have finished my visit early in the
summer had it not been that upon fair days, when the
Lrr:i— was dry, :m.i tin- MIU \\ as nut ton hot, :iii-i there
was but little wind, there strolled beneath the lofty
elms, or passed lightly through the bosky shades, the
form of my Madeline.

This lady was not, in very truth, my Madeline. She
had never given herself to me, nor had I, in any way,
acquired possession of her. But as I considered her

11

12 THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

possession the only sufficient reason for the continu
ance of my existence, I called her, in my reveries,
mine. It may have been that I would not have been
obliged to confine the use of this possessive pronoun
to my reveries had I confessed the state of my feelings
to the lad}

But this was an unusually difficult thing to do. Not
only did I dread, as almost all lovers dread, taking
the step which would in an instant put an end to that
delightful season which may be termed the ante-inter
rogatory period of love, and which might at the same
time terminate all intercourse or connection with the
object of my passion ; but I was, also, dreadfully afraid
of John Hinckman. This gentleman was a good friend
of mine, but it would have required a bolder man than
I was at that time to ask him for the gift of his niece,
who was the head of his household, and, according to
his own frequent statement, the main prop of his de
clining years. Had Madeline acquiesced in my general
views on the subject, I might have felt encouraged to
open the matter to Mr. Hinckman ; but, as I said be
fore, I had never asked her whether or not she would
be mine. I thought of these things at all hours of the
day and night, particularly the latter.

I was lying awake one night, in the great bed in my
spacious chamber, when, by the dim light of the new
moon, which partially filled the room, I saw John
Hinckman standing by a large chair near the door. I
was very much surprised at this for two reasons. In
the first place, my host had never before come into my
room ; and, in the second place, he had gone from home

THE TRANSFERRED GUOST. 13

that morning, and had not expected to return for sev-
eral days. It was for this reason that I had been able
that evening to sit much later than usual with Made
line on the moonlit porch. The figure was certainly
that of John Hinckman in his ordinary dress, but there
was a vagueness and indistinctness about it which
presently assured me that it was a ghost. Had the
good old man been murdered? and had his spirit come
to tell me of the deed, and to confide to me the protec
tion of his dear - — ? My heart fluttered at what I
was about to think, but at this instant the figure spoke.

44 Do you know," he said, with a countenance that
indicated anxiety, " if Mr. Hinckman will return to
night?"

I thought it well to maintain a calm exterior, and I
answered, —

44 We do not expect him."

44 1 am glad of that," said he, sinking into the chair
by which he stood. " During the two years and a half
that I have inhabited this house, that man has never
before been away for a single night. You can't ima
gine the relief it gives me."

And as he spoke he stretched out his legs, and leaned
back in the chair. His form became less vague, and
tin- colors <»f hi- gannenti more dittiod and evident
while an expression of gratified relief succeeded to the
anxiety of his countenance.

44 Two years and a half ! " I exclaimed. 44 1 don't
understand you."

44 It is fully that length of time," said the ghost,
44 since I first came here. Mine is not an ordinary

14 THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

case. But before I say any thing more about it, let
me ask you again if you are sure Mr. Hinckman will
not return to-night."

44 1 am as sure of it as I can be of any thing," I
answered. " He left to-day for Bristol, two hundred
miles away."

44 Then I will go on," said the ghost, " for I am glad
to have the opportunity of talking to some one who will
listen to me ; but if John Hinckmau should come in
and catch me here, I should be frightened out of my
wits."

4 'This is all very strange," I said, greatly puzzled
by what I had heard. " Are you the ghost of Mr.
Hinckman?"

This was a bold question, but my mind was so full
of other emotions that there seemed to be no room for
that of fear.

44 Yes, I am his ghost," my companion replied,
44 and yet I have no right to be. And this is what
makes me so uneasy, and so much afraid of him. It
is a strange story, and, I truly believe, without prece
dent. Two years and a half ago, John Hinckman was
dangerously ill in this very room. At one time he was
BO far gone that he was really believed to be dead. It
was in consequence of too precipitate a report in regard
to this matter that I was, at that time, appointed to be
his frhost. Imagine my surprise and horror, sir, when,
after I had accepted the position and assumed its re
sponsibilities, that old man revived, became convales
cent, and eventually regained his usual health. My
situation was now one of extreme delicacy and em bar

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. 15

rassment. I had no power to return to my original
unembodiment, and I had no right to be the ghost of a
man who was not dead. I was advised by my friends
to quietly maintain my position, and was assured that,
as John Hiuckman was an elderly man, it could not be
long before I could rightfully assume the position for
which I had been selected. But I tell you, sir," he
continued, with animation, 4* the old fellow seems as
vigorous as ever, and I have no idea how much longer
this annoying state of things will continue. I spend
my time trying to get out of that old man's way. I
must not leave this house, and he seems to follow me
everywhere. I tell you, sir, he haunts me."

44 That is truly a queer state of things," I remarked.
44 But why are you afraid of him? He couldn't hurt
you."

4t Of course he couldn't," said the ghost. " But his
very presence is a shock and terror to me. Imagine,
sir, how you would feel if my case were yours."

I could not imagine such a thing at all. I simply
shuddered.

44 And if one must be a wrongful ghost at all," the
apparition continued, i4 it would be much pleasanter to
be the ghost of some man other than John Hinckman.
There is in him an irascibility of temper, accompanied
by a facility of invective, which is seldom met with.
And what would happen if he were to see me, and find
out, as I am sure he would, how long and why I had
inhabited his house, I can scarcely conceive. I have
seen him in his bursts of passion ; and, although he
did not hurt the people he stormed at any more

16 THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

he would hurt me, they seemed to shrink before
him."

All this I knew to be very true. Had it not been
for this peculiarity of Mr. Hinckman, I might have
been more willing to talk to him about his niece.

44 1 feel sorry for you," I said, for I really began
to have a sympathetic feeling toward this unfortunate
apparition. 44 Your case is indeed a hard one. It
reminds me of those persons who have had doubles,
and I suppose a man would often be very angry indeed
when he found that there was another being who was
personating himself."

41 Oh! the cases are not similar at all," said the
ghost. " A double or doppelganger lives on the earth
with a man ; and, being exactly like him, he makes all
sorts of trouble, of course. It is very different with
me. I am not here to live with Mr. Hinckman. I am
here to take his place. Now, it would make John
Hinckman very angry if he knew that. Don't you
know it would?"

I assented promptly.

" Now that he is away I can be easy for a little
while," continued the ghost; "and lam so glad to
have an opportunity of talking to you. I have fre
quently come into your room, and watched you while
you slept, but did not dare to speak to you for fear
that if you talked with me Mr. Hinckman would hear
you, and come into the room to know why you were
talking to 3*ourself."

4k Hut would he not hear you? " I asked.

44 Oh, no I " said the other : 44 there are times when

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. 17

any one may see me, but no one hears me except tho
person to whom I address myself."

41 But why did you wish to speak to me? " I asked.

44 Because/' replied the ghost, 44 1 like occasionally
to talk to people, and especially to some one like your
self, whose mind is so troubled and perturbed that you
are not likely to be frightened by a visit from one of
us. But 1 particularly wanted to ask you to do me
a favor. There is every probability, so far as I can
see. that John Hinckman will live a long time, and my
situation is becoming iusu pportable. My great object
at present is to get myself transferred, and I think
that you may, perhaps, be of use to me."

44 Transferred ! " I exclaimed. u What do you mean
by that? "

44 What I mean," said the other, 4t is this: Now
that I have started on my career I have got to be the
ghost of somebody, and I want to be the ghost of a
man who is really dead."

4« I should think that would be easy enough," I said.
44 Opportunities must continually occur."

4*Not at all! not at all!" said my companion
quickly. 44 You have no idea what a rush and press
ure there is for situations of this kind. Whenever a
vacancy occurs, if I may express myself in that way,
there are crowds of applications for the ghostship."

44 I had no idea that such a state of things existed,"
I said, becoming quite interested in the matter.
44 The re ought to be some regular system, or order of
precedence, by which you could all take your turn*
like customers iu a barber's shop."

18 THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

"Oh dear, that would never do at all! " said the
other. "Some of us would have to wait forever.
There is always a great rush whenever a good ghost-
ehip offers itself — while, as you know, there are some
positions that no one would care for. And it was in
consequence of my being in too great a hurry on an
occasion of the kind that I got myself into my present
disagreeable predicament, and I have thought that it
might be possible that you would help me out of it.
You might know of a case where an opportunity for a
ghostship was not generally expected, but which might
present itself at any moment. If you would give me
a short notice, I know I could arrange for a transfer."

"What do you mean?" I exclaimed. " Do you
want me to commit suicide ? Or to undertake a mur
der for your benefit? "

"Oh, no, no, no! " said the other, with a vapory
smile. " I mean nothing of that kind. To be sure,
there are lovers who are watched with considerable
interest, such persons having been known, in moments
of depression, to offer very desirable ghostships ; but
I did not think of any thing of that kind in connection
with you. You were the only person I cared to speak
to, and I hoped that you might give me some informa
tion that would be of use ; and, in return, I shall be
very glad to help you in your love affair."

" You seem to know that I have such an affair," I
said.

"Oh, yes!" replied the other, with a little yawn.
"I could not be here so much as I have been without
knowing all about that."

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. IS

There was something horrible in the idea of Made
line and myself having been watched by a ghost, even,
perhaps, when we wandered together in the most de
lightful and bosky places. But, then, this was quite
an exceptional ghost, and I could not have thj objec
tions to him which would ordinarily arise in regard to
beings of his class.

"I must go now," said the ghost, rising: "but I
will see you somewhere to-morrow night. And remem
ber — you help me, and I'll help you."

I had doubts the next morning as to the propriety
of telling Madeline any thing about this interview, and
soon convinced myself that I must keep silent on the
subject. If she knew there was a ghost about the
house, she would probably leave the place instantly. I
did not mention the matter, and so regulated my de
meanor that I am quite sure Madeline never suspected
what had taken place. For some time I had wished
that Mr. Hinckman would absent himself, for a day
at least, from the premises. In such case I thought
I might more easily nerve myself up to the point of
•pet Ir ing to Madeline on the subject of our future col
lateral existence ; and, now that the opportunity for
such speech had really occurred, I did not feel ready
to avail myself of it. What would become of me if
•he refused me?

I had an idea, however, that the lady thought that,
if I were going to speak at all, this was the time. She
must have known that certain sentiments were afloat
within me, and she was not unreasonable in her wish
to see the matter settled one way or the other. But I

30 TILE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

did not feel like taking a bold step in the dark. If
she wished me to ask her to give herself to me, she
ought to offer me some reason to suppose that she
would make the gift. If I saw no probability of such
generosity, I would prefer that things should remain as
they were.

That evening I was sitting with Madeline in the
moonlit porch. It was nearly ten o'clock, and ever
since supper-time I had been working myself up to
the point of making an avowal of my sentiments. I
had not positively determined to do this, but wished
gradually to reach the proper point, when, if the pros
pect looked bright, I might speak. My companion
appeared to understand the situation — at least, I im
agined that the nearer I came to a proposal the more
she seemed to expect it. It was certainly a very criti
cal and important epoch in my life. If I spoke, I
should make myself happy or miserable forever ; and
if I did not speak I had ever}' reason to believe that
the lady would not give me another chance to do so.

Sitting thus with Madeline, talking a little, and
thinking very hard over these momentous matters, I
looked up and saw the ghost, not a dozen feet away
from us. He was sitting on the railing of the porch,
one leg thrown up before him, the other dangling down
as he leaned against a post. He was behind Madeline,
but almost in front of me, as I sat facing the lady.
It was fortunate that Madeline was looking out over
the landscape, for I must have appeared very much
startled. The ghost had told me that he would see mo

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. 2T

some lime this night, but I did not think he would
make his appearance when I was in the company of
Madeline. If she should see the spirit of her uncle, I
could not answer for the consequences. I made no
exclamation, but the ghost evidently saw that I was
troubled.

44 Don't be afraid," he said — " I shall not let her
see me ; and she cannot hear me speak unless I ad
dress myself to her, which I do not intend to do."

I suppose I looked grateful.

44 So you need not trouble yourself about that," the
ghost continued ; " but it seems to me that you are not
getting along very well with your affair. If I were
you, I should speak out without waiting any longer.
You will never have a better chance. You are not
likely to be interrupted ; and, so far as I can judge,
the lady seems disposed to listen to you favorably ;
that is, if she ever intends to do so. There is no
knowing when John Hinckman will go away again ;
certainly not this summer. If I were in your place, I
should never dare to make love to Hinckman's niece if
he were anywhere about the place. If he should catch
any one offering himself to Miss Madeline, he would
then be a terrible man to encounter."

1 igrcrd perfect h to all this.

"I cannot bear to think of him! "I ejaculated
aloud.

44 Think of whom? " asked Madeline, turning quick
ly toward me.

Here was an awkward situation. The long speech
of the ghost, to which Madeline paid no attention, but

22 THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

which I heard with perfect distinctness, had made me
forget myself.

It was necessary to explain quickly. Of course, it
would not do to admit that it was of her dear uncle
that I was speaking ; and so I mentioned hastily the
first name I thought of.

41 Mr. Vilars," I said.

This statement was entirely correct ; for I never
could bear to think of Mr. Vilars, who was a gentle
man who had, at various times, paid much attention to
Madeline.

44 It is wrong for you to speak in that way of Mr.
Vilars," she said. " He is a remarkably well edu
cated and sensible young man, and has very pleasant
manners. He expects to be elected to the legislature
this fall, and I should not be surprised if he made his
mark. He will do well in a legislative body, for when
ever Mr. Vilars has any thing to say he knows just
how and when to say it."

This was spoken very quietly, and without any
show of resentment, which was all very natural, for if
Madeline thought at all favorably of me she could not
feel displeased that I should have disagreeable emo
tions in regard to a possible rival. The concluding
words contained a hint which I was not slow to under
stand. I felt very sure that if Mr. Vilars were in my
present position he would speak quickly enough.

44 1 know it is wrong to have such ideas about a
person," I said, 44 but I cannot help it."

The lady did not chide me, and after this she seemed
even in a softer mood. As for me. I felt considerably

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. 2S

annoyed, for I had not wished to admit that any
thought of Mr. Vilars had ever occupied my mind.

44 You should not speak aloud that way," said the
ghost, " or yon may get yourself into trouble. I want
to see every thing go well with you, because then you
may be disposed to help me, especially if I should
chance to be of any assistance to you, which I hope I
shall be.0

I longed to tell him that there was no way in which
he could help me so much as by taking his instant de
parture. To make love to a young lady with a ghost
sitting on the railing near by, and that ghost the appa
rition of a much-dreaded uncle, the very idea of whom
in such a position and at such a time made me tremble,
was a difficult, if not an impossible, thing to do; but
I forbore to speak, although I may have looked my
mind.

" I suppose," continued the ghost, " that you have
not heard any thing that might be of advantage to me.
Of course, I am very anxious to hear ; but if you hav?
any thing to tell me, I can wait until you are alone. I
will come to you to-night in your room, or I will stay
here until the lady goes away."

44 You need not wait here," I said ; 44 1 have nothing
at all to say to you."

Madeline sprang to her feet, her face flushed and
her eyes ablaze.

44 Wait here ! " she cried. 4k What do you suppose
I am waiting for? Nothing to say to me indeed ! — I
should think so! What should you have to say to
me?"

24 THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

"Madeline," I exclaimed, stepping toward her,
"let me explain."

But she had gone.

Here was the end of the world for me ! I turned
fiercely to the ghost.

14 Wretched existence!" I cried. "You have
ruined every thing. You have blackened my whole
life. Had it not been for you "

But here my voice faltered. I could say no more.

"You wrong me," said the ghost. "I have not
injured you. I have tried only to encourage and
assist you, and it is your own folly that has done
this mischief. But do not despair. Such mistakes
as these can be explained. Keep up a brave heart.
Good-by."

And he vanished from the railing like a bursting
soap-bubble.

I went gloomily to bed, but I saw no apparitions
that night except those of despair and misery which
my wretched thoughts called up. The words I had
uttered had sounded to Madeline like the basest insult.
Of course, there was only one interpretation she could
put upon them.

As to explaining my ejaculations, that was impos
sible. I thought the matter over and over again as I
lay awake that night, and I determined that I would
never tell Madeline the facts of the case. It would be
better for me to suffer all my life than for her to know
that the ghost of her uncle haunted the house. Mr.
Hinckinan was away, and if she knew of his ghost she
could not be made to believe that he was not dead.

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. 2S

She might not survive the shock ! No, my heart
could bleed, but I would never tell her.

The next day was fine, neither too cool nor too
warm ; the breezes were gentle, and nature smiled.
But there were no walks or rides with Madeline. She
seemed to be much engaged during the day, and I saw
but little of her. When we met at meals she was
polite, but very quiet and reserved. She had evidently
determined on a course of conduct, and had resolved
to assume that, although I had been very rude to her,
she did not understand the import of my words. It
would be quite proper, of course, for her not to know
what I meant by my expressions of the night before.

I was downcast and wretched, and said but little,
and the only bright streak across the black horizon of
my woe was the fact that she did not appear to be
happy, although she affected an air of unconcern. The
moonlit porch was deserted that evening, but wander
ing about the house I found Madeline in the library
alone. She was reading, but I went in and sat down
near her. I felt that, although I could not do so fully,
I must in a measure explain my conduct of the night
before. She listened quietly to a somewhat labored
ai>ology I made for the words I had used.

44 1 have not the slightest idea what you meant,"
she said, t4 but you were very rude."

I earnestly disclaimed any intention of rudeness,
and assured her, with a warmth of speech that must
have made some impression uj>on her, that rudeness
to her would be an action impossible to me. I said a
great deal upon the subject, and implored her to be-

26 THE TRANSFERRED GHOST.

lieve that if it were not for a certain obstacle I could
speak to her so plainly that she would understand
every thing.

She was silent for a time, and then she said, rather
more kindly, I thought, than she had spoken before :

44 Is that obstacle in any way connected with my
uncle?"

44 Yes," I answered, after a little hesitation, '4 it is,
in a measure, connected with him."

She made no answer to this, and sat looking at her
book, but not reading. From the expression of her
face, I thought she was somewhat softened toward me.
She knew her uncle as well as I did, and she may have
been thinking that, if he were the obstacle that pre
vented my speaking (and there were many ways in
which he might be that obstacle), my position would
be such a hard one that it would excuse some wildness
of speech and eccentricity of manner. I saw, too,
that the warmth of my partial explanations had had
some effect on her, and I began to believe that it might
be a good thing for me to speak my mind without
delay. No matter how she should receive my proposi
tion, my relations with her could not be worse than
they had been the previous night and day, and there
wu> x.mrthiiiL: in her face- which ciicuura-cd mr to
hope that she might forget my foolish exclamations
of the evening before if I began to tell her my tale of
love.

I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and as I did
so the ghost burst into the room from the door- way
behind her. I say burst, although no door flew open

THE TRANSFERRED GHOST. 27

and he made no noise. He was w"ily excited, and
waved his arms abo\e his head. The moment I saw
him, my heart fell within me. "W ith the entrance of
that impertinent apparition, every hope fled from me.
I could not speak while he was in the room.

I must have turned pale ; and I gazed steadfastly at
the ghost, almost without seeing Madeline, who sat
between us.

"Do you know," he cried, "that John Hinckman
is coming up the hill ? He will be here in fifteen min
utes ; and if you are doing any thing in the way of
love-making, you had better hurry it up. But this is
not what I came to tell you. I have glorious newt I
At last I am transferred ! Not forty minutes ago a
Russian nobleman was murdered by the Nihilists.
Nobody ever thought of him in connection with an
immediate ghostehip. My friends instantly applied
for the situation for me, and obtained my transfer.
I am off before that horrid Hinckman comes up the
hill. The moment I reach my new position, I shall put
off this hated semblance. Good-by. You can't ima
gine how glad I am to be, at last, the real ghost of
somebody."

"Oh!*f I cried, rising to my feet, and stretching
out my arms in utter wretchedness, "I would to
Heaven you were mine 1 "

" I am yours," said Madeline, raising to me her
tearful eyes.

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

ryiQWARD the close of a beautiful afternoon in early
J- summer I stood on the piazza of the spacious
country-house which was my home. I had just dined,
and I gazed with a peculiar comfort and delight upon
the wide-spreading lawn and the orchards and groves
beyond ; and then, walking to the other end of the
piazza, I looked out toward the broad pastures, from
which a fine drove of cattle were leisurely coming home
to be milked, and toward the fields of grain, whose
green was beginning already to be touched with yellow.
Involuntarily (for, on principle, I was opposed to such
feelings) a pleasant sense of possession came over me.
It could not be long before all this would virtually be
mine.

About two years before, I had married the niece of
John Hinckman, the owner of this fine estate. He
was very old, and could not be expected to survive
much longer, and had willed the property, without
reserve, to my wife. This, in brief, was the cause of
my present sense of prospective possession ; and al
though, as I said, I was principled against the volun-

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 29

tary encouragement of such a sentiment, I could not
blame myself if the feeling occasionally arose within
me. I had not married my wife for her uncle's money.
Indeed, we had both expected that the marriage would
result in her being entirely disinherited. His niece
was John Hiiirkinaif s housekeeper and sole prop and
comfort, and if she left him for me she expected no
kindness at his hands. But she had not left him. To
our surprise, her uncle invited us to live with him, and
our relations with him became more and more amicable
and pleasant, and Mr. Hinckman had, of late, fre
quently expressed to me his great satisfaction that
I had proved to be a man after his own heart ; that I
took an interest in flocks and herds and crops ; that
I showed a talent for such pursuits ; and that I would
continue to give, when he was gone, the same care and
attention to the place which it had been so long his
greatest pleasure to bestow. He was old and ill now,
and tired of it all ; and the fact that I had not proved
to be, as he had formerly supposed me, a mere city
gentleman, was a great comfort to his declining days.
We were deeply grieved to think that the old man must
BOOH die. We would gladly have kept him with us for
years; but, if he must go, it was pleasant to know
that he and ourselves were so well satisfied with the
arrangements that had been made. Think me not
cold and heartless, high-minded reader. For a few
moments put yourself in my place.

But had you, at that time, put yourself in my place
on that pleasant piazza, I do not believe you would
have cared to stay there long ; for, as I stood gazing

30 TEE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

over the fields, I felt a touch upon my shoulder. 1
cannot say that I was actually touched, but I experi
enced a feeling which indicated that the individual who
had apparently touched me would have done so had he
been able. I instantly turned, and saw, standing be
side me, a tall figure in the uniform of a Russian officer.
I started back, but made no sound. I knew what the
figure was. It was a spectre — a veritable ghost.

Some years before this place had been haunted. I
knew this well, for I had seen the ghost myself. But
before my marriage the spectre had disappeared, and
had not been seen since ; and I must admit that my
satisfaction, when thinking of this estate, without
mortgage or incumbrance, was much increased by the
thought that even the ghost, who used to haunt the
house, had now departed.

But here he was again. Although in different form
and guise, I knew him. It was the same ghost.

44 Do you remember me? " said the figure.

44 Yes," I answered : " I remember you in the form
in which you appeared to me some time ago. Although
your aspect is entirely changed, I feel you to be the
same ghost that I have met before."

44 You are right," said the spectre. 44 1 am glad to
see you looking so well, and apparently happy. But
John Hinckman, I understand, is in a very low state
of health."

41 Yes," I said: 44he is very old and ill. But I
hope," I continued, as a cloud of anxiety began to
rise within me, 4l that his expected decease has no con
nection with any prospects or plans of your own."

TBS SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 31

« No," said the ghost. "I am perfectly satisfied
with my present position. I ana off duty during the
day ; and the difference in time between this country
and Russia gives me opportunities of being here in
your early evening, and of visiting scenes and localities
which are very familiar and agreeable to me."

44 Which fact, perhaps, you had counted upon wh^n
you first put this uniform on," I remarked.

The ghost smiled.

4-I must admit, however," he said, " that I am
seeking this position for a friend of mine, and I have
reason to believe that he will obtain it."

44 Gkxxi heavens ! " I exclaimed. " Is it possible
that this house is to be haunted by a ghost as soon as
the old gentleman expires? Why should this family
be tormented in such a horrible way ? Everybody who
dies does not have a ghost walking about his house."

44 Oh, no ! " said the spectre. " There are thousands
of positions of the kind which are never applied for ;
but the ghostship here is a very desirable one, and
there are many applicants for it. I think you will like
my friend, if he gets it."

4k Like him ! " I groaned.

The idea was horrible to me.

The ghost evidently perceived how deeply + was
affected by what he had said, for there was a compas
sionate expression on his countenance. As I looked
at him an idea struck me. If I were to have any
ghost at all alx>ut the house, I would prefer this one.
Could there be such things as duplex ghostehips?
Since it was day here when it was night in Russia,

52 THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

why coiild not this spectre serve in both places? It
was common enough for a person to fill two situations.
The notion seemed feasible to me, and I broached it.

44 Thank you," said the ghost. 44But the matter
cannot be arranged in that way. Night and day are
not suitably divided between here and Russia; and,
besides, it is necessary for the incumbent of this place
to be on duty at all hours. You remember that I came
to you by day as well as at night? "

Oh, yes ! I remembered that. It was additionally
unfortunate that the ghostship here should not be one
of the limited kind.

44 Why is it," I asked, 44 that a man's own spirit
does not attend to these matters? I always thought
that was the way the thing was managed."

The ghost shook his head.

t4 Consider for a moment," here plied, 44 what chance
a man's own spirit, without experience and without
influence, would have in a crowd of importunate appli
cants, versed in all the arts, and backed by the influ
ence necessary in such a contest. Of course there are
cases in which a person becomes his own ghost ; but
this is because the position is undesirable, and there is
no competition."

44 And this new-comer," I exclaimed, in much
trouble, '4will he take the form of Mr. Hinckman?
If my wife should see such an apparition it would kill
her."

44 The ghost who will haunt this place," said my
companion, 44 will not appear in the form of .John
Hinckman. I am glad that is so, if it will please you ;

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 33

for you are the only man with whom I have ever held
such unrestrained and pleasant intercourse. Good-by.'*

And with these words no figure of a Russian officer
•food before me.

For some minutes I remained motionless, with down-
cut eyes, a very different man from the one who had
just gazed out with such delight over the beautiful
landscape. A shadow, not that of night, had fallen
over every thing. This fine estate was not to come to
us clear and unencumbered, as we thought. It was
to be saddled with a horrible lien, a spectral mortgage.

Madeline had gone up stairs with Ingram. Pegram
was our baby. I disliked his appellation with all my
heart ; but Pegram was a family name on Madeline's
side of the house, and she insisted that our babe
should bear it. Madeline was very much wrapped up
in Pegram, often I thought too much so; for there
were many times when I should have been very glad
of my wife's society, but was obliged to do without it
because she was entirely occupied with Pegram. To
be Wire, my wife's sister was with us, and there was
a child's nurse; but, for all that, Madeline was so
completely Pegramized, that a great many of the hours
which I, in my anticipations of matrimonial felicity,
had imagined would be passed in the company of my
wife, were spent alone, or with the old gentleman, or
Belle.

Belle was a fine girl ; to me not so charming and
attractive as her sister, but perhaps equally BO to some
other persons, certainly to one. This was Will Cren-
ehaw, an old school-fellow of mine, then a civil engi-

34 THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

neer, in South America. Will was the declared suitor
of Belle, although she had never formally accepted
him ; but Madeline and myself both strongly favored
the match, and felt very anxious that she should do
so, and indeed were quite certain that when Will
should return ever}' thing would be made all right.
The young engineer was a capital fellow, had excellent
prospects, and was my best friend. It was our plan
that after their marriage the youthful couple should
live with us. This, of course, would be delightful to
both Belle and her sister, and I could desire no better
companion than Will. He was not to go to distant
countries any more, and who could imagine a pleas-
unter home than ours would be.

And now here was this dreadful prospect of a
household ghost !

A week or so passed by, and John Hinckman was
no more. Every tiling was done for him that respect
and affection could dictate, and no one mourned his
death more heartily than I. If I could have had my
way he would have lived as long as I, myself, remained
upon this earth.

When every thing about the house had settled down
into its accustomed quiet, I began to look out for the
coming of the expected ghost. I felt sure that I
would be the one to whom he would make his appear
ance, and with my regret and annoyance at his ex
pected coming was mingled a feeling of curiosity to
know in what form he would appear. He was not to
come as John Hinckman — that was the only bit of
gomfort in the whole affair.

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 36

But several weeks passed, and I saw no ghost ; and
1 began to think that perhaps the aversion I had shown
to having such an inmate of my household had had its
effect, and I was to be spared the infliction. And now
another subject occupied my thoughts. It was sum*
mer, the afternoons were pleasant, and on one of them
I asked Belle to take a walk with me. I would have
preferred Madeline, but she had excused herself as she
\s:t> very U^v n^ikiiiii what 1 pirMjineci to U- ail uitur
cloth for Pegram. It turned out to be an afghan for
his baby carriage, but the effect was the same : she
could not go. When I could not have Madeline I
liked very well to walk with Belle. She was a pleas
ant girl, and in these walks I always talked to her of
Crenshaw. My desire that she should marry my
friend grew stronger daily. But this afternoon Belie
hesitated, and looked a little confused.

44 1 am not sure that I shall walk to-day."

44 But you have your hat on," I urged : *4 1 supposed
you had made ready for a walk."

44 No," said she : " I thought I would go somewhere
with my book."

44 You haven't a book," I said, looking at her hands,
ODC of which held a parasol.

44 You are dreadfully exact," she replied, with a
little laugh : 44 I am going into the library to get one."
And away she ran.

There was something about this I did not like. I
firmly believed she had come down stein prepared to
take a walk. But she did not want me ; that WAS evi
dent enough. I went off for a long walk, and wbsi

36 THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

I returned supper was ready, but Belle had not ap.
peared.

" She has gone off somewhere with a book/' I said.
"I'll go and look for her."

I walked down to the bosky grove at the foot of the
jawn, and passed through it without seeing any signs
of Belle. Soon, however, I caught sight of her light
dress in an open space a little distance beyond me.
Stepping forward a few paces I had a full view of her,
and my astonishment can be imagined when I saw that
she was standing in the shade of a tree talking to a
young man. His back was turned toward me, but I
could see from his figure and general air that he was
young. His hat was a little on one side, in his hand
he carried a short whip, and he wore a pair of riding-
boots. He and Belle were engaged in very earnest
conversation, and did not perceive me. I was not
only surprised but shocked at the sight. I was quite
certain Belle had come here to meet this young man,
who, to me, was a total stranger. I did not wish Belle
to know that I had seen her with him ; and so I stepped
back out of their sight, and began to call her. It was
not long before I saw her coming toward me, and, as
I expected, alone.

44 Indeed," she cried, looking at her watch, " I did
not know it was so late."

44 Have you had a pleasant time with your book ?"
I asked, as we walked homeward.

*4 1 wasn't reading all the time," she answered.

I asked her no more questions. It was not for me
to begin an inquisition into this matter. But that

THS SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 37

ntght I told Madeline all about it. The news troubled
her much, and like myself she was greatly grieved at
Belle's evident desire to deceive us. When there was
a necessity for it my wife could completely de-Pegram-
ize herself, and enter with quick and judicious action
into the affairs of others.

44 1 will go with her to-morrow," she said. " If this
person comes, I do not intend that she shall meet him
alone."

The next afternoon Belle started out again with her
book ; but she had gone but a few steps when she was
joined by Madeline, with hat and parasol, and together
they walked into the bosky grove. They returned in
Tery good time for supper ; and as we went in to that
meal, Madeline whispered to me :

4 'There was nobody there."

44 And did she say nothing to you of the young man
with whom she was talking yesterday?" I asked,
when we were alone some hours later.

44 Not a word," she said, " though I gave her every
opportunity. I wonder if you could have been mis
taken."

44 1 am sure I was not," I replied. 4l I saw the man
as plainly as I see you."

"Then Belle is treating us very badly," she said.
44 If she desires the company of young men let her say
so, and we will invite them to the house."

1 did not altogether agree with this latter remark. 1
did not care to have Belle know young men. I wanted
her to marry Will Crenshaw, and be done with it.
But we both agreed not to speak to the young lady on

38 THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

the subject. It was not for us to pry into her secrets,
and if any thing was to be said she should sa}' it.

Every afternoon Belle went away, as before, with
her book ; but we did not accompany her, nor allude to
her newly acquired love for solitary walks and studies.
One afternoon we had callers, and she could not go.
That night, after I had gone to sleep, Made);ae awoke
me with a little shake.

44 Listen," she whispered. " Whom is Belle talking
to?"

The night was warm, and all our doors and windows
were open. Belle's chamber was not far from ours ;
and we could distinctly hear her speaking in a low
tone. She was evidently holding a conversation with
some one whose voice we could not hear.

44 I'll go in," said Madeline, rising, 44 and see about
this."

44 No, no," I whispered. 44 She is talking to some
one outside. Let me go down and speak to him."

I slipped on some clothes and stole quietly down the
stairs. I unfastened the back door and went round to
the side on which Belle's window opened. No sooner
had I reached the corner than I saw, directly under
the window, and looking upward, his hat cocked a
good deal on one side, and his riding-whip in his hand>
the jaunty young fellow with whom I had seen Belle
talking.

44 Hello ! " I cried, and rushed toward him. At the
Bound of my voice he turned to me, and I saw his face
distinctly. He was young and handsome. There was
a sort of half laugh on his countenance, as if he had

TUB SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 39

Just been saying something very witty. But he did
not wait to finish his remark or to speak to me. There
was a large evergreen near him ; and, stepping quickly
be him. it, he was lost to my view. I ran around the
bush, but *»">uld see nothing of him. There was a good
deal of shrubbery hereabouts, and he was easily able
to get away unobserved. I continued the search for
about ten minutes, and then, quite sure that the fellow
had got away, I returned to the house. Madeline had
lighted a lamp, and was calling down-stairs to ask if
I had found the man : some of the servants were up,
and anxious to know what had happened ; Pegram was
crying ; but in Belle's room all was quiet. Madeline
looked in at the open door, and saw her lying quietly
in her bed. No word was spoken ; and my wife
returned to our room, where we discussed the affair
for a long time.

In the morning I determined to give Belle a chance
to speak, and at the breakfast-table I said to her:

44 1 suppose you heard the disturbance last night?"

44 Yes," she said quietly. 44 Did you catch the
man?"

*• No," I answered, with considerable irritation,
44 but wish I had."

44 What would you have done if you had caught
him? " she asked, as with unusual slowness and delib
eration she poured some cream upon her oat-meal.

44 Done ! " I exclaimed, 44 1 don't know what I would
have done. But one thing is certain, I would have
made him understand that I would have DO strangers
prowling around my house at night."

40 THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

Belle colored a little at the last part of this remark ;
but she made no answer, and the subject was dropped.

This conversation greatly pained both Madeline and
myself. It made it quite clear to us that Belle was
aware that we knew of her acquaintance with this
young man, and that she still determined to say noth
ing to us, either in the way of confidence or excuse.
She had treated us badly, and we could not help show
ing it. On her side Belle was very quiet, and entirely
different from the gay girl she had been some time
before.

I urged Madeline to go to Belle and speak to her as
a sister, but she declined. " No," she said : " I know
Belle's spirit, and there would be trouble. If there is
to be a quarrel I shall not begin it."

I was determined to end this unpleasant feeling,
which, to me, was almost as bad as a quarrel. If the
thing were possible I would put an end to the young
man's visits. I could never have the same opinion of
Belle I had had before ; but if this impudent fellow
could be kept away, and Will Crenshaw should come
back and attend to his business as an earnest suitor
ought, all might yet be well.

And now, strange to say, I began to long for the
ghost, whose coming had been promised. I had been
considering what means I should take to keep Belle's
clandestine visitor away, and had found the question
rather a difficult one to settle. I could not shoot the
man, and it would indeed be difficult to prevent the
meeting of two young persons over whom I had no
actual control. But I happened to think that if I could

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 41

get the aid of the expected ghost the matter would be
easy. If it should be as accommodating and obliging
as the one who had haunted the house before, it would
readily agree to forward the fortunes of the family by
•Misting in creaking up this unfortunate connection.
Jf it would consent to be present at their interviews
tne affair was settled. I knew from personal experi
ence that love-making in the presence of a ghost was
extremely unpleasant, and in this case I believed it
would be impossible.

Every night, after the rest of the household had
gone to bed, I wandered about the grounds, examining
the porches and the balconies, looking up to the chirn-
neys and the ornaments on top of the house, hoping
to see that phantom, whose coming I had, a short time
before, anticipated with such dissatisfaction and re
pugnance. If I could even again meet the one who
was now serving in Russia, I thought it would answer
my purpose as well.

On the third or fourth night after I had begun my
nocturnal rounds, I encountered, on a path not very
far from the house, the young fellow who had given us
so much trouble. My indignation at his impudent re
appearance knew no bounds. The moon was somewhat
obscured by fleecy clouds ; but I could see that he wore
the same jaunty air, his hat was cocked a little more
on one side, he stood with his feet quite wide apart,
and in his hands, clasped behind him, he held his
riding-whip. I stepped quickly toward him.

"Well, sir!" I exclaimed.

He did not seem at all startled.

12 THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

" How d'ye do? " he said, with a little nod.

44 How dare you, sir," I cried, " intrude yourself ou
my premises? This is the second time I have found
you here, and now I want you to understand that you
are to get away from here just as fast as you can ;
and if you are ever caught again anywhere on this
estate, I'll have you treated as a trespasser."

44 Indeed," said he, "I would be sorry to put you
to so much trouble. And now let me say that I have
tried to keep out of your way, but since you have
proved so determined to make my acquaintance I
thought I might come forward and do the sociable."

44 None of your impertinence," I cried. 44 What
brings you here, anyway?"

44 Well," said he, with a little laugh, 44 if you want to
know, I don't mind telling you I came to see Miss Belle."

44 You confounded rascal!" I cried, raising my
neavy stick. "Get out of my sight, or I will break
your head ! "

44 All right," said he, 44 break away ! "

And drawing himself up, he gave his right boot a
slap with his whip.

The whip went entirely through both legs ! It was
the ghost !

Utterly astounded I started back, and sat down upon
a raised flower-bed, against which I had stumbled. 1
had no strength, nor power to speak. I had seen a
ghost before, but I was entirely overcome by this
amazing development.

44 And now I suppose you know who I am," said the
upectre, approaching, and standing iu front of me.

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 43

" The one who was here Defore told me that your lady
didn't fancy ghosts, and that I had butter keep out of
sight of l>oth of you ; but he didn't say any thing about
Miss Belle : and by George ! sir, it wouldn't have mat
tered if he had ; for if it hadn't been for that charming
young lady I shouldn't have been here at all. I am
the ghost of Buck Kdwards, who was pretty well known
in the lower part of this county about seventy years
ago. I always had a great eye for the ladies, sir, and
when I got a chance to court one 1 didn't muw it. I
did too much courting, however; for I roused up a
jealous fellow, named Ruggles, and he shot me in a
duel early one September morning. Since then I have
haunted, from time to time, more than a dozen houses
where there weie pretty girls."

44 Do you mean to say/' I asked, now finding
strength, " that a spirit would care to come back to
this earth to court a girl? "

14 Why, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed the
phantom of Buck Kdwards. 4* Do you sup|>ose that
only old misers and lovelorn maidens want to come
back and have a good time ? No, sir ! Every one of
us, who is worth any thing, comes if he can get a
chance. By George, sir ! do you know I courted Miss
Belle's grandmother? And a couple of gay young
ones we were too ! Nobody ever knew any thing of
it, and that made it all the livelier."

44 Do you intend to stay here and pay attention to
my sister-in-law?" I asked, anxiously.

44 Certainly I do," was the reply. 4t Didu't I say
that is what I came for? "

44 THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

44 Don't you see the mischief you will do?" 1
asked. " You will probably break off a match be
tween her and a most excellent gentleman whom we
all desire "

44 Break off a match ! " exclaimed the ghost of Buck
Edwards, with a satisfied grin. " How many matches
I have broken off ! The last thing I ever did, before I
went away, was of that sort. She wouldn't marry the
gentleman who shot me." There was evidently no
conscience to this spectre.

14 And if you do not care for that," I said, in con
siderable anger, 44I can tell you that you are causing
ill-feeling between the young lady and the best friends
she has in the world, which may end very disas
trously."

44 Now, look here, my man," said the ghost; "if
you and your wife are really her friends you wont act
like fools and make trouble."

I made no answer to this remark, but asserted, with
much warmth, that I intended to tell Miss Belle exactly
what he was, and so break off the engagement at once.

44 If you tell her that she's been walking and talking
with the ghost of the fellow who courted her grand
mother, — I reckon she could find some of my letters
now among the old lady's papers if she looked for
them, — you'd frighten the wits out of her. She'd go
crazy. I know girls' natures, sir."

44 So do I," I groaned.

" Don't get excited," he said. 44 Let the girl alone,
and every thing will be comfortable and pleasant
Good-night."

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 45

I went to bed, but not to sleep. Here was a terrible
situation. A sister-in-law courted by a ghost! Was
ever a man called upon to sustain such a trial ! And I
must sustain it alone. There was no one with whom
I could share the secret.

Several times after this I saw this baleful spectre of
a young buck of the olden time. He would nod to me
with a jocular air, but I did not care to speak to him.
One afternoon I went into the house to look for my
wife ; and, very naturally, I entered the room where
Pegram lay in his little bed. The child was asleep,
and no one was with him. I stood and gazed contem
platively upon my son. He was a handsome child,
and apparently full of noble instincts ; and yet I could
not help wishing that he were older, or that in some
way his conditions were such that it should not be
necessary, figuratively speaking, that his mother should
continually hover about him. If she could be content
with a little less of Pegram and a little more of me,
my anticipations of a matrimonial career would be
more fully realized.

As these thoughts were passing through my mind I
raised my eyes, and on the other side of the little bed
stead I saw the wretched ghost of Buck Ed wards.

" Fine boy," he said.

My indignation at seeing this impudent existence
within the most sacred precincts of my house was
boundtaM.

44 You vile interloper ! " I cried.

At this moment Madeline entered the room. Palo
and stern, she walked directly to the crib ami took up
the child. Then she turned to me and said :

46 THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

" I was standing in the door-way, and saw you look,
ing at my babe. I heard what you said to him. 1
have suspected it before." And then, with Pegram in
her arms, she strode out of the room.

The ghost had vanished as Madeline entered. Filled
with rage and bitterness, for my wife had never spoken
to me in these tones before, I ran down-stairs and
rushed out of the house. I walked long and far, my
mind filled with doleful thoughts. When I returned to
the house, I found a note from my wife. It ran thus.

"I have gone to aunt Hannah's with Pegram, and have
taken Belle. I cannot live with one who considers my child
t» vile interloper."

As I sat down in my misery, there was one little
spark of comfort amid the gloom. She had taken
Belle. My first impulse was to follow into the city
and explain every thing ; but I quickly reflected that
if I did this I must tell her of the ghost, and I felt
certain that she would never return with Pegram to a
haunted house. Must I, in order to regain my wife,
give up this beautiful home? For two days I racked
my brains and wandered gloomily about.

In one of my dreary rambles I encountered the
ghost. " What are you doing here? " I cried. *» Misa
Belle has gone."

"I know that," the spectre answered, his air ex
pressing all his usual imj)ertinence and swagger, " but
she'll come back. When your wife returns, she'a
bound to bring young Miss."

At this, a though! flashed through my mind. If any

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 4?

pood would come of it, Belle should never return.
Whatever else happened, this insolent ghost of a gay
young buck should have no excuse for haunting my
house.

"She will never come back while you are here,"
I cried.

" I don't believe it," it coolly answered.

I mude no fir ther assertions on the subject. I had
determined what to do, and it was of no use to be
angry with a vaporing creature like this. But I might
as well get some information out of him.

"Tell me this," I asked ; 44 if, for any reason, you
should leave this place and throw up your situation, so
to speak, would you have a successor?"

44 You needn't think I am going," it said contempt-
uously. 44 None of your little tricks on me. But I'll
just tell you, for your satisfaction, that if I should take
it into my head to cut the place, there would be
another ghost here in no time."

44 What is it," I cried, stamping my foot, " that
causes this house to be so haunted by ghosts, when
there are hundreds and thousands of places where such
apparitions are never seen? "

44 Old fellow," said the spectre, folding its arms,
and looking at me with half-shut eyes, 4i it isn't the
house that draws the ghosts, it is somelxxly in it ; and
as long as you are here the place will be haunted. But
you needn't mind thut. Some houses have rats, some
have fever-and-ague, and some have ghosts. Ail
revoir." And I was alone.

So then the spectral mortgage could never be lifted

4S THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

With heavy heart and feet I passed through the bosk}
grove to my once happy home.

I had not been there half an hour when Belle ar-
rived. She had come by the morning train, and had
nothing with her but a little hand-bag. I looked at
her in astonishment.

" Infatuated girl," I cried, " could you not stay
away from here three days ? ' '

" I am glad you said that," she answered, taking a
Beat ; " for now I think I am right in suspecting what
was on your mind. I ran away from Madeline to
see if I could find out what was at the bottom of this
dreadful trouble between you. She told me what you
said, and I don't believe you ever used those words to
Pegram. And now I want to ask you one question.
Had I, in any way, any thing to do with this? "

" No," said I, " not directly." And then embold
ened by circumstances, I added: " But that secret
visitor or friend of yours had much to do with it."

" 1 thought that might be so," she answered; " and
now, George, I want to tell you something, I am afraid
it will shock you very much."

" I have had so much to shock me lately that I can
stand almost any thing now."

41 Well then, it is this," she said. "That person
whom I saw sometimes, and whom you once found
under my window, is a ghost."

" Did you know that? " I cried. " I knew it was a
ghost, but did not imagine that you had any suspicion
of it."

"Why, yes," she answered, " J saw through him

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 49

almost from the very first. I was a good deal startled,
and a little frightened when I found it out ; but I soon
felt that this ghoet couldn't do me any harm, and you
don't know how amusing it was. I always had a
fancy for ghosts, but I never expected to meet with
one like this."

44 And so you knew all the time it wasn't a real
man," I exclaimed, still filled with astonishment at
what I had heard.

44 A real man ! " cried Belle, with considerable con
tempt in her tones. 44 Do you suppose I would become
acquainted in that way with a real man, and let him
come under my window and talk to me ? I was deter
mined not to tell any of you about it ; for I knew you
wouldn't approve of it, and would break up the fun
some way. Now I wish most heartily that I had
s|K>ken of it."

44 Yes," I answered, 44 it might have saved much
trouble."

44 But, oh! George," she continued, 44 you've no
idea how funny it was ! Such a ridiculous, self-con
ceited, old-fashioned ghost of a beau ! "

44 Yes," said I, " when it was alive it courted your
grandmother."

44 The impudence ! " exclaimed Belle. 44 And to
think that it supposed that I imagined it to be a real
man ! Why, one day, when it was talking to me it
stepped back into a rose-bush ; and it stood there ever
so long, all mixed up with the roses and leaves."

44 And you knew it all the time? "

These words were spoken in a hollow voice by some

50 THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE.

one near us. Turning quickly, we saw the ghost of
Buck Edwards, but no longer the jaunty spectre we
had seen before. His hat was on the back of his head,
his knees were turned inward, his shoulders drooped,
his head hung, and his arms dangled limp at his sides.
" Yes,*' said Belle, " I knew it all the time."
The ghost looked at her with a faded, misty eye ;
and then, instead of vanishing briskly as was his wont,
he began slowly and irresolutely to disappear. First
his body faded from view, then his head, leaving his
hat and boots. These gradually vanished, and the
last thing we saw of the once Buck Edwards was a
dissolving view of the tip-end of a limp and drooping
riding-whip.

uHe is gone," said Belle. " We'll never see him
again."

44 Yes," said I, » he is gone. I think your dis
covery of his real nature has completely broken up
that proud spirit. And now, what is to be done about
Madeline?"

44 Wasn't it the ghost you called an interloper? "
asked Belle.

"Certainly it was," I replied.

44 Well, then, go and tell her so," said Belle.

44 About the ghost and all ! "' I exclaimed.

44 Certainly," said she.

And together we went to Madeline, and I told her
all. I found her with her anger gone, and steeped in
misery. When I had finished, all Pegramed as she
was, she plunged into my arms. I pressed my wife
and child closely to my bosom, and we wept with joy.

THE SPECTRAL MORTGAGE. 51

When Will Crenshaw came home and was told this
story, he said it didn't trouble him a bit.

44 I'm not afraid of a rival like that," he remarked.
44 Such a suitor wouldn't stand a ghost of a chance."

44 But I can tell you," said Madeline, "that you had
better be up and doing on your own account. A girl
like Belle needn't be expected to depend on the chance
of a ghost."

Crenshaw heeded her words, and the young couple
were married in the fall. The wedding took place in
the little church near our house. It was a quiet mar
riage, and was attended by a strictly family party.
At the conclusion of the ceremonies I felt, or saw, for
I am sure I did not hear — a little sigh quite near me.

I turned, and sitting on the chancel-steps I saw the
spectre of Buck Edwards. His head was bowed, and
his hands, holding his hat and riding-whip, rested care
lessly on his knees.

44 Bedad, sir ! " he exclaimed, 4t to think of it ! If I
hadn't cut up as I did I might have married, and have
Dt-en that girl's grandfather! "

The idea made me smile.

44 It can't be remedied now," I answered.

44 Such a remark to make at a wedding!" said
Madeline, giving me a puuch with her reproachful
elbow.

OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

TTTHEN an archery club was formed in our villago,
VV I was among the first to join it ; but I should
not, on this account, claim any extraordinary enthusi
asm on the subject of archery, for nearly all the ladies
and gentlemen of the place were also among the first
to join.

Few of us, I think, had a correct idea of the popu
larity of archery in our midst, until the subject of a
club wap broached. Then we all perceived what a
strong interest we felt in the study and use of the bow
and arrow. The club was formed immediately ; and
our thirty members began to discuss the relative merits
of lancewood, yew, and greenheart bows, and to sur
vey yards and lawns for suitable spots for setting up
targets for home practice.

Our weekly meetings, at which we came together to
show in friendly contest how much our home practice
had taught us, were held upon the village green, or
rather upon what had been intended to be the village
green. This pretty piece of ground, partly in smooth
lawr and partly shaded by fine trees, was the property

OUR ARCHERY CLUB. 53

of a gentleman of the place, who had presented it,
under certain conditions, to the township. But as the
township had never fulfilled any of the conditions, and
had done nothing toward the improvement of the spot,
further than to make it a grnzing-place for local cows
and goats, the owner had withdrawn his gift, shut out
the cows and goats by a picket-fence, and having
locked the gate, had hung up the key in his barn.
When our club was formed, the green, as it was still
called, was offered to us for our meetings ; and with
proper gratitude, we elected its owner to be our presi
dent.

This gentleman was eminently qualified for the presi
dency of an archery club. In the first place, he did
not shoot: this gave him time and opportunity to
attend to the shooting of others. He was a tall and
pleasant man, a little elderly. This " elderliness," if
I may so put it, seemed, in his case, to resemble some
mild disorder, like a gentle rheumatism, which, while
it prevented him from indulging in all the wild hilari
ties of youth, gave him, in compensation, a position,
as one entitled to a certain consideration, which was
very agreeable to him. His little disease was chronic,
it is true, and it was growing upon him ; but it was,
so far, a pleasant ailment.

And so, with as much interest in bows, and arrows,
and targets, and successful shots as any of us, he
never fitted an arrow to a string, nor drew a bow ; but
he attended ever}' meeting, settling disputed points
(for he studied all the books on archery) ; encoura
ging the disheartened ; holding back the eager

54 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

who would run to the targets as soon as they had shot,
regardless of the fact that others were still shooting,
and that the human body is not arrow-proof ; and
shedding about him that general aid and comfort which
emanates from a good fellow, no matter what he may
say or do.

There were persons — outsiders — who said that arch
ery clubs always selected ladies for their presiding
officers, but we did not care to be too much bound
down and trammelled by customs and traditions.
Another club might not have among its members such
a genial, elderly gentleman, who owned a village green.

I soon found myself greatly interested in archery,
especially when I succeeded in planting an arrow
somewhere within the periphery of the target ; but I
never became such an enthusiast in bow-shooting as
my friend Pepton.

If Pepton could have arranged matters to suit him
self, he would have been born an archer ; but as this
did not happen to have been the case, he employed
every means in his power to rectify what he consid
ered this serious error in his construction. He gave
his whole soul, and the greater part of his spare time,
to archery ; and as he was a young man of energy, this
helped him along wonderfully.

His equipments were perfect : no one could excel
him in this respect. His bow was snake-wood, backed
with hickory. He carefully rubbed it down every
evening with oil and bees-wax, and it took its repose
in a green baize bag. His arrows were Philip High-
field's best; his strings the finest Flauder's hemp.

OUR ARCHERY CLUB. 55

He liLd shooting-gloves ; and lie had little leathern tips,
that could be screwed fast on the ends of what he
called his string-fingers. He had a quiver and a l>elt ;
•and when equipped for the weekly meetings, he carried
a fancy-colored wiping-tassel, and a little elx)ny greaae*
pot, hanging from his belt. He wore, when shooting,
a polished arm-guard or bracer ; and if he had heard
of any thing else that an archer should have, he
straightway would have procured it.

Peptou was a single man ; and he lived with two
good old maiden ladies, who took as much care of him
as if they had been his mothers. And he was such
A good, kind fellow that he deserved all the attention
they gave him. They felt a great interest in his arch
ery pursuits, and shared his anxious solicitude in tho
selection of a suitable place to hang his bow.

44 You see," said he, 44 a fine bow like this, when
not in use, should always be in a perfectly dry place."

44 And when in use, too," said Miss Martha; ** for
I am sure that you oughtn't to be standing and shoot
ing in any damp spot. There's no surer way of get
tin' chilled."

To which sentiment Miss Maria agreed, and sug
gested wearing rubber shoes, or having a board to
stand on, when the club met after a rain.

Pepton first hung his IK>W in the hall ; but after he
had arranged it symmetrically upon two long nails
(bound with green worsted, lest they should scratch
the bow through its woollen cover) , he reflected that
the front door would frequently be open, and that
damp draughts must often go through the hall. Ho

56 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

was sorry to give up this place for his bow, for it was
convenient and appropriate ; and for an instant he
thought that it might remain, if the front door could
be kept shut, and visitors admitted through a little
side door, which the family generally used, and which
was almost as convenient as the other, — except, in
deed, on wash-days, when a wet sheet or some article
of wearing apparel was apt to be hung in front of it,
But, although wash-day occurred but once a week,
and although it was comparatively eas}', after a little
practice, to bob under a high-propped sheet, Pepton's
heart was too kind to allow his mind to dwell upon
this plan. So he drew the nails from the wall of the
hall, and put them up in various places about the
house. His own room had to be aired a great deal in
all weathers, and so that would not do at all. The
wall above the kitchen fire-place would be a good loca
tion, for the chimney was nearly always warm ; but
Pepton could not bring himself to keep his bow in the
kitchen : there would be nothing aesthetic about such
a disposition of it ; and, besides, the girl might be
tempted to string and bend it. The old ladies really
did not want it in the parlor, for its length and its
green baize cover would make it an encroaching and
unbecoming neighbor to the little engravings and the
big samplers, the picture-frames of acorns and pine-
cones, the fancifully patterned ornaments of clean
wheat-straw, and all the quaint adornments which had
hung upon those walls for so many years. But they
did not say so. If it had been necessary, to make
room for the bow, they would have taken down the

OUR ARCHERY CLUB. 67

pencilled profiles of their grandfather, their grand-
mother, and their father when a little boy, which hung
in a row over the mantel-piece.

However, Pepton did not ask this sacrifice. In *he
summer evenings, the parlor windows must be open.
The dinin6-room was really very little used in the
evening, except when Miss Maria had stockings to
darn ; and then she always sat in that apartment, and
of course she had the windows open. But Miss Maria
was very willing to bring her work into the parlor, -
it was foolish, any way, to have a feeling about darn
ing stockings before chance company, — and then the
dining-room could be kept shut up after tea. So into
the wall of that neat little room Pepton drove his
worsted-covered nails, and on them carefully laid his
bow. And the next day Miss Martha and Miss Maria
went about the house, and covered the nail-holes he
had made with bite of wall-paper, carefully snipped
out to fit the patterns, and pasted on so neatly that no
one would have suspected they were there.

One afternoon, as I was passing the old ladies'
bouse, I saw, or thought I saw, two men carrying in a
coffin. I was struck with alarm.

44 What!" I thought, 4i can either of those good
women ? — Or, can Peptou ? ' '

Without a moment's hesitation, I rushed in behind
the men. There, at the foot of the stairs, directing
them, stood Pepton. Then it waa not he ! I seized
him sympathetically by the hand.

*4 Which?"- I faltered. 44 Which? Who i*
that coffin for?"

68 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

"Coffin!" cried Pepton, " why, my dear fellow,
that is not a coffin. That is my ascham."

" Ascham ? " I exclaimed. What is that? "

" Come and look at it," he said, when the men had
set it on end against the wall ; " it is an upright closet,
or receptacle for an archer's armament. Here is a
)lace to stand the bow ; here are supports for the
arrows and quivers ; here are shelves and hooks, on
which to lay or hang every thing the merry man can
need. And you see, moreover, that it is lined with
green plush, and that the door fits tightly, so that it
can stand anywhere, and there need be no fear of
draughts or dampness affecting my bow. Isn't it a
perfect thing? You ought to get one."

I admitted the perfection, but agreed no further. I
had not the income of my good Pepton.

Pepton was, indeed, most wonderful y well equipped,
and yet, little did those dear old ladies think, when
they carefully dusted and reverentially gazed at the
bunches of arrows, the arm-bracers, the gloves, the
grease-pots, and all the rest of the paraphernalia of
archery, as it hung around Pepton 's room ; or when
they afterward allowed a particular friend to peep at
it, all arranged so orderly within the ascham ; or when
they looked with sympathetic, loving admiration on the
beautiful polished bow, when it was taken out of its
bag, — little did they think, I say, that Pepton was
the very poorest shot in the club. In all the surface
of the much perforated targets of the club, there was
scarcely a hole that he could put his hand upon his
heart and say he made.

OUR ARCHERY CLUB. 59

Indeed, I think it was the truth that Pepton was
born not to be an archer. There were young fellows
in the club, who shot with bows that cost no more
_han Pepton *s tassels, but who could stand up and
whang arrows into the targets all the afternoon, if
they could get a chance ; and there were ladies who
made hits five times out of six ; and there were also
all the grades of archers common to any club. But
there was no one but himself in Pepton 's grade. He
stood alone, and it was never any trouble to add up
his score.

And yet he was not discouraged. He practised
every day except Sundays, and indeed he was the
only person in the club who practised at night. When
he told me about this, I was a little surprised.

44 Why, it's easy enough," said he. "You see, I
hung a lantern, with a reflector, before the target, just
a little to one side. It lighted up the target beauti
fully ; and I believe there was a better chance of hitting
it than by daylight, for the only thing you could see
was the target, and so your attention was not distract
ed. To be sure," he said, in answer to a question,
44 it was a good deal of trouble to find the arrows, but
that I always have. When I get so expert that I can
put all the arrows into the target, there will be no
trouble of the kind, night or day. However," he con
tinued, 44 I don't practise any more by night. The
other evening I sent an arrow slam-bang into the lan
tern, and broke it all to flinders. Borrowed lantern,
too. Besides, I found it made Miss Martha very
nervous to have me shooting about the house after

60 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

dark. She had a friend, who had a little boy, who
was hit in the leg by an arrow from a bow, which, she
says, accidentally went off in the night, of its own
accord. She is certainly a little mixed in her mind in
regard to this matter ; but I wished to respect her
feelings, and so shall not use another lantern."

As I have said, there were ~nany good archers among
the ladies of our club. Some of them, after we had
been organized for a mouth or two, made scores that
few of the gentlemen could excel. But the lady who
attracted the greatest attention when she shot was
Miss Rosa.

When this very pretty young lady stood up before
the ladies' target — her left side well advanced, her
bow firmly held out in her strong left arm, which never
quivered, her head a little bent to the right, her arrow
drawn back by three well-gloved fingers to the tip of
her little ear, her dark eyes steadily fixed upon the
gold, and her dress — well fitted over her fine and
vigorous figure — falling in graceful folds about her
feet, we all stopped shooting to look at her.

41 There is something statuesque alx>ut her," said
Pepton, who ardently admired her, "and yet there
isn't. A statue could never equal her unless we knew
there was a probability of movement in it. And the
only statues which have that are the Jarley wax-works,
which she does not resemble in the least. There is
only one thing that that girl needs to make her a per
fect archer, and that is to be able to aim better."

This was true. Miss Rosa did need to aim better.
Her arrows had a curious habit of going on all sides of

OUR ARCHERY CLUB. 61

the target, and it was very seldom that one chanced to
stick into it. For, if she did make a hit, we all knew
it was chance and that there was no probability of her
doing it again. Once she put an arrow right into the
centre of the gold, — one of the finest shots ever made
on the ground, — but she didn't hit the target again
for two weeks. She was almost as bad a shot as
Pepton, and that is saying a good deal.

One evening I was sitting with Pepton on the little
front porch of the old ladies' house, where we were
taking our after-dinner smoke while Miss Martha and
Miss Maria were washing, with their own white hands,
the china and glass in which they took so much pride.
I often used to come over and spend an hour with
Pepton. He liked to have some one to whom he could
talk on the subjects which filled his soul, and I liked to
hear him talk.

"I tell you," said he, as he leaned back in his chair,
with his feet carefully disposed on the railing so that
they would not injure Miss Maria's Madeira vine, " I
tell you, sir, that there are two things I crave with all
my power of craving ; two goals I fain would reach ;
two diadems I would wear upon my brow. One of
these is to kill an eagle — or some large bird — with
a shaft from my good bow. I would then have it
stuffed and mounted, with the very arrow that killed
it still sticking in its breast. This trophy of my skill
I would have fastened against the wall of my room, or
my hall, and I would feel proud to think that my
grandchildren could point to that bird — which 1
would carefully bequeath tc my descendants — and

62 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

say, 4 My grand'ther shot that bird, and with that
very arrow.' Would it not stir your pulses, if you
could do a thing like that? "

" I should have to stir them up a good deal before
I could do it," 1 replied. " It would be a hard thing
x) shoot an eagle with an arrow. If you want a stuffed
bird to bequeath, you'd better use a rifle."

"A rifle!" exclaimed Pepton. "There would be
no glory in that. There are lots of birds shot with
rules, — eagles, hawks, wild geese, torn-tits "

i4 Oh, no ! " I interrupted, " not torn-tits."

41 Well, perhaps they are too little for a rifle," said
he ; " but what I mean to say is, that I wouldn't care
at all for an eagle I had shot with a rifle. You couldn't
show the ball that killed him. If it were put in prop
erly, it would be inside, where it couldn't be seen.
No, sir ; it is ever so much more honorable, and far
more difficult, too, to hit an eagle than to hit a target."

44 That is very true," I answered, "especially in
tlu-se <l:iv>. when there are so few cables :nnl so many
targets. But what is your other diadem? "

44 That," said Pepton, u is to see Miss Rosa wear
the badge."

44 Indeed ! " said I ; and from that moment I began.
to understand Pepton 's hopes in regard to the grand
mother of those children who should point to tho
eagle.

44 Yes, sir," he continued, " I should be truly happy
to see her win the badge. And she ought to win it.
No one shoots more correctly, and with a better un-
dw standing of all the rules, than she does. There

OUR ARCHERY CLUB. 63

must, tniiy, be something the matter with her aiming.
I've half a mind to coach her a little."

I turned aside to see who was coming down the
road. I would not have had him know I smiled.

The most objectionable person in our club was O. J.
Hollingsworth. He was a good enough fellow in him
self, but it was as an archer that we objected to him.
There was, so far as I know, scarcely a rule of arch
ery that he did not habitually violate. Our president
and nearly all of us remonstrated with him, and Pepton
even went to see him on the subject ; but it was all to
no purpose. With a quiet disregard of other people's
ideas about bow-shooting and other people's opinions
about himself, he persevered in a style of shooting
which appeared absolutely absurd to any one who
knew any thing of the rules and methods of archery.

I used to like to look at him when his turn came
around to shoot. He was not such a pleasing object of
vision as Miss Rosa, but his style was so entirely novel
to me that it was interesting. He held the bow hori
zontally, instead of perpendicularly, like other archers ;
and he held it well down — about opposite his waist-
baud, lie did not draw his arrow back to his ear, but
he drew it back to the lower button of his vest. Instead
of standing upright, with his left side to the target, he
faced it full, and leaned forward over his arrow, in an
attitude which reminded me of a Roman soldier al>out
to fall upon his sword. When he had seized the nock
of his arrow between his finger and thumb, he languidly
glanced at the target, raised his bow a little, and let
fly. The provoking thing about it was that he nearly

64 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

always hit. If he had only known how to stand, and
hold his bow, and draw back his arrow, he would have
been a very good archer. But, as it was, we could not
help laughing at him, although our president always
discountenanced any thing of the kind.

Our Champion was a tall man, very cool and steady,
who went to work at archery exactly as if he were paid
a salary, and intended to earn his money honestly.
He did the best he could in ever}' wa}\ He generally
shot with one of the bows owned by the club ; but if
any one on the ground had a better one, he would
borrow it. He used to shoot sometimes with Pepton's
bow, which he declared to be a most capital one ; but
as Peptou was always very nervous when he saw his
bow in the hands of another than himself, the Cham
pion soon ceased to borrow it.

There were two badges, one of green silk and gold,
for the ladies, and one of green and red, for the gentle
men ; and tbese were shot for at each weekly meeting.
With the exception of a few times, when the club was
first formed, the Champion had always worn the gen
tlemen's badge. Many of us tried hard to win it
from him ; but we never could succeed — he shot too
well.

On the morning of one of our meeting days, the
Champion told me, as I was going to the city with him,
that he would not be able to return at his usual hour
that afternoon. He woulo be very busy, and would
have to wait for the 6.15 train, which would bring him
home too late for the archery meeting. So he gave
me the badge, asking me to hand it to the president,

OUR ARCUERY CLUB. 65

that he might bestow it on the successful competitor
that afternoon.

We were all rather glad that the Champion was
obliged to be absent. Here waa a chance for some one
of us to win the badge. It was not, indeed, an oppor
tunity for us to win a great deal of honor, for if the
Champion were to be there, we should have no chance
at all ; but we were satisfied with this much, having no
reason — in the present, at least — to expect any thing
more.

So we went to the targets with a new zeal, and most
of us shot better than we had ever shot before. In
this number was O. J. Rollings worth. He excelled
himself, and, what was worse, he excelled all the rest
of us. He actually made a score of eighty-five in
twenty-four shots, which at that time was remarkably
good shooting, for our club. This was dreadful ! To
have a fellow, who didn't know how to shoot, beat us
all, was too bad. If any visitor who knew any thing
at all of archery should see that the member who wore
the champion's badge was a man who held his bow as
vf he had the stomach-ache, it would ruin our character
is a club. It was not to be borne.

Pepton, in particular, felt greatly outraged. We
had met very promptly that afternoon, and had finished
our regular shooting much earlier than usual ; and now
a knot of us were gathered together, talking over this
unfortunate occurrence.

" I don't intend to stand it," Pepton suddenly ex
claimed. *»I feel it as a personal disgrace. I'm
going to have the Champion here before dark By the

66 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

rules, he has a right to shoot until the president d*
clares it is too late. Some of you fellows stay here,
and I'll bring him."

And away he ran, first giving me charge of his pre
cious bow. There was no need of his asking us to
stay. We were bound to see the fun out ; and to fill
up the time our president offered a special prize of a
handsome bouquet from his gardens, to be shot for by
the ladies.

Pepton ran to the railroad station, and telegraphed
to the Champion. This was his message :

" You are absolutely needed here. If possible, take the 5.30
train for Ackford. I will drive over for you. Answer."

There was no train before the 6.15 by which the
Champion could come directly to our village ; but
Ackford, a small town about three miles distant, was
on another railroad, on which there were frequent after
noon trains.

The Champion answered :

41 All right. Meet me."

Then Peptou rushed to our livery stable, hired a
horse and buggy, and drove to Ackford.

A little after half-past six, when several of us were
beginning to think that Pepton had failed in his plans,
he drove rapidly into the grounds, making a very short
turn at the gate, and pulled up his panting horse just
in time to avoid running over three ladies, who were
seated on the grass. The Champion was by his side !

The latter lost no time in talking or salutations.
He knew what he had been brought there to do, and

OUR ARCUERT CLUB. 67

be Immediately set about trying to do it He took
Pepton *s bow, which the latter urged upon him ; he
stood up, straight and firm on the line, at thirty-five
yards from the gentlemen's target; he carefully se
lected his arrows, examining the feathers and wiping
away any bit of soil that might be adhering to the
points after some one had shot them into the turf;
with vigorous arm he drew each arrow to its head ; he
fixed his eyes and his whole mind on the centre of the
target ; he shot his twenty-four arrows, handed to him,
one by one, by Pepton, and he made a score of ninety-
one.

The whole club had been scoring the shots, as they
were made, and when the last arrow plumped into tho
red ring, a cheer arose from every member excepting
three : the Champion, the president and O. J. Hol-
lingsworth. But Pepton cheered loudly enough to
make up these deficiencies.

4 » What in the mischief did they cheer him for?"
asked Hollingsworth of me. " They didn't cheer me,
when I beat everybody on the gounds, an hour ago.
And it's no new thing for him to win the badge ; he
does it every time."

44 Well," said I, frankly, " I think the club, as a
club, objects to your wearing the badge, because you
don't know how to shoot."

44 Don't know how to shoot ! " he cried. " Why, J
can hit the target bettor than any of you. Isn't thai
what you try to do when you shoot? "

44 Yes," said I, "of course that is what wo try it
do. But we try to do it in the proper way."

68 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

" Proper grandmother ! " be exclaimed. " It don't
seem to help you much. The best thing you fellows
can do is to learn to shoot 013' way, and then perhaps
you may be able to hit oftener."

When the Champion had finished shooting, he went
home to his dinner, but many of us stood about, talk
ing over our great escape.

" I feel as if I had done that myself/' said Pepton.
" I am almost as proud as if I had shot — well, not an
eagle, but a soaring lark."

14 Why, that ought to make you prouder than the

^>ther," said J ; " for a lark, especially when it's soar-

jg, must be a good deal harder to hit than an eagle."

" That's so," said Peptou, reflectively; " but I'll
stick to the lark. I'm proud."

During the next month our style of archery improved
very much, so much, indeed, that we increased our
distance, for gentlemen, to forty yards, and that for
ladies to thirty, and also had serious thoughts of chal
lenging the Ackford club to a match. But as this was
generally understood to be a crack club, we finally de
termined to defer our challenge until the next season.

When I say we improved, I do not mean all of us. I
do not mean Miss Rosa. Although her attitudes were
as fine as ever, and every motion as true to rule as
ever, she seldom made a hit. Pepton actually did try
to teach her how to aim ; but the various methods of
pointing the arrow which he suggested resulted in such
wild shooting, that the boys who picked up the arrows
never dared to stick the points of their noses beyond
their boarded barricade, during Miss Rosa's turns a!

OUR ARCHERY CLUB. 69

the target. But she was not discouraged ; and Pepton
often assured her that if she would keep up a good
heart, and practise regularly, she would get the badge
yet. As a rule, Pepton was so honest and truthful
that a little statement of this kind, especially under
the circumstances, might be forgiven him.

One day Pepton came to me and announced that he
had made a discover)*.

44 It's about archery," he said ; " and I don't mind
telling you, because I know you will not go about tell
ing everybody else, and also because I want to see you
succ, i-.i u :in archer."

44 1 am very much obliged," I said ; 4tand what is the
discovery?"

44 It's this," he answered. 44 When you draw your
bow, bring the nock of your arrow" - he was always
very particular about technical terms — " well up to
your ear. Having done that, don't bother any more
about your right hand. It has nothing to do with the
correct pointing of your arrow, for it must be kept
close to your right ear, just as if it were screwed there.
Then with your left hand bring around the bow so that
your fist— with the arrow-head, which is resting on top
of it — shall point, as nearly as you can make it, di
rectly at the centre of the target. Then let fly, and
ten to one you'll make a hit. Now, what do you think
of that, for a discovery? I've thoroughly tested th«
plan, and it works splendidly."

44 1 think," said 1, "that you have discovered the way
In which good archers shoot. You have stated thf
correct method of managing a bow and arrow."

70 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

44 Then you don't think it's an original metWxJ with
me?"

44 Certainly not," I answered.

44 But it's the correct way ? "

44 There's no doubt of that," said I.

44 Well," said Pepton, "then I shall make it my
way."

lie did so ; and the consequence was that one day,
when the Champion happened to be away, Pepton won
the badge. When the result was announced, we were
all surprised, but none so much so as Pepton himself.
He had been steadily improving since he had adopted
a good style of shooting, but he had had no idea that
he would that day be able to win the badge.

When our president pinned the emblem of success
upon the lapel of his coat, Pepton turned pale, and
then he flushed. He thanked the president, and was
about to thank the ladies aud gentlemen ; but probably
recollecting that we had had nothing to do with it, —
unless, indeed, we had shot badly on his behalf, — he
refrained. He said little, but I could see that he was
very proud and very happy. There was but one draw
back to his triumph : Miss Rosa was not there. She
was a very regular attendant, but for some reason she
was absent on this momentous afternoon. I did not
say any thing to him on the subject, but I knew he
felt this absence deeply.

But this cloud could not wholly overshadow his hap
piness. He walked home alone, his face beaming, his
eyes sparkling, and his good bow under his arm.

That evening I called on him ; for I thought that,

OUR ARCHERY CLUB. 71

when he had cooled down a little, he would like to
talk over the affair. But he was not in. Miss Maria
said that he had gone out as soon as he had finished
his dinner, which he hurried through in a way which
would certainly injure his digestion if he kept up the
practice ; and dinner was late, too, for they waited for
him ; and the archery meeting lasted a long time to
day ; and it really was not right for him to stay out
after the dew began to fall with only ordinary shoes on,
for what's the good of knowing how to shoot a bow
and arrow, if you're laid up in your bed with rheuma
tism or disease of the lungs ! Good old lady ! She
would have kept Pepton in a green baize bag, had such
a thing been possible.

The next morning, full two hours before church-
time, Pepton called on me. His face was still beam
ing. I could not help smiling.

44 Your happiness lasts well," I said.

44 Lasts ! " he exclaimed. 44 Why shouldn't it last ! "

44 There's no reason why it should not — at least for
a week," I said. 44 And even longer, if }*ou repeat
your success."

I did not feel so much like congratulating Pepton as
I had on the previous evening. I thought he was
making too much of his badge-winning.

44 Look here!" said Pepton, seating himself, and
drawing his chair close to me, " you are shooting wild
— very wild indeed. You don't even see the target.
Let me tell you something. Last evening I went to
see Miss Rosa. She was delighted at my success. I
bud not expected this. 1 thought she would be pleased,

72 OUR ARCHERY CLUB.

but not to such a degree. Her congratulations were
so warm that they set me on fire."

"They must have been very warm indeed," I re
marked.

"'Miss Rosa,' said I," continued Pepton, without
regarding my interruption, " ' it has been my fondest
hope to see you wear the badge.' ' But I never could
get it, you know,' she said. ' You have got it,' I ex
claimed. ' Take this. I won it for you. Make me
happy by wearing it.' 'I can't do that,' she said.
4 That is a gentleman's badge.' 'Take it,' I cried,
' gentleman and all ! '

" I can't tell you all that happened after that," con
tinued Pepton. " You know it wouldn't do. It is
enough to say that she wears the badge. And we are
both her own — the badge and I ! "

Now I congratulated him in good earnest. There,
was a reason for it.

" I don't care a snap now for shooting an eagle,"
said Pepton, springing to his feet, and striding up and
down the floor. " Let 'em all fly free for me. I have
made the most glorious shot that man could make. I
have hit the gold — hit it fair in the very centre ! And
what's more, I've knocked it clean out of the target!
Nobody else can ever make such a shot. The rest
of you fellows will have to be content to hit the
red, the blue, the black, or the white. The gold is
mine ! ' '

I called on the old ladies, some time after this, and
found them alone. They were generally alone in the
evenings now. We talked about Pepton's engagement.

OUR ARCHERY CLUB. 73

ami I found them resigned. They were sorry to lose
him, but they wanted him to be happy.

44 We have always known," said Miss Martha, with
a little sigh, " that we must die, and that he must get
married. But we don't intend to repine. These things
will come to people." And her little sigh was followed
by a smile, still smaller.

THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

TTTE were sitting on the store-porch of a small Vir-
VV ginia village. I was one of the party, and
Martin Heiskill was the other one. Martin had been
out fishing, which was an unusual thing for him.

" Yes, sir," said he, as he held up the small string
of fish which he had laid carefully under his chair
when he sat down to light his pipe ; " that's all I've
got to show for a day's work. But 'taint often that
I waste time that way. I don't b'lieve in huntin* fur
a thing that ye can't see. If fishes sot on trees, now,
and ye could shoot at 'em, I'd go out and hunt fishes
with anybody. But its mighty trifliu' work to be goin*
it blind in a mill-pond."

I ventured to state that there were fish that were
occasionally found on trees. In India, for instance*
a certain fish climbs trees.

"A which what's?" exclaimed Martin, with an
arrangement of pronouns peculiar to himself.

" Oh, yes ! " he said, when I had told him all I knew
about this bit of natural history. " That's very likely.
I reckon they do that up North, where you come from,
74

THAT SAME OLD 'COON. 75

in some of them towns you was tcllin' me about, where
there's so many houses that they tech each other.'*

44 That's all true about the fishes, Martin," sakl I,
wisely making no reference to the houses, for I did
not want to push his belief too hard ; 44 but we'll drop
them now."

44 Yes," said he, " I think we'd better."

Martin was a good fellow and no fool ; but he had
not travelled much, and had no correct ideas of cities,
oor, indeed, of much of any thing outside of his native
backwoods. But of those backwoods he knew more
than any other man I ever met. He liked to talk, but
he iv>rntnl tall stories.

44 Martin," said I, glad to change the subject, 44do
you think there'll be many 'coons about, this fall?"

44 About as many as common, I reckon," he an
swered. 44 What do you want to know fur? "

44 I'd like to go out 'coon-hunting," I said ; 44 that's
something I have never tried."

44 Well," said he, 44 1 don't s'pose your goin' will
make much difference in the number of 'em, but, what's
the good uv it? You'd better go 'possuin-huutin'.
You kin eat a 'possum."

44 Don't you ever eat 'coons? " I asked.

44 Eat 'coons!" he exclaimed, with contempt.
44 Why, there isn't a nigger in this county 'd eat a
'coon. They aint fit to eat."

44 1 should think they'd be as good as 'possums,"
said I. »» They feed on pretty much the same things,
don't they?"

44 Well, there aint much difference, that way ; but f\

76 THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

'possum's a mighty different thing from » 'coon, when
ye come to eat him. A 'possum's more like a kind o'
tree-pig. An* when he's cooked, he's sweeter than
any suckin'-pig you ever see. But a 'coon's more like
a cat. Who'd eat cats? "

I was about to relate some city sausage stories, but
I refrained.

44 To be sure," continued Martin, " there's Col.
Tibbs, who says he's eat 'coon-meat, and liked it fust-
rate ; but then ag'in, he says frogs is good to eat, so
ye see there's no depend in1 on what people say. Now,
I know what I'm a-talkiu' about; 'coons aiut fit fur
human bein's to eat."

4 What makes you hunt 'em, then?" I asked.

44 Hunt 'em fur fun," said the old fellow, striking
a lucifer match under his chair, to re-light his pipe.
44 Ef ye talk about vittles, that's one thing; an' ef ye
talk about fun, that's another thing. An' I don't
know now whether you'd think it was fun. I kinder
think you wouldn't. 1 reckon it'd seem like pretty
hard work to you."

44 I suppose it would," I said; 4t there are many
things that would be hard work to me, that would be
nothing but sport to an old hunter like you."

44 You're right, there, sir. You never spoke truer
than that in your life. There's no man inside o' six
counties that's hunted more'n I have. I've been at
it ever sence I was a youngster ; an* I've got a lot o'
fun out uv it, — more fun than any thing else, fur that
matter. You see, afore the war, people used to go
huntiu' more for real sport than they do now. AQ'

THAT SAME OLD "COON. 77

twa'n't because there was more game in this country
then than there is now, fur there wa'n't, — not half as
much. There's more game in Virginny now than
there's been any time tins fifty years."

I expressed my surprise at this statement, and he
continued :

"It all stands to reason, plain enough. Ef you
don't kill them wild critters off, they'll jist breed and
breed, till the whole country gits full uv 'em. An*
nobody had no time to hunt 'em durin' the war, — we
was busy huntin' different game then, and sometimes
we was hunted ourselves ; an' since then the most uv
us has had to knuckle down to work, — no time for
huntin' when you've got to do your own hoein* and
ploughin', — or, at least, a big part uv it. An' I tell
ye that back there in the mountains there's lots o' deer
where nobody livin' about here ever saw 'em before,
and as fur turkeys, and 'coons, and 'possums, there's
more an' more uv' em ev'ry year, but as fur beavers, —
them confounded chills-and-fever rep-tyles, — there's
jist millions uv 'em, more or less."

44 Do beavers have chills and fever? " I asked won-
deringly.

44 No," said he, " I wish they did. But they give it
to folks. There aint nothin' on earth that's raised the
price o' quinine in this country like them beavers. Ye
see, they've jist had the'r own way now, pretty much
ever scnce the war broke out, and they've gone to
work and built dams across pretty nigh all the cricks
we got, and that floods the bottom-lands, uv course,
and makes ma'shes and swamps, where they used U

78 THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

be fust-rate corn-land. Why, I tell ye, sir, down here
on Colt's Creek there's a bea»rer-dam a quarter uv a
mile long, an* the water's backed up all over every
thing. Aint that enough to give a whole county the
chills? An' it does it too. Ef the people'd all go
and sit on that there dam, they'd shake it down.
I tell ye, sir, the war give us, in this country, a
good many things we didn't want, and among 'em's
chills. Before the war, nobody never heard of sich
things as chills round about hyar. 'Taint on'y the
beavers, nuthcr. When ye can't afford to hire more'n
three or four niggers to work a big farm, 'taint likely
ye kin do no ditchin', and all the branches and the
ditches in the bottom-lands fills up, an' a feller's best
corn-fields is pretty much all swamp, and his family
has to live on quinine."

<k I should think it would pay well to hunt and trap
these beavers," I remarked.

44 Well, so it does, sometimes," said Martin ; " but
half the people aint got no time. Now it's different
with me, because I'm not a-farmin'. An' then it aint
everybody that kin git 'em. It takes a kind o' eddica-
tion to hunt beaver. But you was a-askin' about
'coons."

41 Yes," I said. " I'd like to go 'coon-hunting."

41 There's lots o' fun in it," said he, knocking the
ashes out of his pipe, and putting up his cowhide boots
on the top of the porch-railing in front of him.

44 About two or three years afore the war, I went
out on a 'coon-hunt, which was the liveliest hunt I
ever see in all my life. I never had sich a good hunt

TUAT SAME OLD 'COON. 79

afore, nur never sence. I was a-livin' over in Pow-
hattan, and the 'coon was Haskinses 'coon. They
called him Haskinses 'coon, because he was 'most
allus seen somewhere on ole Tom Haskinses farm.
Tom's dead now, an' so is the 'coon ; but the farm's
thar, an' I'm here, so ye kin b'lieve this story, jist as
ef it was printed on paper. It was the most confouud-
edest queer 'coon anybody ever see in all this whole
world. An' the queerness was this: it hadn't no
stripes to its tail. Now ye needn't say to me that
no 'coon was ever that way, fur this 'coon was, an' that
settles it. All 'coons has four or five brown stripes
a-runnin* roun' their tails, — all 'cept this one 'coon
uv Haskinses. An* what's more, this was the sava-
gest 'coon anybody ever did see in this whole world.
That's what sot everybody huntin' him ; fur the sav-
ager a coon is, an' the more grit ther' is in him, the
more's the fun when he comes to fight the dogs — fur
that's whar the fun comes in. An' ther' is 'coons as
kin lick a whole pack o' dogs, an' git off; and this is
jist what Haskinses 'coon did, lots o' times. I b'lieve
every nigger in the county, an' pretty much half the
white men, had been out huntin' that 'coon, and they'd
never got him yit. Ye see he was so derned cunnin*
an* gritty, that when ye cut his tree down, he'd jist
go through the dogs like a wasp in a Sunday school,
an' git away, as I tell ye. He must a' had teeth more'n
an inch long, and he had a mighty tough bite to him.
Quick, too, as a black-snake. Well, they never got
him, no how ; but he was often seed, fur he'd even let
a feller as hadn't a gun with him git a look at him in

BO THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

the day-time, which is contrary to the natur' of a 'coon,
which keeps dark all day an on'y comes out arter dark.
But this here 'coon o' Haskinses was different from
any 'coon anybody ever see in all this world. Some
times }*e'd see him a-settin' down by a branch, a-dip-
pin' his food inter the water every time he took a bite,
which is the natur' of a coon ; but if ye put yer hand
inter yer pocket fur so much as a pocket-pistol, he'd
skoot afore ye could wink.

44 Well, I made up my mind I'd go out after Has
kinses 'coon, and I got up a huntin' party. 'Twa'n't
no trouble to do that. In them days ye could git up
a huutin* party easier than any thing else in this whole
world. All ye had to do was to let the people know,
an' they'd be thar, black an' white. Why, I tell ye,
sir, they used to go fox-huntin' a lot in them days, an'
there wasn't half as many foxes as ther' is now,
nuther. If a feller woke up bright an* early, an' felt
like fox-huutin', all he had to do was to git on his
horse, and take his dogs and his horn, and ride off to
his nex' neighbor's, an' holler. An* up'd jump the
nex' feller, and git on his horse, and take his dogs,
and them two'd ride off to the nex' farm an* holler,
an' keep that up till ther' was a lot uv 'em, with the'r
hounds, and away they'd go, tip-it-ty-crack, after the
fox an' the hounds — fur it didn't take long for them
dogs to scar' up a fox. An' they'd keep it up, too,
like good fellers. Ther' was a party uv 'em, once,
started out of a Friday mornin', and the'r fox, which
was a red fox (fur a gray fox aint no good fur a long
run) took 'em clean over into Albemarle, and none uf

THAT SAME OLD 'COO2C. 81

'em didn't get back home till arter dark, Saturday.
That was the way we used to hunt.

" Well, I got up my party, and we went out arter
Haskinses 'coon. We started out pretty soon arter
supper. Ole Tom Haskins himself was along, because,
ur course, he wanted to see his 'coon killed ; an' ther'
wis a lot of other fellers that you wouldn't know ef I
was to tell ye the'r names. Ye see, it was 'way down
at the lower end of the county that I was a-livin' then.
An' ther' was about a dozen niggers with axes, an*
five or six little black boys to carry light- wood. There
was no less than thirteen dogs, all 'coon-hunters.

"Ye see, the 'coon-dog is sometimes a hound, an*
sometimes he isn't. It takes a right smart dog to
hunt a 'coon ; and sometimes ye kin train a dog, thet
aint a reg'lar huntin'-dog, to be a fust-rate 'coon-dog,
pertickerlerly when the fightin* comes in. To be sure,
ye want a dog with a good nose to him to foller up a
'coon ; but ye want fellers with good jaws and teeth,
and plenty of grit, too. We had thirteen of the best
'coon-dogs in the whole world, an* that was enough
fur any one 'coon, I say ; though Haskinses 'coon was
a pertickerler kind of a 'coon, as I tell ye.

"Pretty soon arter we got inter Haskinses oak
woods, jist back o' the house, the dogs got on the
track uv a 'coon, an' after 'em we all went, as hard as
we could skoot. Uv course we didn't know that it
was Haskinses 'coon we was arter ; but we made up
our minds, afore we started, thet when we killed a
'coon and found it wasn't Haskinsea 'coon, we'd jist
keep on till we did find him. We didn't 'spect to

8* THAT SAME OLD 'COOJV.

have much trouble a-findin' him, fur we know'd prettr
much whar he lived, and we went right thar. Taint
often anybody hunts fur one pertickerler 'coon ; but
that was the matter this time, as I tell ye."

It was evident from the business-like way in which
Martin Heiskill started into this story, that he wouldn't
get home in time to have his fish cooked for supper,
but that was not my affair. It was not every day that
the old fellow chose to talk, and I was glad enough to
have him go on as long as he would.

44 As I tell ye," continued Martin, looking steadily
over the toe of one of his boots, as if taking a long
aim at some distant turkey, "we put off, hot and
heavy, arter that ar 'coon, and hard work it was too.
The dogs took us down through the very stickeryest
part of the woods, and then down the holler by the
edge of Lumley's mill-pond, — whar no human bein'
in this world ever walked or run afore, I truly b'lieve,
fur it was the meanest travellin' groun* I ever see, — and
then back inter the woods ag'in. But 'twa'n't long afore
we came up to the dogs a-barkin' and howlin* around
a big chestnut-oak about three foot through, an* we
knew we had him. That is, ef it wa'n't Haskinses
'coon. Ef it was his 'coon, may be we had him, and
may be we hadn't. The boys lighted up their light-
wood torches, and two niggers with axes bent to work
at the tree. And them as wasn't choppin' had as
much as they could do to keep the dogs back out o*
the way o' the axes.

44 The dogs they was jist goin' on as ef they was
mad, and ole Uncle Pete Williams — he was the one

TffAT SAMS OLD 'COON. 83

thet was a-holdin* on to Chink, the big dog — that
dog's name was Chinkerpin, an* he was the best
'coon-dog in the whole world, I reckon. He was A
big hound, brown an* black, an' he was the on'y dog
in thet pack thet had never had a tight with Haskinses
"coon. They fetched him over from Cumberland,
A-purpose for this hunt. Well, as I tell ye, ole Pete,
says he, 4Thar aint no mistook dis time, Mahsr Tom,
now I tell you. Dese yar dogs knows well 'nuf dat
dat 'coon's Mahsr Tom's 'coon, an' dey tell Chink too,
fiir he's a-doin' de debbiFs own pullin' dis time.* An*
I reckon Uncle Pete was 'bout right, fur I thought the
dog nd pull him off his legs afore he got through.

44 Pretty soon the niggers hollered fur to stan' from
under, an* down came the chestnut-oak with the big
smash, an' then ev'ry dog an' man an* nigger made
one skoot fur that tree. But they couldn't see no
'coon, fur he was in a hole 'bout half way up the
trunk ; an' then there was another high ole time keepin'
back the dogs till the fellers with axes cut him out.
It didn't take long to do that. The tree was a kind o'
rotten up thar, and afore I know'd it, out hopped the
'coon ; and then in less then half a shake, there was
sicii a fight as you never see in all this world.

44 At first, it 'peared like it was a blamed mean
thing to let thirteen dogs fight one 'coon ; but pretty
soon I thought it was a little too bad to have on'y
thirteen dogs fur sich a fiery savage beast as that there
'conn w:is. Ilr Jlct l:ii-I down on Ilis had :m' l>u//.-<l
around like a coffee-mill, an' whenever a dog got a
snap at him, he got the 'coon's teeth inter him quick

84 THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

AS lightnin'. Ther' was too many dogs in that fight,
an' 'twa'n't long before some uv 'em found that out,
and got out o* the muss. An* it was some o' the dogs
thet had the best chance at the 'coon thet left fust.

44 Afore long, though, old Chink, who'd a been
a-watchin' his chance, he got a good grip on that
'coon, an' that was the end of him. He jist throw'd
up his hand.

44 The minute I seed the fight was over, I rushed in
an* grabbed that 'coon, an* like to got grabbed myself,
too, in doin' it, 'specially by Chink, who didn't know
me. One o' the boys brought a light-wood torch so's
we could see the little beast.

44 Well, 'twa'n't Haskinses 'coon. He had rings
round his tail, jist as reg'lar as ef he was the feller
that set the fashion. So ther' was more 'coon-hunt-
in' to be done that night. But ther' wa'n't nobody
that objected to that, fur we were jist gittin' inter the
fun o' the thing. An' I made up my mind I wasn't
a-goin' home without the tail off er Haskinses 'coon.

44 1 disremember now whether the nex' thing we
killed was a 'coon or a 'possum. It's a fong time ago,
and I've been on lots o' hunts since thet ; but the main
p'ints o' this hunt I aint likely to furgit, fur, as I tell
ye, this was the liveliest 'coon-hunt I ever went out on.

44 Ef it was a 'possum we got next, ther' wasn't
much fun about it, fur a 'possum's not a game beast.
Ther's no fight in him, though his meat's better. When
ye tree a 'possum an* cut down the tree, an' cut him
out uv his hole, ef he's in one, he jist keels over an*
makes b'lieve he's dead, though that's jinerally no use

THAT SAME OLD 'COON. 85

at all, fur he's real dead in a minute, and it's hardly
wuth while fur him to take the trouble uv puttin' on
the sham. Sometimes a 'possum '11 hang by his tail
to the limb of a tree, an* ye kin knock him down with
out cuttin' the tree down. He's not a game beast, as
I tell ye. But they aint allus killed on the spot. I've
*«'«-d iiLrLrrr< takr :i Inn-j >aj'lin' an' make a little >]>lit

in it about the middle of the pole, an' stick the end of
a 'possum's long rat-tail through the split an' carry
him home. I've seed two niggers carry in' a pole that
a-way, one at each end, with two or three 'possums
a-hangin' frum it. They take 'em home and fatten
'em. I hate a 'possum, principally fur his tail. Ef it
was curled up short an' had a knot in it, it would be
more like a pig's tail, an' then it would seem as ef the
thing was meant to eat. But the way they have it,
it's like nothing in the whole world but a rat's tail.

k4 So, as I tell ye, ef thet was a 'possum thet we
treed nex', ther' wasn't no fight, an' some of the nig
gers got some meat. But after that — I remember it
was about the middle o' the night — we got off again,
this time really arter Haskinses 'coon. I was dead
sure of it. The dogs went diff 'rent, too. They was
jist full o' fire an' blood, an' run ahead like as ef they
\v:i- mad. T!I>-Y kin.wM they wasn't on tli-- track <>i
no common 'coon, this time. As fur all uv us men,
black an' white, we jist got up an' got arter them dogs,
an' some o' the little fellers got stuck in a swamp,
down by a branch that runs out o' Haskinses woods
into Widder Thorp's corn-field ; but we didn't stop
fur nuthin', an* they never ketched up. We kep* on

86 THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

down that branch an' through the whole corn-field, an'
then the dogs they took us cross ways up a hill, whar
we had to cross two or three gullies, an* I like to broke
my neck down one uv 'em, fur I was in sich a blamed
hurry that I tried to jump across, an* the bank giv* way
on the other side, as I might 'a' kuow'd it would, an*
down I come, backward. But I lauded on two niggers
at the bottom of the gully, an* that kinder broke my
fall, an' I was up an' a-goin' ag'in afore you'd 'a*
know'd it.

" Well, as I tell ye, we jist b'iled up that hill, an'
then we struck inter the widder's woods, which is the
wust woods in the whole world, I reckon, fur runnin'
through arter a pack o' dogs. The whole place was
so growed up with chiukerpin-bushes and dog-wood,
an' every other kind o' underbrush that a hog would
'a* sp'iled his temper goin' through thar in the day
time ; but we jist r'ared an* plunged through them
bushes right on to the tails o' the dogs ; an* ef any uv
us had had good clothes on, they'd 'a' been tore off
our backs. But ole clothes won't tear, an* we didn't
care ef they did. The dogs had a hot scent, an' I tell
ye, we was close on to 'em when they got to the critter.
An* what d'ye s'pose the critter was? It was a dog-
arned 'possum in a trap !

44 It was a trap sot by ole Uncle Enoch Peters, that
lived on Widder Thorp's farm. He's dead now, but
I remember him fust- rate. He had an* ole mother
over in Cumberland, an' he was the very oldest man
in this country, an' I reckon in the whole world, that
had a livin' mother. Well, that there sueakin' 'pos-

THAT SAME OLD 'COOJV. 87

sum had gone snifflin' along through the corn-field,
an' up that hill, an* along the gullies, and through
that oncarthly woods to Uncle Enoch's trap, an* we'd
follered him as ef he'd had a store order fur a bar'l o*
flour tied to his tail.

"Well, he didn't last long, for the dogs and the
niggers, between 'em, tore that trap all to bits ; and
what become o* the 'possum I don't b'lieve anybody
knowed, 'cept it was ole Chink and two or three uv the
biggest dogs."

I here asked if 'coons were ever caught in traps.

" Certainly they is," said Martin. "I remember
the time that ther' was a good many 'coons caught in
traps. That was in the ole Henry Clay 'lection times.
The 'coon, he was the Whig beast. He stood for
Harry Clay and the hull Whig party. Ther' never was
a pole-raisin', or a barbecue, or a speech meetin', or a
torch-light percession, in the whole country, that they
didn't want a live 'coon to be sot on a pole or some'
whar whar the people could look at him an' be encour
aged. But it didn't do 'em no good. Ole Harry Clay
he went under, an' ye couldn't sell a 'coon for a dime.

" Well, as I tell ye, this was a 'possum in a trap,
and we was all pretty mad and pretty tired. We got
out on the edge o' the woods as soon as we could, an'
thar was a field o' corn. The corn had been planted
late and the boys found a lot o' roastin' ears, though
th.-v \\:i«, j.iirty cl.l. hut \v«- <li<ln't care for that. \Vr
made a fire, an' roasted the corn, an' some o' the men
had their ' ticklers ' along, — enough to give us each
a taste, — an' we lighted our pipes and sat down to

88 THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

take a rest afore startin' off ag'in arter Haskinsea
'coon."

44 But I thought you said," I remarked, " that you
knew you were after Raskins' 'coon the last time."

44 Well, so we did know we was. But sometimes
you know things as isn't so. Didn't ye ever find that
out? It's so, anyway, jist as I tell ye," and then he
continued his story :

"As we was a-settin' aroun' the fire, a-smokin'
away, Uncle Pete Williams — he was the feller that
had to hang on to the big dog, Chink, as I tell ye —
he come an' he says, 4 Now, look-a-here, Mahsr Tom,
an' de rest ob you all, don't ye bleab we'd better gib
up dis yere thing an' go home?' Well, none uv us
thought that, an' we told him so ; but he kep' on, an'
begun to tell us we'd find ourselves in a heap o'
misery, ef we didn't look out, pretty soon. Says he :
4 Now, look-a-here, Mahsr Tom, and you all, you all
wouldn't a-ketched me out on this yere hunt ef I 'a'
knowed ye was a-gwine to hunt 'possums. 'Taint no
luck to hunt 'possums: everybody knows dat. De
debbil gits after a man as will go a-chasin' 'possums
wid dogs when he kin cotch 'em a heap mau comforta-
bler in a trap. 'Taint so much diff'rence 'bout 'coons,
but the debbil he takes care o' 'possums. An' I spect
de debbel know'd 'bout dis yere hunt, fur de oder
ebenin' I was a-goin' down to de rock-spring, wid a
gourd to git a drink, and dar on de rock, wid his legs
a-danglin' down to de water, sat de debbil hisself
a-chawin' green terbacker!' — 4 Green terbacker?' says
I. * Why, Uncle Pete, aiut the debbil got no bette*

THAT SAME OLD 'COON. 89

sense than that?' — 4 Now, look-a-herc, Mahsr Martin/
says he, ldedebbil knows what he's alxmt, an' ef green
terbacker was good fur anybody to chaw he wouldn't
chaw it, an' he says to me, " Uncle Pete, been
a-huntin* any 'possums?" An' says I, " No, Mahsr,
I nebber do dat." An* den he look at me awful, fur I
seed he didn't furgit nothin', an' he was a-sottin' dar,
a-shinen as ef he was polished all over wid shoe-
blackin', an' he says, *4 Now, look-a-here, Uncle Pete,
don't you eber do it; an' w'at's dat about dis yere
Baptis' church at de Cross-roads, dat was sot afire? "
An' I tole him dat I didn't know nuffin 'bout dat -
not one single word in dis whole world. Den he wink,
an* he says, " Dem bruders in dat church hunt too
many 'possums. Dey is allus a-huntin' 'possums, an'
dat's de way dey lose der church. I sot dat church
afire mi-sof. D'y' hear dat, Uncle Pete? " An* I was
glad enough to hear it, too ; for der was bruders in dat
church dat said Teller Joe an' me sot it afire, cos we
wasn't 'lected trustees, but dey can't say dat now, fur
it's all plain as daylight, an' ef dey don't bleab it, I
kin show 'em de berry gourd I tuk down to de rock-
spring when I seed de debbil. An* it don't do to hunt
no more 'possums, fur de debbil'd jist as leab scratch
de end co his tail ag'in a white man's church as ag'in
a black man's church.'

44 By this time we was all ready to start ag'in ; an*
we know'd that all Uncle Pete wanted was to git home
ag'in, fur he was lazy, and was sich an ole rascal that
he was afraid to go back by himself in the dark fur
fear the real debbil'd gobble him up, an' so we didn't

90 THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

pay no 'tention to him, but jist started off ag'in.
Ther* is niggers as b'lieve the debbil gits after people
that hunt 'possums, but Uncle Pete never b'lieved that
when he was a-goin' to git the 'possum. Ther' wasn't
no chance fur him this night, but he had to come along
all the same, as I tell ye.

" 'Twa'n't half an hour arter we started ag'in afore
we found a 'coon, but 'twa'n't Haskinses 'coon. We
was near the crick, when the dogs got arter him, an*
inste'd o' gittin* up a tree, he run up inter the roots uv
a big pine thet had been blown down, and was a-layin'
half in the water. The brush was mighty thick jist
here ; an' some uv us thought it was another 'possum,
an' we kep' back most uv the dogs, fur we didn't want
'em to carry us along that creek-bank arter no 'possum.
But some o* the niggers, with two or three dogs, pushed
through the bushes, and one feller clum up inter the
roots uv the tree, an' out jumped Mr. 'Coon. He
hadn't no chance to git off any other way than to clim*
down some grape-vines that was a-hangin* from the
tree inter the water. So he slips down one o' them,
an' as he was a-hangin' on like a sailor a-goin' down a
rope, I got a look at him through the bushes, an* I see
plain enough by the light-wood torch thet he wa'n't
Haskiuses 'coon. He had the commonest kinds o'
bands on his tail.

" Well, that thar 'coon he looked like he was about
the biggest fool uv a coon in this whole world. He
come down to the water, as ef he thought a dog
couldn't swim, an* ef that's what he did think he foun*
out his mistake as soon as he teched the water, fur thar

THAT SAME OLD 'COON. 91

:i .Ion iv:idy fur him. An' tlu-r f! . y h:i<l it lively,
an* the other dogs they jumped in, an' thar was a purty
. ;LT >i'l:i-!iin an' |>lu:ijin' a:i' Mlin' in tli:it thar cn-rk :
an* I was jist a-goin to push through an' holler fur the
other fellers to come an* see the fun, when that thar
'coon he got off ! He jist licked them dogs — the
meanest dogs we had along — an* put fur the other
bank, an' that was the end o' him. 'Coons is a good
deal like folks — it don't pay to call none uv 'em fools
till ye're done seein' what they're up to.

44 Well, as I tell ye, we was then nigh the crick ; but
soon as we lef the widder's woods we struck off from
it, fur none uv us, 'specially the niggers, wanted to go
nigh 'Lijah Parker's. Reckon ye don't know 'Lijah
Parker. Well, he lives 'bout three mile from here on
the crick ; an* he was then, an' is now, jist the laziest
man in the whole world. He had two or three big red
oaks on his place thet he wanted cut down, but was
too durned lazy to do it ; an' he hadn't no money to hire
anybody to do it, nuther, an' he was too stingy to
spend it ef he'd had it. So he know'd ther* was a-goin
to be a 'coon-hunt one night ; an' the evenin' before he
tuk a 'coon his boy'd caught in a 'possum-trap, an'
ic put A chain aroun' its body, and pulled it through his
woods to one of his red oak trees. Then he let the
'coon climb up a little ways, an' then he jerked him
down ag'in, and pulled him over to another tree, and so
on, till he'd let him run up three big trees. Then his
boy got a box, an' they put the 'coon in an' carried
him home. Uv course, when the dogs come inter his
woods — an' he know'd they was a-goiu to do that —

92 THAT SAME OLD 'COOJT.

they got on the scent o' this 'coon ; an' when thej
got to the fust tree, they thought they'd treed him, an'
the niggers cut down that red oak in no time. An'
then' when ther' wa'n't no 'coon thar, they tracked
him to the nex' tree, an' so on till the whole three trees
was cut down. We wouldn't 'a' found out nuthin'
about this ef 'Lijah's boy hadn't told on the ole man,
an* ye kin jist bet all ye're wuth that ther' aint a man
in this county that 'u'd cut one o' his trees down ag'in.
" Well, as I tell ye, we kep' clear o' Parker's place,
an' we walked about two mile, an' then we found we'd
gone clean around till we'd got inter Haskinses woods
ag'in. We hadn't gone further inter the woods than
ye could pitch a rock afore the dogs got on the track
uv a 'coon, an' away we all went arter 'em. Even the
little fellers that was stuck in the swamp away back
was with us now, fur they got out an' was a-pokin'
home through the woods. 'Twa'n't long afore that
'coon was treed ; an* when we got up an* looked at
the tree, we all felt dead sure it was Haskinses 'coon
this time an* no mistake. Fur it was jist the kind
o' tree that no 'coon but that 'coon would ever 'a'
thought o'climbin'. Mos* 'coons and 'possums shin it
up a pretty tall tree, to git as fur away frum the dogs
as they kin, an' the tall trees is often purty slim trees
an' easy cut down. But this here 'coon o' Haskinses
he had more sense than that. He jist skooted up the
thickest tree he could find. He didn't care about
gittin* up high. He know'd the dogs couldn't climb
no tree at all, an* that no man or boy was a-comin'
up after him. So he wanted to give 'em the best job

THAT SAME OLD 'COOJV. 93

o* choppin he know'd how. Ther' aim no smartei
critter than 'coons in this whole world. Dogs aint no
circumstance to 'em. About four or five year ago, 1
was a-livin' with Riley Marsh, over by the Court-house ;
an' his wife she had a tame 'coon, an' this little beast
was a mighty lot smarter than any human beiu' in the
house. Sometimes, when he'd come it a little too
heavy with his tricks, they used to chain him up, but
he always got loose and come a humpin' inter the
house with a bit o' the chain to his collar. D'ye know
how a 'coon walks? He never comes straight ahead
like a Christian, but he humps up his back, an' he
twists roun' his tail, an' he sticks out his head, crooked
like, frum under his ha'r, an' he comes inter a room
sideways an' a kind o' cross, as ef he'd a- wanted ter
stay out an* play an' ye'd made him come in the
house ter learn his lessons.

" Well, as I tell ye, this 'coon broke his chain ev'ry
time, an' it was a good thick dog-chain, an' that puz
zled Riley ; but one day he saw the little runt goin'
aroun' an' aroun* hoppin* over his chain ev'ry time,
till he got an awful big twist on his chain, an' then it
was easy enough to strain on it till a link opened. But
Riley put a swivel on his chain, an' stopped that fun.
But they'd let him out purty often ; an' one day he
squirmed himself inter the kitchen, an' thar he see the
tea-kittle a-settin* by the fireplace. The lid was off,
an* ole 'cooney thought that was jist the kind uv a
black hole he'd been used to crawl in' inter afore he
got tame. So he crawled in an* curled himself up an'
went to sleep. Arter a while, in cornea Aunt Hannah

94 THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

to git supper ; an' she picks up the kittle, an* findi*
it heavy, thinks it was full o' water, an' puts on the
lid an* hung it over the fire. Then she clapped on
some light-wood to hurry up things. Purty soon that
kittle begun to warm ; an' then, all uv a sudden, off
pops the lid, an' out shoots Mister 'Coon like a rocket.
An' ther* never was, in all this whole world, sich a
frightened ole nigger as Aunt Hannah. She thought
it was the debbil, sure, an* she giv* a yell that fetched
ev'ry man on the place. That ere 'coon had more
mischief in him than any live thing ye ever see. He'd
pick pockets, hide ev'ry thing he could find, an' steal
eggs. He'd find an egg ef the hen Vd sneak off an'
lay it at the bottom uv the crick. One Sunday, Riley's
wife went to all-day preachin' at Hornorsville, an' she
put six mockin'-birds she was a-raisin' in one cage ; an',
fur fear the coon' 'u'd git 'em, she hung the cage frum
a hook in the middle uv the ceilin' in the chamber.
She had to git upon a chair to do it. Well, she went
to preachin', an* that 'coon he got inter the house an*
eat up ev'ry one o' them mockin'-birds. Ther' wasn't
no tellin' 'xactly how he done it ; but we reckoned he
got up on the high mantel-piece an' made one big
jump from thar to the cage, an' hung on till he put his
paw through an' hauled out one bird. Then he dropped
an' eat that, an' made anuther jump, till they was all
gone. Anyway, he got all the birds, an' that was the
last meal he ever eat.

" Well, as I tell ye, that 'coon he got inter the thick
est tree in the whole woods ; an' thar he sat a-peepin*
at us from a crotch that wasn't twenty feet frum tho

THAT SAME OLD 'COON. 96

ground. Young Charley Ferris he took a burnin*
chunk that one o' the boys had fetched along frum
the fire, an* throw'd it up at him, 'at we could all
see him plain. He was Haskinses 'coon, sure. There
wasn't a stripe on his tail. Arter that, the niggers
jist made them axes swing, I tell ye. They had a big
job afore fem ; but they took turns at it, an* didn't
waste no time. An* the rest uv us we got the dogs
ready. We wasn't a-goin' to let this 'coon off this
here time. No, sir ! Ther' was too many dogs, as I
tell ye, an' we had four or five uv the clumsiest uv 'em
tuk a little way off, with boys to hole 'em ; an* the
other dogs an' the hounds, 'specially old Chink, was
held ready to tackle the 'coon when the time come.
An* we had to be mighty sharp about this, too, fur we
all sau that that thar 'coon was a-goin' to put the min
ute the tree come down. He wasn't goin' to git in a
hole an* be cut out. Ther' didn't 'pear to be any hole,
an' he didn't want none. All he wanted was a good
thick tree an' a crotch to set in an' think. That was
what he was a-doin'. He was cunjerin* up some trick
or other. We all know'd that, but we jist made up
our minds to be ready fur him ; an' though, as he was
Haskinses 'coon, the odds was ag'in us, we was dead
sure we'd git him this time.

44 I thought that thar tree never wa* a comin' down ;
but purty soon it began to crack and lean, and then
down she come. Ev'ry dog, man, an' boy, made a
rush fur that crotch, but ther* was no coon thar. As
the tree come down he seed how the land lay ; and
quicker'n any light* in' in this whole world he jist

06 THAT SAME OLD 'COO.Y.

Btreaked the other way to the root o' the tree, giv' one
hop over the stump, an' was off. I seed him do it,
an' the dogs see him, but they wasn't quick enough,
and couldn't stop 'einselves — they was goiii' so hard
fur the crotch.

44 Ye never did see in all yer days sech a mad crowd
as that thar crowd around that tree, but they didn't
stop none to sw'ar. The dogs was arter the 'coon,
an' arter him we went too. He put fur the edge of the
woods, which looked queer, fur a coon never will go
out into the open if he kin help it ; but the dogs
was so hot arter him that he couldn't run fur, and he
was treed ag'in in less than five minutes. This time
he was in a tall hick'ry-tree, right on the edge o' the
woods ; and it wa'n't a very thick tree, nuther, so the
niggers they jist tuk ther' axes, but afore they could
make a single crack, ole Raskins he runs at 'em an'
pushes 'em away.

44 4 Don't ye touch that thar tree ! ' he hollers. 4 That
hick'ry marks my line ! ' An' sure enough, that was
the tree with the surveyors' cuts on it, that marked
the place where the line took a corner that run atween
Haskinses farm and Widder Thorp's. He know'd the
tree the minute he seed it, an' so did I, fur I carried
the chain for the surveyors when they laid off the line ;
an' we could all see the cut they'd blazed on it, fur it
was fresh yit, an' it was gittin' to be daylight now, an*
we could see things plain.

44 Well, as I tell ye, ev'ry man uv us jist r'ared and
snorted, an' the dogs an' boys was madder'n the rest
uv us, but ole Ilaskius he didn't give in. He jiat

THAT SAME OLD 'COON. 97

walked aroun' that tree an' wouldn't let a nigger touch
it. He said he wanted to kill the 'coon jist as much
as anybody, but he wasn't a-goin to have his line
sp'iled, arter the money he'd spent, fur all the 'coons
in this whole world.

44 Now did ye ever hear of sich a cute trick as that?
That thar 'coon he must 'a' knowed that was Haskinses
line-tree, an' I spect he'd 'a' made fur it fust, ef he'd
a-knowed ole Haskins was along. But he didn't know
it, till he was a-settin' in the crotch uv the big tree
and could look aroun' an* see who was thar. It
wouldn't 'a' been no use fur him to go for that hick'ry
if Haskins hadn't 'a' bin thar, for he know'd well
enough it 'u'd 'a' come down sure."

I smiled at this statement, but Martin shook his
head.

44 'Twon't do," he said, 44 to undervally the sense of
no 'coon. How 're ye goin to tell what he knows? Well,
as I tell ye, we was jist gittin' madder an' madder
when a nigger named Wash Webster, he run out in the
field, — it was purty light now, as I tell ye — an' he
hollers, 4 O, Mahsr Tom ! Mahsr Tom ! Dat ar 'coon
he aint you 'coon ! He got stripes to he tail ! '

44 We all made a rush out inter the field, to try to
git a look ; an' sure enough we could see the little
beMt a-settin' up in a crotch over on that side, an' I
do b'lieve he knowed what we was all a-lookin' up fur,
fur he jist kind a lowered his tail out o* the crotch so's
we could see it, an' thar it was, striped, jist like any
other coon's tail."

44 And you were so positively sure this time, that it

98 THAT SAME OLD 'COON.

was Haskins' 'coon/' I said. "Why, you saw, when
the man threw the blazing chunk into the big tree, that
it had no bands on its tail."

" That's so," said Martin ; "but ther' aint no man
that kin see 'xactly straight uv a dark mornin', with
no light but a flyin' chunk, and 'specially when he
wants to see somethin' that isn't thar. An* as to bein'
certain about that 'coon, I jist tell ye that ther's
nothin' a man's more like to be mistook about, than a
thing he knows fur dead sure.

41 Well, as I tell ye, when we seed that that thar
'coon wa'n't Haskinses 'coon, arter all, an' that we
couldn't git him out er that tree as long as the ole man
was thar, we jist give up and put across the field for
Haskinses house, whar we was a-goin' to git brcak-
fus'. Some of the boys and the dogs staid aroun' the
tree, but ole Haskins he ordered 'em off an* wouldn't
let nobody stay thar, though they had a mighty
stretchin' time gittin' the dogs away."

" It seems to me," said I, " that there wasn't much
profit in that hunt."

"Well," said Martin, putting his pipe in his pocket,
and feeling under his chair for his string of fish, which
must have been pretty dry and stiff by this time, " the
fun in a 'coon-bunt aint so much in gittin' the 'coon, as
goin' arter him — which is purty much the same in a
good many other things, as I tell ye."

And he took up his fish and departed.

HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER.

ris now five years since an event occurred which
jo colored my life, or rather so changed some of
fts original colors, that I have thought it well to write
an account of it, deeming that its lessons may be of
advantage to persons whose situations in life are simi
lar to my own.

When I was quite a young man I adopted litera
ture as a profession ; and having passed through the
nr«v^:iry |'iv|.;ir:it< >ry Lir:nl«->, I f.Miii.l mysi-lf, ufU-r a
good many years of hard, and often unremunerative
work, in possession of what might be called a fair
literary practice. My articles, grave, gay, practical,
or fanciful, had come to be considered with a favor
by the editors of the various periodicals for which I
wrote, on which I found in time I could rely with a
very comfortable certainty. My productions created
BO enthusiasm in the reading public ; they gave me no
great reputation or very valuable pecuniary return ;
but they wave always accepted, and my receipts from
them, at the time to which I have referred, were as
regular and reliable as a salary, and quite sufficient
to give me more than a comfortable support.

100 HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER.

It was at this time I married. I had been engaged
for more than a year, but had not been willing to as
sume the support of a wife until I felt that m}T pecu
niary position was so assured that I could do so with
full satisfaction to my own conscience. There was
now no doubt in regard to this position, either in my
mind or in that of my wife. I worked with great
steadiness and regularity ; I knew exactly where to
place the productions of my pen, and could calculate,
with a fair degree of accuracy, the sums I should
receive for them. We were by no means rich; but
we had enough, and were thoroughly satisfied and
content.

Those of my readers who are married will have no
difficulty in remembering the peculiar ecstasy of the
first weeks of their wedded life. It is then that the
flowers of this world bloom brightest ; that its sun is
the most genial ; that its clouds are the scarcest ; that
its fruit is the most delicious ; that the air is the most
balmy ; that its cigars are of the highest flavor ; that
the warmth and radiance of early matrimonial felicity
so rarefies the intellectual atmosphere, that the soul
mounts higher, and enjoys a wider prospect, than ever
before.

These experiences were mine. The plain claret of
my mind was changed to sparkling champagne, and
at the very height of its effervescence I wrote a story.
The happy thought that then struck me for a tale was
of a very peculiar character ; and it interested me so
much that I went to work at it with great delight and
enthusiasm, and finished it in a comparatively short

HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER. 101

time. The title of the story waa 4<tfi«- Wife V
ceased Sister;" and when I read it to Hypatia she
was delighted with it, and at times was so affected by
ft* pathos that her uncontrollable emotion caused a
sympathetic dimness in my e}*es, which prevented my
seeing the words I had written. When the reading was
ended, and my wife had dried her eyes, she turned to
me and said, "This story will make your fortune.
There has been nothing so pathetic since Lamartine's
• History of a Servant-Girl.' "

As soon as possible the next day I sent my story
to the editor of the periodical for which I wrote most
frequently, and in which my best productions gener
ally appeared. In a few days I had a letter from the
editor, in which he praised my story as he had never
before praised any thing from my pen. It had inter
ested and charmed, he said, not only himself, but all
his associates in the office. Even old Gibson, who
never cared to read an}' thing until it was in proof,
and who never praised any thing which had not a joke
in it, was induced by the example of the others to
read this manuscript, and shed, as he asserted, the
first tears that had come from bis eyes since his
final paternal castigation some forty years before.
The story would appear, the editor assured me, as
soon as he could possibly find room for it.

If any thing could make our skies more genial, our
flowers brighter, and the flavor of our fruit and cigars
more delicious, it was a letter like thin. And when, in
a very short time, the story was published, we found
that the reading public was inclined to receive it with

10*2 WS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTEH.

ts : much -sympathetic interest and favor as had been
shown to it by the editors. My personal friends soon
began to express enthusiastic opinions upon it. It was
highly praised in many of the leading newspapers ;
and, altogether, it was a great literary success. I am
not inclined to be vain of my writings, and, in general,
my wife tells me, think too little of them ; but I did
feel a good deal of pride and satisfaction in the suc
cess of " His Wife's Deceased Sister." If it did not
make my fortune, as my wife asserted that it would, it
certainly would help me very much in my literary
career.

In less than a month from the writing of this story,
something very unusual and unexpected happened to
me. A manuscript was returned by the editor of the
periodical in which " His Wife's Deceased Sister" had
appeared. " It is a good story," he wrote, " but not
equal to what you have just done. You have made a
great hit ; and it would not do to interfere with the rep
utation you have gained, by publishing any thing infe
rior to 4 His Wife's Deceased Sister,' which has had
such a deserved success."

I was so unaccustomed to having my work thrown
back on my hands, that I think I must have turned a
little pale when I read the letter. I said nothing of
the matter to my wife, for it would be foolish to drop
such grains of sand as this into the smoothly oiled ma
chinery of our domestic felicity ; but I immediately
eent the story to another editor. I am not able to ex
press the astonishment I felt, when, in the course of a
week, it was sent back to me. The tone of the note

BIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER. 103

accompanying it indicated a somewhat injured feeling
on the part of the editor. " I am reluctant," he said,
4k to decline a manuscript from you ; but you know very
well that if you sent me any thing like 4 His Wife's
Drrra-r.l SfeteT ' it wmiM !>•• inoM j ,p mi pi '. y fcOOeptad."

I now felt obliged to speak of the affair to my wife,
who was quite as much surprised, though, perhaps, not
quite as much shocked, as I had been.

44 Let us read the story again," she said, " and see
what is the matter with it." When we had finished
its perusal, Hypatia remarked : " It is quite as good as
many of the stories you have had printed, and I think
it very interesting ; although, of course, it is not equal
to 4 His Wife's Deceased Sister.' "

"Of course not," said I, "that was an inspiration
that I cannot expect every day. But there must be
something wrong about this last story which we do not
perceive. Perhaps my recent success may have made
me a little careless in writing it."

44 1 don't believe that," said Hypatia.

"At any rate," I continued, "I will lay it aside,
and will go to work on a new one."

In due course of time I had another manuscript fin
ished, and I sent it to my favorite periodical. It was
retained some weeks, and then came back to me. " It
will never do," the editor wrote, quite warmly, " for
you to go backward. The demand for the number
containing * His Wife's Deceased Sister ' still con
tinues, and we do not intend to let you disappoint
that great body of readers who would be so eager to
sec another number containing one of your stories."

104 HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTEh.

I sent this manuscript to four other periodicals, and
from each of them was it returned with remarks to the
effect, that, although it was not a bad story in itself, it
was not what they would expect from the author of
" His Wife's Deceased Sister."

The editor of a Western magazine wrote to me for
a story to be published in a special number which he
would issue for the holidays. I wrote him one of the
character aud length he asked for, and sent it to him.
By return mail it came back to me. " I had hoped,"
the editor wrote, " when I asked for a story from your
pen, to receive something like ' His Wife's Deceased
Sister,' and I must own that I am very much disap
pointed."

I was so filled with anger when I read this note, that
I openly objurgated " His Wife's Deceased Sister."
" You must excuse me," I said to my astonished wife,
" for expressing myself thus in your presence ; but
that confounded story will be the ruin of me yet.
Until it is forgotten nobody will ever take any thing I
write."

"And you cannot expect it ever to be forgotten,"
said Hypatia, with tears in her eyes.

It is needless for me to detail my literary efforts in
the course of the next few months. The ideas of the
editors with whom my principal business had been
done, in regard to my literary ability, had been so
raised by my unfortunate story of " His Wife's De-
ceased Sister," that I found it was of no use to send
them any thing of lesser merit. And as to the other
Journals which I tried, they evidently considered it an

HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER. 105

Insult for me to send them matter inferior to that by
which my reputation had lately risen. The fact was
that my successful story had rained me. My income
was at end, and want actually stared me in the face ;
and I must admit that I did not like the expression
of its countenance. It was of no use for me to try
to write another story like " His Wife's Deceased
Sister." I could not get married every time I began
a new manuscript, and it was the exaltation of mind
caused by my wedded felicity which produced that
story.

44 It's perfectly dreadful !" said my wife. 44 If I
had had a sister, and she had died, I would have
thought it was my fault."

44 It could not be your fault," I answered, " and I
do not think it was mine. I had no intention of
deceiving anybody into the belief that I could do
that sort of thing every time, and it ought not to be
expected of me. Suppose Raphael's patrons had tried
to keep him screwed up to the pitch of the Sistine
Madonna, and had refused to buy any thing which
was not as good as that. In that case I think he
would have occupied a much earlier and narrower
grave than that on which Mr. Morris Moore hangs
his funeral decorations."

44 But, my dear," said Hypatia, who was posted on
such subjects, 44 the Sistine Madonna was one of his
latest paintings."

44 Very true," said I ; 44 but if he had married, as I
did, he would have painted it earlier."

I was walking homeward one afternoon about this

106 HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER.

time, when I met Barbel, — a man I had known wefl
in my early literary career. He was now about fifty
years of age, but looked older. His hair and beard
were quite gray ; and his clothes, which were of the
same general hue, gave me the idea that they, like his
hair, had originally been black. Age is very hard on
a man's external appointments. Barbel had an air
of having been to let for a long time, and quite out of
repair. But there was a kindly gleam in his eye, and
he welcomed me cordially.

uWhy, what is the matter, old fellow?" said he.
44 1 never saw you look so woe-begone."

I had no reason to conceal any thing from Barbel.
In my younger days he had been of great use to me,
and he had a right to know the state of my affairs. I
laid the whole case plainly before him.

44 Look here," he said, when I had finished, " come
with me to my room : I have something I would like
to say to you there."

I followed Barbel to his room. It wa« at the top
of a very dirty and well-worn house, which stood in a
narrow and lumpy street, into which few vehicles ever
penetrated, except the ash and garbage calls, and the
rickety wagons of the venders of stale vegetables.

44 This is not exactly a fashionable promenade," said
Barbel, as we approached the house ; 44 but in some
respects it reminds me of the streets in Italian towns,
where the palaces lean over towards each other in such
a friendly way."

Barbel's room was, to my mind, rather more doleful
than the street. It was dark, it was dusty, and cob-

HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER. 107

webs hung from every corner. The few chairs upon
the floor and the books upon a greasy table seemed to
be afflicted with some dorsal epidemic, for their backa
were either gone or broken. A little bedstead in the
corner was covered with a spread made of " New-
York Heralds," with their edges pasted together.

44 There is nothing better," said Barbel, noticing my
glance towards this novel counterpane, 44 for a bed-
covering than newspapers : they keep you as warm as
a blanket, and are much lighter. I used to use " Tri
bunes," but they rattled too much."

The only part of the room which was well lighted
was at one end near the solitary window. Here, upon
a table with a spliced leg, stood a little grindstone.

14 At the other end of the room," said Barbel, 44 id
my cook-stove, which you can't see unless I light the
candle in the bottle which stands by it ; but if you
don't care particularly to examine it, I won't go to the
expense of lighting up. You might pick up a good
many odd pieces of bric-a-brac around here, if you
chose to strike a match and investigate ; but I would
not advise you to do so. It would pay better to throw
the things out of the window than to carry them down
stairs. The particular piece of in-door decoration to
which I wiaj to call your attention is this." And he
led me to a little wooden frame which hung against
the wall near the window. Behind a dusty piece of
glass it held what appeared to be a leaf from a small
magazine or journal. 4* There," said he, 44 you see
a page from 4 The Grasshopper,' a humorous paper
which flourished in this city some half-dozen years

108 HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER.

ago. I used to write regularly for that paper, as yoi
may remember."

41 Oh, yes, indeed!" I exclaimed. "And I shall
never forget your 4 Conundrum of the Anvil ' which
appeared in it. How often have I laughed at that most
wonderful conceit, and how often have I put it to *ny
friends!"

Barbel gazed at me silently for a moment, and then
he pointed to the frame. "That printed page," he
said solemnly, "contains the 'Conundrum of the An
vil.' I hang it there, so that I can see it while I work.
That conundrum ruined me. It was the last thing I
wrote for 4 The Grasshopper.' How I ever came to
imagine it, I cannot tell. It is one of those things
which occur to a man but once in a lifetime. After
the wild shout of delight with which the public greeted
that conundrum, my subsequent efforts met with hoots
of derision. 4 The Grasshopper ' turned its hind-legs
upon me. I sank from bad to worse, — much worse,
until at last I found myself reduced to my present
occupation, which is that of grinding points to pins.
By this I procure my bread, coffee, and tobacco, and
sometimes potatoes and meat. One day while I was
hard at work, an organ-grinder came into tiie street
below. He played the serenade from Trovatore ; and
the familiar notes brought back visions of old days
and old delights, when \he successful writer wore good
clothes and sat at operas, when he looked into sweet
eyes and talked of Italian airs, irhen his future ap
peared all a succession of bright scenery and joyous
acts, without anj provision for a drop-curtain. And as

HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER. 109

my car listened, and my mind wandered in this happy
retrospect, my every faculty seemed exalted, and, with
out any thought upon the matter, I ground points ui>on
my pins so fine, so regular, and smooth, that they would
have pierced with ease the leather of a boot, or slipped
among, without abrasion, the finest threads of rare old
lace. When the organ stopped, and I fell back into
my real world of cobwebs and mustiness, I gazed upon
the pins I had just ground, and, without a moment's
hesitation, I threw them into the street, and reported
the lot as spoiled. This cost me a little money, but it
saved me my livelihood."

After a few moments of silence, Barbel resumed, —
44 1 have no more to say to you, my young friend.
All I want you to do is to look upon that framed
conundrum, then upon this grindstone, and then to
go home and reflect. As for me, I have a gross of
pins to grind before the sun goes down."

I cannot say that my depression of mind was at all
relieved by what I had »een and heard. I had lost
sight of Barbel for some years, and I had supposed
him still floating on the sun-sparkling stream of pros
perity where I had last seen him. It was a great
shock to me to find him in such a condition of pov
erty and squalor, and to see a man who had originated
the ** Conundrum of the Anvil " reduced to the soul-
depressing occupation of grinding pin-points. As I
walk^l and thought, the dreadful picture1 of a totally
eclipsed future arose l>efore my mind. The moral of
Barbel sank deep into my heart.

Wb«n I reached home I told my wife the story of

110 HIS WIFE S DECEASED SISTER.

my friend Barbel. She listened with a sad and eager
interest.

tkl am afraid/' she said, u if our fortunes do not
quickly mend, that we shall have to buy two little
grindstones. You know I could help you at that sort
of thing."

For a long time we sat together and talked, and
devised many plans for the future. I did not think
U necessary yet for me to look out for a pin-contract ;
but I must find some way of making money, or we
should starve to death. Of course, the first thing that
suggested itself was the possibility of finding some
other business ; but, apart from the difficulty of imme
diately obtaining remunerative work in occupations to
which I had not been trained, I felt a great and natu
ral reluctance to give up a profession for which I had
carefully prepared myself, and which I had adopted as
my life- work. It would be very hard for me to lay
down my pen forever, and to close the top of my ink
stand upon all the bright and happy fancies which I
had seen mirrored in its tranquil pool. We talked and
pondered the rest of that day and a good deal of the
night, but we came to no conclusion as to what it
would be best for us to do.

The next day I determined to go and call upon the
editor of the journal for which, in happier days, before
the blight of " His Wife's Deceased Sister" rested
upon me, I used most frequently to write, and, having
frankly explained my condition to him, to ask his
advice. The editor was a good man, and had always
been my friend. He listened with great attention to

BIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER. Ill

what I told him, and evidently sympathized with me in
my trouble.

*k As we have written to you/' he said, "the only
reason why we did not accept the manuscripts you
sent us was, that they would have disappointed the
high hopes that the public had formed in regard to
you. We have had letter after letter asking when we
were going to publish another story like 4 His Wife's
Deceased Sister.' We felt, and we still feel, that it
would be wrong to allow you to destroy the fair fabric
which yourself has raised. But," he added, with a
kind smile, 4* I see very plainly that your well-deserved
reputation will be of little advantage to you if you
should starve at the moment that its genial beams are,
so to speak, lighting you up."

44 Its beams are not genial," I answered. 44They
have scorched and withered me."

44 How would you like," said the editor, after a
short reflection, l4 to allow us to publish the stories
you have recently written under some other name than
your own? That would satisfy us and the public,
would put money in your pocket, and would not inter
fere with your reputation."

Joyfully I seized that noble fellow by the hand, and
instantly accepted his proposition. 44 Of course," said
I " a reputation is a very good thing ; but no reputa
tion can take the place of food, clothes, and a house
to live in ; and I gladly agree to sink my over-illumined
Dame into oblivion, and to appear before the public aa
» new and unknown writer."

"I hope that need not be for long," he said, 44 fa*

112 HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER.

I feel sure that you will yet write stories as good M
4 His Wife's Deceased Sister/ "

All the manuscripts I had on hand I now sent to
my good friend the editor, and in due and proper
order they appeared in his journal under the name of
John Darmstadt, which I had selected as a substitute
for my own, permanently disabled. I made a similar
arrangement with other editors, and John Darmstadt
received the credit of every thing that proceeded from
my pen. Our circumstances now became very corn
fortable, and occasionally we even allowed ourselves
to indulge in little dreams of prosperity.

Time passed on very pleasantly ; one year, another,
and then a little son was born to us. It is often diffi
cult, I believe, for thoughtful persons to decide whether
the beginning of their conjugal career, or the earliest
weeks in the life of their first-born, be the happiest
and proudest period of their existence. For myself I
can only say that the same exaltation of mind, the
same rarefication of idea and invention, which suc
ceeded upon my wedding-day came upon me now. As
then, my ecstatic emotions crystallized themselves into
a motive for a story, and without delay I set myself to
work upon it. My boy was about six weeks old when
the manuscript was finished ; and one evening, as we
sat before a comfortable fire in our sitting-room, with
the curtains drawn, and the soft lamp lighted, ,*od the
baby sleeping soundly in the adjoining chamber, I
read the story to my wife.

When I had finished, my wife arose, and tbrew her
self into my arms. " I was never so proud of .YOU,"

HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER. 113

she said, her glad eyes sparkling, "as I am at this
moment. That is a wonderful story ! It Is, indeed I
am sure it is, just as good as 4 His Wife's Deceased
Sister.' "

As she spoke these words, a sudden and chilling sen*
sation crept over us both. All her warmth and fervor,
and the proud and happy glow engendered within me
by this praise and appreciation from one I loved, van
ished in an instant. We stepped apart, and gazed
upon each other with pallid faces. In the same mo
ment the terrible truth had flashed upon us both.

This story was as good as " His Wife's Deceased
Sister"!

We stood silent. The exceptional lot of Barbel's
super-pointed pins seemed to pierce our very souls. A
dreadfal vision rose before me of an impending fall
and crash, in which our domestic happiness should
vanish, and our prospects for our boy be wrecked, just
as we had begun to build them up.

My wife approached me, and took my hand in hers,
which was as cold as ice. " lie strong and firm," she
said. '* A great danger threatens us, but you must
brace yourself against it. Be strong and firm."

I pressed her hand, and we said no more that night

The next day I took the manuscript I had just writ
ten, and carefully enfolded it in stout wrapping-paper.
Then I went to a neighl>oring grocery store, and bought
a small, strong, tin box, originally intended for biscuit,
with a cover that fitted tightly. In this I placed my
manuscript ; and then I took the box to a tinsmith,
*nd had the top fastened on with hard solder. When

114 HIS WIFE'S DECEASED SISTER.

I went home I ascended into the garret, and brought
down to my study a ship's cash-box, which had once
belonged to one of my family who was a sea-captain.
This box was very heavy, and firmly bound with iron,
and was secured by two massive locks. Calling my
wife, I told her of the contents of the tin case, which
I then placed in the box, and, having shut down the
heavy lid, I doubly locked it.

44 This key," said I, putting it in my pocket, 44 1
shall throw into the river when I go out this after
noon."

My wife watched me eagerly, with a pallid and firm,
set countenance, but upon which I could see the faint
glimmer of returning happiness.

" Wouldn't it be well," she said, 44 to secure it still
further by sealing-wax and pieces of tape? "

44 No," said I. 44 1 do not believe that any one will
attempt to tamper with our prosperity. And now, my
dear," I continued in an impressive voice, 44no one
but you, and, in the course of time, our son, shall
know that this manuscript exists. When I am dead,
those who survive me may, if they see fit, cause this
box to be split open, and the story published. The
reputation it may give my name cannot hwin me»
then."

OUR STORY.

i.

I BECAME acquainted with Miss Bessie Vancouver
at a reception given by an eminent literary gentle
man in New York. The circumstances were a little
peculiar. Miss Vancouver and I had each wntten and
recently published a book ; and we were introduced to
each other as young authors whose works had made
us known to the public, and who, consequently, should
know each other. The peculiarity of the situation lay
in the fact that I had not read Miss Vancouver's book,
nor had she read mine. Consequently, although each
felt bound to speak of the work of the other, neither
of us could do it except in the most general and cau
tious way. I was quite sure that her book was a novel,
but that was all that I knew al>out it, except that I
had heard it well spoken of ; but she supposed my
book \\:i-<'!' a srirntific character, whereat, in reality,
it alao was a novel, although its title did not indicate
the fact. There was therefore an air of restraint and
stiffness about our first interview which it might not
have had if we had frankly acknowledged our short*

115

116 OUR STORY.

comings. But, as the general conversation led her to
believe that she was the only person in the room who
had not read my book, and me to believe that I was
the only one who had not read hers, we were naturally
loath to confess the truth to each other

I next met Miss Vancouver in Paris, at the house
of a lady whose parlors are the frequent rendezvous of
Americans, especially those given to art or literature.
This time we met on different ground- 1 had read her
book and she mine ; and as soon as we had shaken
hands we began to talk of each other's work, not as if
it had been the beginning of a new conversation, but
rather as the continuation of one broken off. Each
liked the book of the other extremely, and -we were
free to say so.

" But I am not satisfied with my novel," said Miss
Vancouver. ** There is too much oneness about it; by
which I mean that it is not diversified enough. It is
all, or nearly all, about two people, who, of course,
have but one object in life ; and it seems to me now
that their story might have been finished a great deal
sooner, though, of course, in that case it would not
have been long enough to make a book."

To this I politely answered that I did not agree with
her, for the story was interesting to the very end ; but,
of course, if she had put more characters into it, and
they had been as good in their way as those she already
had, the book would have been that much the better.
"As for me," I continued, "my trouble is entirely
the other way. I have no oneness whatever. My
tendency is much more to fifteen or tweuty-neBs. 1

OUB STORY. 117

earry a story a little way in one direction, and then
I stop and go off in another. It is sometimes difficult
to make it understood why a character should have been
brought into the story at all ; and I have had a good
deal of trouble in making some of them do something
toward the end to show that they are connected with
the general plot."

She said she had noticed that there was a wideness
of scope in my book ; but what she would have said
further I do not know, for our hostess now came down
upon us and carried off Miss Vancouver to introduce
her to an old lady who had successfully steered about
fifty barques across that sea on which Miss Vancouver
had just set out.

Our next meeting was in a town on the Mediterra
nean, in the south of France. I had secured board at
a large pension there, and was delighted to find that
Mi» IloMr Vancouver :m<l lu-r mother w. iv :ilrva.ly
inmates of the house. As soon as I had the oppor
tunity, I broached to her an ;dea which had frequently
my mind since our conversation in Paris. I
tii:it wi- >iiM!iM mite n itorj together, lome-
thiug like Erckmann-Chatrian, or Mark Twain and Mr.
Warner in "The Gilded Age." Since she had too
much unity of purpose and travelled in too narrow a
path, and I branched off too much, and had too grett
a tendency to variety, our styles, if properly blended,
would possess all the qualities needed in a good story ;
and there was no reason why we should not, writing
thus together, achieve a success greater, perhaps, than
either of us could expect writing alone. I had thought

118 OUR STORY.

so much on this subject that I was able to say a great
deal, and to say it pretty well, too, so far as I could
judge. Miss Vancouver listened with great attention,
and the more I said, the more the idea pleased her.
She said she would take the afternoon to consider the
matter ; and in the evening she told me in the parlor
that she had made up her mind, if I still thought well
of the plan, to assist me in writing a story, — this being
the polite way in which she chose to put it, — but that
she thought it would be better for us to begin with a
short story, and not with a book, for in this way we
could sooner see how we would be likely to succeed.
Of course I agreed to this proposition, and we arranged
that we should meet the next morning in the garden
and lay out a plan for our story.

The garden attached to the house in which we lived
was a very quaint and pleasant one. It had been made
a hundred years ago or more by an Italian nobleman,
whose mansion, now greatly altered, had become our
present pension. The garden was laid out in a series
of terraces on the side of a hill, and abounded in
walks shaded by orange and lemon trees, arbors, and
vine-covered trellises ; fountains, half concealed by
overhanging ivy ; and suddenly discovered stair-ways,
wide and shadowy, leading up into regions of greater
quaintness and seclusion. Flowers were here, and
palm-trees, and great cactus-bushes, with their red
fruit half hollowed out by the nibbling birds. From
the upper terraces we could see the blue Mediterra
nean spreading far away on one side, while the snow*
covered tops of the Maritime Alps stood bright against

OUR STORY. 119

the sky. The pardon was little frequented, and alto
gether it was a good place in which to plan a story.

We consulted together for several days before we
actually began to work. At first, we sat in an arbor
on one of the lower terraces, where there were a little
iron table and some chairs ; but now and then a per
son would come there for a morning stroll, and so we
moved up higher to a seat under a palm-tree, and the
next day to another terrace, where there was a secluded
corner overshadowed by huge cacti. But the place
which suited us best of all was the top of an old tower
at one end of the garden. This tower had been built
many, many hundred years before the garden was
thought of, and its broad, flat roof was level with one
of the higher terraces. Here we could work and con
sult in quiet, with little fear of being disturbed.

Not finding it easy to plan out the whole story at
once, we determined to begin by preparing back
grounds. We concluded that as this was to be a short
story, it would be sufficient to have descriptions of two
natural scenes in which the two principal incidents
should occur ; and as we wished to do all our work
from natural models, we thought it best to describe
the scene which lay around us, than which nothing
could be more beautiful or more suitable. One scene
was to be on the sea-shore, with a mellow light upon
the rippling waves, and the sails of fishing-vessels in
the distance. This Miss Vancouver was to do, while
I was to take a scene among the hills nnd mountains
at the back of the town. I walked over there one
afternoon when Miss Vancouver had gone out with hex

120 OUR STORY.

mother. I got on a high point, and worked up a very
satisfactory description of the frowning mountains be
hind me. the old monasteries on the hills, and the town
stretching out below, with a little river rushing along
between two rows of picturesque washerwomen to the
sea.

We read our backgrounds to each other, and were
both very well satisfied. Our styles were as different
as the scenes we described. Hers was clear and
smooth, and mine forcible and somewhat abrupt, and
thus the strong points of each scene were better
brought out; but, in order that our styles might be
unified, so to speak, by being judiciously blended,
I suggested some strong and effective points to be
introduced into her description, while she toned down
some of my phrases, and added a word here and there
which gave a color and beauty to the description which
it had not possessed before.

Our backgrounds being thus satisfactory, — and it
took a good deal of consultation to make them so, —
our next work was to provide characters for the story.
These were to be drawn from life, for it would be per
fectly ridiculous to create imaginary characters when
there were so many original and interesting personages
around us. We soon agreed upon an individual who
would serve as a model for our hero ; I forget whether
it was I or Miss Vancouver who first suggested him.
He was a young man, but not so very young either,
who lived in the house with us, and about whom there
was a mystery. Nobody knew exactly who he was, or
where he came from* or why he wa» here It was evi*

OUR STORY. 121

acnt he did not come for society, for he kept very
much to himself ; and the attract! ~as of the town could
not have brought him here, for he seemed to care very
little about them. We seldom saw him except at the
table and occasionally in the garden. When we met
him in the latter place, he always seemed anxious to
avoid observation ; and as we did not wish to hurt his
feelings by letting him suppose that he was an object
of curiosity to us, we endeavored, as far as possible,
to make it apparent that we were not looking at him
or thinking of him. But still, whenever we had a good
jhance, we studied him. Of course, we could not
make out his mystery, but that was not necessary, nor
did we, indeed, think it would be proper. We could
draw him as we saw him, and then make the mystery
what we pleased ; its character depending a good deaf
upon the plot we devised.

Miss Vancouver undertook to draw the hero, and
she went to work upon him immediately. In personal
appearance, she altered the model a good deal. She
darkened his hair, and took off his whiskers, leaving
him only a mustache. She thought, too, that he ought
to be a little taller, and asked me my height, which if
five feet nine. She considered that a very good height,
and brought the hero up to it. She also made him
some years younger, but endeavored, as far as seemed
suitable to the story, to draw him exactly as he was.

I was to do the heroine, but found it very hard to
choose a model. As I said before, we determined
to draw all our characters from life, but I could think
of no one, in the somewhat extensive company bf

122 OUR STORY.

which we were surrounded, who would answer my pur
pose. Nor could I fix my mind upon any person in
other parts of the world, whom I knew or had known,
who resembled the idea I had formed of our heroine.
After thinking this matter over a good deal, I told
Miss Vancouver that I believed the best thing I could
do would be to take her for my model. I was with
her a good deal, and thus could study out and work
up certain points as I wrote, which would be a great
advantage. She objected to this, because, as she said,
the author of a story should not be drawn as its hero
ine. But I asserted that this would not be the case.
She would merely suggest the heroine to me, and I
would so do my work that the heroine would not sug
gest her to anybody else. This, I thought, was the
way in which a model ought to be used. After we
had talked the subject over a good deal, she agreed to
my plan, and I went to work with much satisfaction.
I gave no definite description of the lady, but endeav
ored to indicate the impression which her person and
character produced upon me. As such impressions arc
seldom the same in any two cases, there was no dan
ger that my description could be referred back to her.
When I read to her the sketch I had written, she
objected to parts of it as not being correct ; but as J
asserted that it was not intended as an exact copy oJ
the model, she could not say it was not a true picture ;
and so, with some slight modifications, we let it stand.
I thought myself that it was a very good piece of work.
To me it seemed very life-like and piquant, and J
believed that other people would think it so.

OUB STORY. 123

\Ve were now ready for the incidents and the plot,
but at this point we were somewhat interrupted by
Mre. Vancouver. She came to me one morning, when
I was waiting to go with her daughter to our stu<l\ in
the garden, and told me that she was very sorry to
notice that Miss Vancouver and I had attracted atten
tion to ourselves by being so much together ; and. while
she understood the nature of the literary labor on nhich
we were engaged, she did not wish her daughter to
become the object of general attention and remark in
a foreign pension. I was very angry when I heard
that people had been directing upon us their imperti
nent curiosity, aud I discoursed warmly upon the
subject.

44 Where is the good," I said, " of a person or per
sons devoting himself or themselves, with enthusiasm
and earnestness, to his or their life-work, if he or they
are to be interfered with by the impertinent babble of
the multitude? "

Mrs. Vancouver was not prepared to give an exact
answer to this question, but she considered the babble
of the multitude a very serious thing. She had been
talking to her daughter on the subject, and thought it
right to speak to me.

That morning we worked separately in our rooms,
but we accomplished little or nothing. It was, of
course, impossible to do any thing of importance in a
work of this kind without consultation and co-opera
tion. The next day, however, I devised a plan which
would enable us, I thought, to pursue our labors with
out attracting attention ; and Mrs. Vancouver, wbt

124 OUR STORY.

was a kind-hearted woman, and took a great Interest
in her daughter's literary career, told me if I could
successfully carry out any thing of the kind, I might
do so. She did not inquire into particulars, nor did I
explain them to Miss Bessie ; but I told the latter that
we would not go out together into the garden, but I
would go first, and she should join me about ten min
utes afterward on the tower ; but she was not to come
if she saw any one about.

Near the top of the hill, above the garden, once
stood an ancient mansion, of which nothing now
remained but the remnants of some massive masonry.
A court-yard, however, of this old edifice was still
surrounded by a high wall, which formed the upper
boundary of our garden. From a point near the tower
a flight of twisting stone steps, flanked by blank walls,
which turned themselves in various directions to suit
the angles of the stair-way, led to a green door in this
wall. Through this door Miss Vancouver and myself,
and doubtless many other persons, had often wished
to pass ; but it was locked, and, on inquiry, we found
that there was no key to be had. The day previous,
however, when wandering by myself, I had examined
this door, and found that it was fastened merely by
a snap-lock which had no handle, but was opened by a
key. I had a knife with a long, strong blade, and
pushing this into the hasp, I easily forced back the
bolt. I then opened the door and walked into the old
court-yard.

When Miss Vancouver appeared on the tower, I was
standing at the top of the stone steps just mentioned,

OUR STORY. 125

with the green door slightly ajar. Calling to her in a
low tone, she ran up the steps, and, to her amazement,
I ushered her into the court-yard and closed the door
behind us.

"There," I exultingly exclaimed, " is our study,
where we can write our story without interruption.
We will come and go away separately ; the people of
the pension will not know that we are here or have
been here, and there will be no occasion for that im
pertinent attention to which your mother so properly
objects."

Miss Vancouver was delighted, and we walked about
and surveyed the court-yard with much satisfaction.
I had already selected the spot for our work. It was
in the shade of an olive-tree, the only tree in the enclo
sure, beneath which there was a rude seat. I spread a
rug upon the grass, and Miss Bessie sat upon the seat,
and put her feet upon the nig, leaving room for me to
sit thereon. We now took out our little blank-books
and our stylograph pens and were ready for work. I
explained that I had done nothing the day before, and
Miss Vancouver said that had also been the case with
her. She had not wished to do any thing important
without consultation ; but supposing that, of course,
^he hero was to fall in love with the heroine, she
thought she might as well make him begin, but she
found she could not do it as she wished. She wanted
him to indicate to the lady that he was in love with her
without exactly saying so. Could I not suggest some
good form for giving expression to this sUU of things?
After a little reflection, I thought I could.

126 OUR STORY.

44 I will speak," said I, " as if I were the hero, and
then you can see how it will suit."

44 Yes," said she, 4kbut you must not forget that
what you say should be very gradual."

I tried to be as gradual as I could, and to indicate
by Siow degrees the state of mind in which we wished
our hero to be. As the indication became stronger and
stronger, I thought it right to take Miss Vancouver's
hand ; but to this she objected, because, as she said,
it was more than indication, and besides, it prevented
her from writing down what I said. We argued this
point a little while without altering our position, and I
asserted that the hand-holding only gave point and
earnestness to the hero's remarks, which otherwise
would not be so natural and true to life ; and if she
wanted to use her right hand, her left hand would do
to hold. We made this change, and I proceeded with
the hero's remarks.

There was in QUT pension a young German girl named
Margarita. She was a handsome, plump maiden, and
spoke English very well. There was another young
lady, also a German, named Gretzel. She was a little
creature and the fast friend of Margarita. These two
had a companion whose name I did not know. She
was a little older than the others, and was, I think, a
Pole. She also understood English. As I was warm
ing up toward the peroration of our hero's indication,
I raised my eyes, and saw, on the brow of the hill, not
a stone's throw from us, these three girls. They were
talking earnestly and walking directly toward us. The
place where they were was used as a public pleasure-

OUR STORY. 127

, and was separated from the old court-yard by
a pale-fence. Although the girls could not come to us,
there was nothing to prevent their seeing us if they
chose to look cur way, for they were on ground which
was higher than the top of the fence.

When I saw these girls, I was horror-stricken, and
my knees, on which I rested, trembled beneath me.
I did not dare to rise, nor to change my position, for
fear the motion should attract attention ; nor did I
cease my remarks, for had I suddenly done so, my
companion would have looked around to see what was
the matter, and would certainly have jumped up, or
have done something which would have brought the
eyes of those girls upon us ; but ray voice dropped
very low, and I wondered if there was any way of my
gently rolling out of sight.

But at this moment our young man with a mystery
suddenly appeared on the other side of the fence, walk
ing rapidly toward the girls. There was something on
the ocean, probably a ship, to which he directed their
attention ; and then he actually led them off, pointing,
as it appeared, to a spot from which the distant object
could be more plainly seen. They all walked away and
disappeared behind the brow of the hill. With a great
feeling of relief, I arose and recounted what had hap
pened. Miss Vancouver sprang to her feet, shut up her
blank-book, and put the stopper on her stylograph.

44 This place will not do at all to work in," she said.
44 1 will not have those girls staring at us."

I was obliged to admit that this particular spot
would not do. I bad not thought of any one walk-

128 OUR STORY.

ing in the grounds immediately above us, especially
in the morning, which was our working time.

4 * They may return," she said, 4i and we must go
aw^iy immediately and separately."

But I could not agree thus to give up our new-found
study. The enclosure was quite extensive, with ruin?
at the other end, near which we might find some spot
entirely protected from observation. So I went to look
for such a place, leaving Miss Vancouver under the
olive-tree, where, if she were seen alone, it would not
matter. I found a spot which might answer, and, re
turning to the tree, sent her to look at it. While we
were thus engaged, we heard the report of the noon
cannon. This startled us both. The hour for
dejetiner & la fourchette at the pension was twelve
o'clock, and people were generally very prompt at
that meal. It would not do for us to be late.
Snatching up our effects, we hurried to the green door,
but when 1 tried to open it as before, I found it im
possible — a projecting strip of wood on the inside of
the door-way preventing my reaching the bolt with my
knife-blade. I tried to tear away the strip, but it was
too firmly fastened. We both became very nervous
and troubled. It was impossible to get out of the
enclosure except through that door, for the wall was
quite high and the top covered with broken glass em
bedded in the mortar. The party on the hill had had
time to go down and around through the town to the
pension. Our places at the table would be the only
ones empty. What could attract more attention than
this? And what would Mrs. Vancouver think and say!

OUR STORY. 129

At this moment we heard some one working at the
lock on the other side. The door opened, and there
stood our hero.

44 1 heard some one at this door," he said; "and
supposing it had been accidentally closed, I came up
and opened it."

"Thank you; thank you very much! " cried Miss
Vancouver.

And away she ran to the house. If only I were
late, it did not matter at all. I followed with our hero,
and endeavored to make some explanation of the pre
dicament of myself and the young lady. He took it
all as a matter of course, as if the old court-yard were
a place of general resort.

"When persons stroll through that door," he said,
"they should put a piece of stick or of stone against
the jamb, so that if the door is blown shut by the
wind the latch may not catch."

And then he called my attention to a beautiful plant
of the aloe kind which had just begun to blossom.

Miss Vancouver reached the break fast- table in good
time, but she told me afterward she would work in the
old court-yard no more. The perils were too many.

For some days after this our story made little pro
gress, for opportunities for consultation did not occur.
I was particularly sorry for this, because I wanted very
much to know how Miss Vancouver liked my indicative
KjxH'ch and what she had made of it. Early one after
noon about this time our hero, between whom and my
self a slight acquaintance had sprung up, came to me
aud said :

130 OUR STORY.

"The sea is so perfectly smooth and quiet to-day
that I thought it would be pleasant to take a row, and
I have hired a boat. How would you like to go with
me?"

I was pleased with his friendly proposition, and I
am very fond of rowing ; but yet I hesitated about
accepting the invitation, for I hoped that afternoon to
find some opportunity for consultation in regard to the
work on which I was engaged.

" The boat is rather large for two persons," he re
marked. 44 Have you any friends you would like to
ask to go with us?"

This put a different phase upon affairs. I instantly
said that I thought a row would be charming that after
noon, and suggested that Mrs. Vancouver and her
daughter might like to take advantage of the oppor
tunity.

The ladies were quite willing to go, and in twenty
minutes we set off, two fishermen in red liberty caps
pushing us from the pebbly beach. Our hero took one
oar and I another, and we pulled together very well.
The ladies sat in the stern, and enjoyed the smooth sea
and the lovely day. We rowed across the little bay
and around a high promontory, where there was a
larger bay with a small town in the distance. The
hero suggested that we should land here, as we could
get some good views from the rocks. To this we all
agreed ; and when we had climbed up a little distance,
Mrs. Vancouver found some wild flowers which inter
ested her very much. She was, in a certain way, a
floraphobist, and took an especial delight in finding in

OUR STORY. 131

foreign countries blossoms which were the same as or
similar to flowers the was familiar with in New Eng
land. Our hero had also a fancy for wild flowers,
and it was not long before he showed Mrs. Vancouver
a little blossom which she was very sure she had seen
either at East Gresham or Milton Centre. Leaving
these two to their floral researches, Miss Vancouver
and I climbed higher up the rocks, where the view
would be better. We found a pleasant ledge ; and
although we could not see what was going on below
us, and the view was quite cut off in the direction of
the town, we had an admirable outlook over the sea,
on which, in the far distance, we could see the sails
of a little vessel.

44 This will be an admirable place to do a little
work on our story," I said. <4 1 have brought my
blank-book and stylograph."

•• And so have I," said she.

I then told her that I had been thinking over the mat
ter a good deal, and that I believed in a short story
two long speeches would be enough for the hero to
make, and proposed that we should now go on with the
second one. She thought well of that, and took a seat
upon a rocky projection, while I sat upon another quite
near.

"This second speech," said I, 44 ought to be more
than indicative, and should express the definite purpose
of the hero's sentiments ; and I think there should be
corresponding expressions from the heroine, and would
i be glad to have you suggest such as you think she
would make." I then began to say what I thought a

132 OUR STORY.

hero ought to say under the circumstances. I soon
warmed up to my task wonderfully, and expressed
with much earnestness and ardor the sentiments I
thought proper for the occasion. I first held one of
Miss Vancouver's hands, and then both of them, she
trusting to her memory in regard to memoranda. Her
remarks in the character of the heroine were, however,
much briefer than mine, but they were enough. If
necessary, they could be worked up and amplified. I
think we had said all or nearly all there was to say
when we heard a shout from below. It was our hero
calling us. We could not see him, but I knew his
voice. He shouted again, and then I arose from the
rock on which Bessie was sitting and answered him.
He now made his appearance some distance below us,
and said that Mrs. Vancouver did not care to come up
any higher to get the views, and that she thought it
would be better to reach home before the sun should
set.

That evening, in the salon, Bessie spoke to me apart.
" Our hero," she said, " is more than a hero ; he is a
guardian angel. You must fathom his mystery. I
am sure that it is far better than any thing we can
invent for him."

I set myself to work to discover, if possible, not
only the mystery which had first interested us in our
hero, but also the reason and purpose of his guardian-
angelship. He was an American, and now that I had
come to know him better, I found him a very agree
able talker.

OUR STORY. 133

II.

Our hero was the first person whom I told of my en-
gagement to Bessie. Mrs. Vancouver was very par
ticular that this state of affairs should be made known.
" If you are engaged," she said, " of course you can
be together as much as you please. It is the custom
in America, and nobody need make any remarks."

In talking to our hero, I told him of a good many
little things that had happened at various times, and
endeavored by these friendly confidences to make him
speak of his own affairs. It must not be supposed
that I was actuated by prying curiosity, but certainly
I had a right to know something of a person to whom
I had told so much ; but he always seemed a great
deal more interested in us than in himself, and I took
so much interest in his interest, which was very kindly
expressed, that his affairs never came into our conver
sation.

But just as he was going away, — he left the little
town a few days before we did, — he told me that h«
was a writer, and that for some time past he had been

rri-j:iiM-«l MI>'.II :i -t«» ry .

Our story was never finished. His was. This is it

MR. TOLMAN.

MR. TOLMAN was a gentleman whose apparent
age was of a varying character. At times, when
deep in thought on business matters or other affairs,
one might have thought him fifty-five or fifty-seven, or
even sixty. Ordinarily, however, when things were
running along in a satisfactory and commonplace way,
he appeared to be about fifty years old, while upon
some extraordinary occasions, when the world assumed
an unusually attractive aspect, his age seemed to run
down to forty-five or less.

He was the head of a business firm ; in fact, he was
the only member of it. The firm was known as Pusey
and Co. ; but Pusey had long been dead, and the " Co.,"
of which Mr. Tolman had been a member, was dis
solved. Our elderly hero having bought out the busi
ness, firm name and all, for many years had carried it
on with success and profit. His counting-house was a
small and quiet place, but a great dual of money had
been made in it. Mr. Tolman was rich — very rich
indeed.

And yet as he sat in his counting-room one winter

134

MR. TOLMAN. 135

evening he looked his oldest. He had on his hat and
his overcoat, his gloves and his fur collar. Every one
else in the establishment had gone home ; and he, with
the keys in his hand, was ready to lock up and leave
also. He often staid later than any one else, and left
the keys with Mr. Canterfield, the head clerk, as he
passed his house on his way home.

Mr. Tolman seemed in no hurry to go. He simply
sat and thought, and increased his apparent age. The
truth was he did not want to go home. He was tired
of going home. This was not because his home was
not a pleasant one. No single gentleman in the city
had a handsomer or more comfortable suite of rooms.
It was not because he felt lonely, or regretted that a
wife and children did not brighten and enliven his home.
He was perfectly satisfied to be a bachelor. The con
ditions suited him exactly. But, in spite of all this, he
was tired of going home.

" I wish," said Mr. Tolman to himself, " that I could
feel some interest in going home ; " and then he rose
and took a turn or two up and down the room ; but
as that did not seem to give him any more interest in
the matter, he sat down again. " I wish it were neces
sary for me to go home," said he; "but it isn't; "
and then he fell again to thinking. " What I need,"
he said, after a while, 4t is to depend more upon my
self — to feel that I am necessary to myself. Just now
I'm not. I'll stop going home — at least in this way.
Where's the sense in envying other men, when I can
have all that they have, just as well as not? And I'll
have it, too," said Mr. Tolman, as he went out and

136 MR. TOLMAN.

locked the doors. Once in the streets, and walking
rapidly, his ideas shaped themselves easily and readily
into a plan which, by the time he reached the house of
his head clerk, was quite matured. Mr. Canterfield
was just going down to dinner as his employer rang
the bell, so he opened the door himself. 4k I will detain
you but a minute or two," said Mr. Tolman, handing
the keys to Mr. Canterfield. ik Shall we step into the
parlor?"

When his employer had gone, and Mr. Canterfield
had joined his family at the dinner table, his wife im
mediately asked him what Mr. Tolmau wanted.

44 Only to say that he is going away to-morrow, and
that I am to attend to the business, and send his per
sonal letters to ," naming a city not a hundred

miles away.

44 How long is he going to stay? "

" He didn't say," answered Mr. Cauterfield.

44 I'll tell you what he ought to do," said the lady.
44 He ought to make you a partner in the firm, and then
he could go away and stay as long as he pleased."

44 He can do that now," returned her husband. 44 He
has made a good many trips since I have been with him,
and things have gone on very much in the same way as
when he was here. He knows that."

44 But still you'd like to be a partner? "

44 Oh, yes," said Mr. Canterfield.

44 And common gratitude ought to prompt him to
make you one," said his wife.

Mr. Tolmau went home and wrote a will. He left
all his property, with the exception of a few legacies

MR. TOLMAN. 137

to the richest and most powerful charitable organiza
tion in the country.

44 People will think I'm crazy," said he to himself;
tk and if I should die while I am carrying out my plan,
I'll leave the task of defending my sanity to people
who are able to make a good fight for me." And be
fore he went to bed he had his will signed and witnessed.

The next day he packed a trunk and left for the neigh
boring city. His apartments were to be kept ill readi
ness for his return at any time. If you had seen him
walking over to the railroad depot, you would have
taken him for a man of forty-five.

When he arrived at his destination, Mr. Tolman es
tablished himself temporarily at a hotel, and spent the
next three or four days in walking about the city look
ing for what he wanted. What he wanted was rather
difficult to define, but the way in which he put the mat
ter to himself was something like this :

44 I'd like to find a snug little place where I can live
and carry on some business which I can attend to my
self, and which will bring me into contact with people
of all sorts — people who will interest me. It moat be
a small business, because I don't want to have to work
very hard, and it must be snog and comfortable, be
cause I want to enjoy it. I would like a shop of some
sort, because that brings a man face to face with his
fellow-creatures."

The city in which be was walking about was one of
the best places in the country in which to find the place
of business he desired. It was full of independent
little shops. But Mr. Tolman could not readily find

138 MR. TOLMAJf.

one which resembled his ideal. A small dry-goods es
tablishment seemed to presuppose a female proprietor.
A grocery store would give him many interesting cus
tomers ; but he did not know much about groceries,
and the business did not appear to him to possess any
aesthetic features. He was much pleased by a small
shop belonging to a taxidermist. It was exceedingly
cosey, and the business was probably not so great as to
overwork any one. He might send the birds and beasts
which were brought to be stuffed to some practical
operator, and have him put them in proper condition
for the customers. He might — But no ; it would be
very unsatisfactory to engage in a business of which he
knew absolutely nothing. A taxidermist ought not to
blush with ignorance when asked some simple question
about a little dead bird or a defunct fish. And so he
tore himself from the window of this fascinating place,
where, he fancied, had his education been differently
managed, be could in time have shown the world the
spectacle of a cheerful and uublighted Mr. Venus.

The shop which at last appeared to suit him best
was one which he had passed and looked at several
times before it struck him favorably. It was in a small
brick house in a side street, but not far from one of the
main business avenues of the city. The shop seemed
devoted to articles of stationery and small notions of
various kinds not easy to be classified. He had stopped
to look at three penknives fastened to a card, which
was propped up in the little show-window, supported
on one side by a chess-board with " History of Asia " in
gilt letters on the back, and on the other by a acnuii

MR. TOLMAN. 189

violin labelled " 1 dollar ; " and as he gazed past these
articles into the interior of the shop, which was now
lighted up, it gradually dawnH upon him that it was
something like his ideal of an attractive and interest
ing business place. At any rate he would go in and
look at it. He did not care for a violin, even at the low
price marked on the one in the window, but a new
pocket-knife might be useful; so he walked in and
asked to look at pocket-knives.

The shop was in charge of a very pleasant old lady
of about sixty, who sat sewing behind the little count
er. While she went to the window, and very care
fully reached over the articles displayed therein to get
the card of penknives, Mr. Tolman looked about him.
The shop was quite small, but there seemed to be a
good deal in it. There were shelves behird the count
er, and there were shelves on the opposite wall, and
they all seemed well filled with something or other.
In the corner near the old lady's chair was a little coal
stove with a bright fire in it, and at the back of the
shop, at the top of two steps, was a glass door partly
open, through which he saw a small room, with a red
carpet on the floor, and a little table apparently set
for a meal.

Mr. Tolman looked at the knives when the old lady
showed them to him, and after a good deal of consid
eration he selected one which he thought would be a
good knife to give to a boy. Then he looked over some
things in the way of paper-cutters, whist-markers, and
such small matters, which were in a glass CMC on the
counter; and while De looked at them he talked to
the old lady.

140 MR. TOLMAN.

She was a friendly, sociable body, and very glad to
have any one to talk to, and so it was not at all dif
ficult for Mr. Tolman, by some general remarks, to
draw from her a great many points about herself and
her shop. She was a widow, with a son who, from
her remarks, must have been forty years old. He was
connected with a mercantile establishment, and they
had lived here for a long time. While her son was a
salesman, and came home every evening, this was very
pleasant ; but after he became a commercial traveller,
and was away from the city for months at a time, she
did not like it at all. It was very lonely for her.

Mr. Tolman' s heart rose within him, but he did not
interrupt her.

44 If I could do it," said she, " I would give up this
place, and go and live with my sister in the country.
It would be better for both of us, and Henry could
come there just as well as here when he gets back from
his trips."

" Why don't you sell out ? " asked Mr. Tolman, a
little fearfully, for he began to think that all this was
too easy sailing to be entirely safe.

"That would not be easy," said she, with a smile.
" It might be a long time before we could find any one
who would want to take the place. We have a fair
trade in the store, but it isn't what it used to be when
times were better; and the library is falling off too.
Most of the books are getting pretty old, and it don't
pay to spend much money for new ones now."

44 The library ! " said Mr. Tolman. '4 Have you a
library?"

MR. TOLMAN. 141

" Oh, yes," replied the old lady. " I've had a circu
lating library here for nearly fifteen years. There it is
on those two upper shelves behind you."

Mr. Tolnian turned, and beheld two long rows of
books, in brown paper covers, with a short step-ladder
standing near the door of the inner room, by which
these shelves might be reached. This pleased him
greatly. He had had no idea that there was a library
here.

44 1 declare ! " said he. 4t It must be very pleasant
to manage a circulating library — a small one like this,
I mean. I shouldn't mind going into a business of the
kind myself."

The old lady looked up, surprised. Did he wish to
go into business ? She had not supposed that, just
from looking at him.

Mr. Tolnian explained his views to her. He did not
tell what he had been doing in the way of business, or
what Mr. Canterfield was doing for him now. He
merely stated his present wishes, and acknowledged to
her that it was the attractiveness of her establishment
that had led him to come in.

44 Then you do not want the penknife ?" she said,
quickly.

44 Oh, yes, I do," said he ; 44 and I really believe, if
we can come to terms, that I would like the two other
knives, together with the rest of your stock in trade."

The old lady laughed a little nervously. She hoped
very much indeed that they could come to terms. She
brought a chair from the back room, and Mr. Tolman
sat down with her by the stove to talk it over. Few

142 MR. TOLMAN.

customers came in to interrupt them, and they talked
the matter over very thoroughly. They both came to
the conclusion that there would be no difficulty about
terms, nor about Mr. Tolman's ability to carry on the
business after a very little instruction from the present
proprietress. When Mr. Tolman left, it was with the
understanding that he was to call again in a couple of
days, when the son Henry would be at home, and mat
ters could be definitely arranged.

When the three met, the bargain was soon struck.
As each party was so desirous of making it, few diffi
culties were interposed. The old lady, indeed, was in
favor of some delay in the transfer of the establish
ment, as she would like to clean and dust every shelf
and corner and every article in the place ; but Mr. Tol
man was in a hurry to take possession ; and as the son
Henry would have to start off on another trip in a
short time, he wanted to see his mother moved and set
tled before he left. There was not much to move but
trunks and bandboxes, and some antiquated pieces of
furniture of special value to the old lady, for Mr. Tol
man insisted on buying every thing in the house, just
as it stood. The whole thing did not cost him, he said
to himself, as much as some of his acquaintances
would pay for a horse. The methodical son Henry
took an account of stock, and Mr. Tolman took sev
eral lessons from the old lady, in which she explained
to him how to find out the selling prices of the various
articles from the marks on the little tags attached to
them ; and she particularly instructed him in the man
agement of the circulating library. She informed him

MR. TOLMAN. 143

ef the character of the books, and, as far as possible,
of the character of the regular patrons. She told him
whom he might trust to take out a book without pay
ing for the one brought in, if they didn't happen to
have the change with them, and she indicated with little
crosses opposite their names those persons who should
be required to pay cash down for what they had had,
before receiving further benefits.

It was astonishing to see what interest Mr. Tolman
took in all this. He was really anxious to meet some
of the people about whom the old lady discoursed. He
tried, too, to remember a few of the many things she
told him of her methods of buying and selling, and the
general management of her shop ; and he probably did
not forget more than three-fourths of what she told
him.

Finally, every thing was settled to the satisfaction of
tie two male parties to the bargain — although the old
lady thought of a hundred things she would yet like to
do — and one fine frosty afternoon a car-load of furni
ture and baggage left the door, the old lady and her
son took leave of the old place, and Mr. Tolman was
left sitting behind the little counter, the sole manager
and proprietor of a circulating library and a stationery
and notion shop. He laughed when he thought of it,
but he rubbed his hands and felt very well satisfied.

44 There is nothing really crazy about it," he said to
himself. "If there is a thing that I think I would
like, and I can afford to have it, and there's no harm
in it, why not have it ? "

There was nobody there to say any thing against

144 MR. TOLMAN.

this ; BO Mr. Tolman rubbed his hands again before
the fire, and rose to walk up and down his shop, and
wonder who would be his first customer.

In the course of twenty minutes a little boy opened
the door and came in. Mr. Tolman hastened behind
the counter to receive his commands. The little boy
wanted two sheets of note-paper and an envelope.

44 Any particular kind? " asked Mr. Tolman.

The boy didn't know of any particular variety being
desired. He thought the same kind she always got
would do ; and he looked very hard at Mr. Tolman,
evidently wondering at the change in the shop-keeper,
but asking no questions.

41 You are a regular customer, I suppose," said Mr.
Tolman, opening several boxes of paper which he had
taken down from the shelves. " I have just begun
business here, and don't know what kind of paper you
have been in the habit of buying. But I suppose this
will do; " and he took out a couple of sheets of the
best, with an envelope to match. These he carefully
tied up in a piece of thin brown paper, and gave to the
boy, who handed him three cents. Mr. Tolman took
them, smiled, and then having made a rapid calcula
tion, he called to the boy, who was just opening the
door, and gave him back one cent.

44 You have paid me too much," he said.

The boy took the cent, looked at Mr. Tolman, and
then got out of the store as quickly as he could.

"Such profits as that are enormous," said Mr. Tol
man ; 44 but I suppose the small sales balance them.'1
This Mr. Tolinau subsequently found to be the case.

MR. TOLMAN. 145

One or two other customers came in in the course of
the afternoon, and about dark the people who took out
books b«gan to arrive. These kept Mr. Tolman very
busy. He not only had to do a good deal of entering
and cancelling, but he had to answer a great many
questions about the change in proprietorship, and the
probability of his getting in some new books, with
suggestions as to the quantity and character of these,
mingled with a few dissatisfied remarks in regard to
the volumes already on hand.

Every one seemed sorry that the old lady had gone
away ; but Mr. Tolman was so pleasant and anxious to
please, and took such an interest in their selection of
books, that only one of the subscribers appeared to
take the change very much to heart. This was a
young man who was forty-three cents in arrears. He
was a long time selecting a book, and when at last he
brought it to Mr. Tolman to be entered, he told him
in a low voice that he hoped there would be no objec
tion to letting his account run on for a little while
longer. On the first of the month he would settle it,
and then he hoped to be able to pay cash whenever he
brought in a book.

Mr. Tolman looked for his name on the old lady's
list, and finding no cross against it, told him that it
was all right, and that the first of the month would do
very well. The young man went away perfectly sat
isfied with the new librarian. Thus did Mr. Tolman
begin to build up his popularity. As the evening grew
on he found himself becoming very hungry ; but he did
not like to shut up the shop, for every now and theu

146 MB. TOLMAN.

some one dropped in, sometimes to ask what time it
was, and sometimes to make a little purchase, while
there were still some library patrons coming in at
intervals.

However, taking courage during a short rest from
customers, he put up the shutters, locked the door,
and hurried off to a hotel, where he partook of a meal
such as few keepers of little shops ever think of in
dulging in.

The next morning Mr. Tolman got his own break
fast. This was delightful. He had seen how cosily
the old lady had spread her table in the little back
room, where there was a stove suitable for any cook
ing he might wish to indulge in, and he longed for
such a cosey meal. There were plenty of stock pro
visions in the house, which he had purchased with the
rest of the goods ; and he went out and bought him
self a fresh loaf of bread. Then he broiled a piece of
ham, made some good strong tea, boiled some eggs,
and had a breakfast on the little round table, which,
though plain enough, he enjoyed more than any break
fast at his club which he could remember. He had
opened the shop, and sat facing the glass door, hop
ing, almost, that there would be some interruption to
his meal. It would seem so much more proper in that
sort of business if he had to get up and go attend to
a customer.

Before evening of that day Mr. Tolman became con
vinced that he would soon be obliged to employ a boy
or some one to attend to the establishment during his
absence. After breakfast, a woman recommended by

MR. TOLMAN. 147

the old lady came to make his bed and clean up gener
ally, but when she had gone he was left alone with his
shop. He determined not to allow this responsibility
to injure his health, and so at one o'clock boldly locked
the shop door and went out to his lunch. He hoped
that no one would call during his absence, but when
he returned he found a little girl with a pitcher stand
ing at the door. She came to borrow half a pint of
milk.

44 Milk!" exclaimed Mr. Tolman, in surprise.
44 Why, my child, I have no milk. I don't even use
it in my tea."

The little girl looked very much disappointed. 44Is
Mrs. Walker gone away for good?" said she.

4'Yes," replied Mr. Tolman. 44 But I would be
just as willing to lend you the milk as she would be, if
I had any. Is there any place near here where you
can buy milk? "

44 Oh, yes," said the girl ; 4t you can get it round in
the market-house."

44 How much would half a pint cost? " he asked.

44 Three cents," replied the girl.

44 Well, then," said Mr. Tolman, 44here are three
cente. You can go and buy the milk for me, and then
you can borrow it. Will that suit? "

The girl thought it would suit very well, and away
she went.

Even this little incident pleased Mr. Tolman. It
was BO very novel. When he came back from hi*
dinner in the evening, he found two circulating library
subscribers stamping their feet oil the door-step, and

148 MR. TOLMAN.

he afterward heard that several others had called aiti
gone away. It would certainly injure the library if Ue
suspended business at meal-times. He could easily
have his choice of a hundred boys if he chose to adver
tise for one, but he shrank from having a youngster in
the place. It would interfere greatly with his cosiness
and his experiences. He might possibly find a boy
who went to school, and who would be willing to come
at noon and in the evening if he were paid enough.
But it would have to be a very steady and responsible
boy. He would think it over before taking any steps.

He thought it over for a day or two, but he did not
spend his whole time in doing so. When he had no
customers, he sauntered about in the little parlor over
the shop, with its odd old furniture, its quaint prints
on the walls, and its absurd ornaments on the mantel
piece. The other little rooms seemed almost as funny
to him, and he was sorry when the bell on the shop
door called him down from their contemplation. It
was pleasant to him to think that he owned all these
odd things. The ownership of the varied goods in the
shop also gave him an agreeable feeling, which none
of bis other possessions had ever afforded him. It
was all so odd and novel.

He liked much to look over the books in the library.
Many of them were old novels, the names of which
were familiar enough to him, but which he had never
read. He determined to read some of them as soon as
he felt fixed and settled.

In looking over the book in which the names and
accounts of the subscribers were entered, he amused

MR. TOLMAN. 149

himself by wondering what sort of persons they were
who had out certain books. Who, for instance, wanted
to read »* The Book of Cats ; " and who could possibly
care for "The Mysteries of Udolpho?" But the
unknown person in regard to whom Mr. Tolman felt
the greatest curiosity was the subscriber who now had
in his possession a volume entitled " Dorms lock's
Logarithms of the Diapason."

4i How on earth," exclaimed Mr. Tolman, u did
such a book get into this library ; and where on earth
did the person spring from who would want to take it
out? And not only want to take it," he continued,
as he examined the entry regarding the volume, A* but
come and have it renewed one, two, three, four — nine
times ! He has had that book for eighteen weeks ! "

Without exactly making up his mind to do so, Mr.
Tolraan deferred taking steps toward getting an assist
ant until P. Glascow, the person in question, should
make an appearance, and it was nearly time for the
book to be brought in again.

" If I get a boy now," thought Mr. Tolman, " Glas-
cow will be sure to come and bring the book while I
am out."

In almost exactly two weeks from the date of the
last renewal of the book, P. Glascow came in. It
was the middle of the afternoon, and Mr. Tolman was
alone. This investigator of musical philosophy was
a quiet young man of about thirty, wearing a light
brown cloak, and carrying under one arm a large book.

P. Glascow was surprised when he heard of the
change in the proprietorship of the library. Still he

150 MR. TOLMAN.

hoped that there would be no objection to his renewing
the book which he had with him, and which he had
taken out some time ago.

41 Oh, no," said Mr. Tolman, " none in the world.
In fact, I don't suppose there are any other subscribers
who would want it. I have had the curiosity to look
to see if it had ever been taken out before, and I find
it has not."

The young man smiled quietly. " No," said he,
" I suppose not. It is not every one who would care
to study the higher mathematics of music, especially
when treated as Dormstock treats the subject."

"He seems to go into it pretty deeply," remarked
Mr. Tolman, who had taken up the book. "At least
I should think so, judging from all these calculations,
and problems, and squares, and cubes."

" Indeed he does," said Glascow ; " and although
I have had the book some months, and have more
reading time at my disposal than most persons, I have
only reached the fifty-sixth page, and doubt if I shall
not have to review some of that before I can feel that
I thoroughly understand it."

"And there are three hundred and forty pages in
all," said Mr. Tolman, compassionately.

"Yes," replied the other; "but I am quite sure
that the matter will grow easier as I proceed. I have
found that out from what I have already done."

"You say you have a good deal of leisure?" re
marked Mr. Tolman. " Is the musical business dull
at present?"

"Oh, I'm not in the musical business," said Glas-

MR. TOLMAN. 151

cow. "I have a great love for music, and wish to
thoroughly understand it : but my business is quite
different. I am a night druggist, and that is the rea
son I have so much leisure for reading."

44 A night druggist?" repeated Mr. Toiman, inquir
ingly-

44 Yes, sir," said the other. u I am in a large down
town drug-store, which is kept open all night, and I go
on duty after the day-clerks leave."

41 And does that give you more leisure? " asked Mr.
Toiman.

kl It seems to," answered Glascow. lt I sleep until
about noon, and then I have the rest of the day, until
seven o'clock, to myself. I think that people who
work at night can make a more satisfactory use of
their own time than those who work in the daytime.
In the summer I can take a trip on the river, or go
somewhere out of town, every day, if I like."

4k Daylight is more available for many things, that is
true," said Mr. Toiman. 44 But is it not dreadfullv
lonely sitting in a drug-store all night? There can't
be man}* people to come to buy medicine at night. I
thought there was generally a night-bell to drug-stores,
by which a clerk could be awakened if any body
wanted any thing."

11 It's not very lonely in our store at night," said
Glascow. 44 In fact, it's often more lively then than in
the daytime. You Me, we we right down among the
newspaper offices, and there's always eomebody com
ing in for soda-water, or cigars, or something or other.
The store is a bright warm place for the night editors

152 MR. TOLMAN.

and reporters to meet together and talk and drink hot
soda, and there's always a knot of 'em around the
stove about the time the papers begin to go to press.
And they're a lively set, I can tell you, sir. I've
heard some of the best stories I ever heard in my life
told in our place after three o'clock in the morning."

44 A strange life!" said Mr. Tolman. "Do you
know, I never thought that people amused themselves
in that way. And night after night, I suppose."

44 Yes, sir, night after night, Sundays and all."

The night druggist now took up his book.

44 Going home to read? " asked Mr. Tolman.

44 Well, no," said the other; " it's rather cold this
afternoon to read. I think I'll take a brisk walk."

44 Can't you leave your book until you return?"
asked Mr. Tolman ; 44 that is, if you will come back
this way. It's an awkward book to carry about."

44 Thank you, I will," said Glascow. kk I shall come
back this way."

When he had gone, Mr. Tolman took up the book,
and began to look over it more carefully than he had
done before. But his examination did not last long.

44 How anybody of common-sense can take any in
terest in this stuff is beyond my comprehension," said
Mr. Tolman, as he closed the book and put it on a
little shelf behind the counter.

When Glascow came back, Mr. Tolman asked him
to stay and warm himself; and then, after they had
talked for a short time, Mr. Tolraan began to feel hun
gry. He had his winter appetite, and had lunched
early. So said he to the night druggist, who had

MR. TOLMAN. 153

opened his " Donnstock," " How would you like to sit
here and read a while, while I go and get ray dinner?
I will light the gas, and you can be very comfortable
here, if you are not in a hurry."

P. Glascow was in no hurry at all, and was very
glad to have some quiet reading by a warm fire ; and
so Mr. Tolman left him, feeling perfectly confident
that a man who had been allowed by the old lady to
renew a book nine times must be perfectly trustworthy.
When Mr. Tolmau returned, the two had some fur
ther conversation in the corner by the little stove.

" It must be rather annoying," said the night drug
gist, 4* not to be able to go out to your meals without
shutting up your shop. If you like," said he, rather
hesitatingly, " I will stop in about this time in the
afternoon, and stay here while you go to dinner. I'll
be glad to do this until you get an assistant. I can
easily attend to most people who come in, and others
can wait."

Mr. Tolman jumped at this proposition. It was
exactly what he wanted.

So P. Glascow came every afternoon and read
tk Dormstock " while Mr. Tolman went to dinner ; and
before long he came at lunch-time also. It was just
as convenient as not, he said. He had finished his
breakfast, and would like to read awhile. Mr. Tolman
fancied that the night druggist's lodgings were, per
haps, not very well warmed, which idea explained the
desire to walk rather than read on a cold afternoon.
Glascow *8 name was entered on the free list, and he
always took away the " Dormstock " at night, because

154 MR. TOLMAN.

he might have a chance of looking into it at the store,
when custom began to grow slack in the latter part of
the early morning.

One afternoon there c»~ne into the t>uop a young
lady, who brought back two books which she had had
for more than a month. She made no excuses for
keeping the books longer than the prescribed time, but
simply handed them in and paid her fine. Mr. Tol-
man did not like to take this money, for it was the first
of the kind he had received ; but the young lady looked
as if she was well able to afford the luxury of keeping
books over their time, and business was business. So
he gravely gave her her change. Then she said she
would like to take out " Dormstock's Logarithms of
the Diapason."

Mr. Tolman stared at her. She was a bright, hand
some young lady, and looked as if she had very good
sense. He could not understand it. But he told her
the book was out.

"Out!" she said. "Why, it's always out. It
seems strange to me that there should be such a de
mand for that book. I have been trying to get it for
erer so long."

44 It is strange," said Mr. Tolman ; " but it is cer
tainly in demand. Did Mrs. Walker ever make you
any promises about it? "

44 No, "said she; 44 but I thought my turn would
come around some time. And I particularly want the
book just now."

Mr. Tolman felt somewhat troubled. He knew that
the night druggist ought not to monopolize the volume,

MR. TOLMAN. 155

and yet he did not wish to disoblige one who was to
useful to him, and who took such an earnest interest in
the book. And he oould not temporize with the young
'ady, and say that he thought the book would soon be
in. He knew it would not. There were three hun
dred and forty pages of it. So he merely remarked
that he was sorry.

44 So am I," said the young lady, 4' very sorry. It
so happens that just now I have a peculiar opportunity
for studying that book, which may not occur again."

There was something in Mr. Tolman's sympathetic
face which seemed to invite her confidence, and she
continued.

t% I am a teacher," she said, " and ou account of
certain circumstances I have a holiday for a month,
which I intended to give up almost entirely to the
study of music, and I particularly wanted " Dorm-
stock." Do you think there is any chance of its early
return, and will you reserve it for me? "

44 Reserve it ! " said Mr. Tolman. " Most certainly
I will." And then he reflected a second or two. 4i If
you will come here the day after to-morrow, I will be
able to tell you something definite."

She said she would come.

Mr. Tolman was out a long time at lunch-time the
next day. He went to all the leading book-stores to
see if he could buy a copy of Dormstock's great work.
But he was unsuccessful. The booksellers told him
that there was no probability that he could get a copy
in the country, unless, indeed, he found it in the stock
of some second-hand dealer. There waa no demand

156 MR. TOLMAN.

at all for it, and that if he even sent for it to England,
where it was published, it was not likely he could get
it, for it had been long out of print. The next day he
went to several second-hand stores, but no tk Dorm-
stock " could he find.

When he came back he spoke to Glascow on the
subject. He was sorry to do so, but thought that
simple justice compelled him to mention the matter.
The night druggist was thrown into a perturbed state
of mind by the information that some one wanted his
beloved book.

" A woman!" he exclaimed. " Why, she would
not understand two pages out of the whole of it. It is
too bad. I didn't suppose any one would want this
book."

" Do not disturb yourself too much," said Mr. Tol-
man. " I am not sure that you ought to give it up."

" I am very glad to hear you say so," said Glascow.
" I have no doubt it is only a passing fancy with her.
I dare say she would really rather have a good new
novel;" and then, having heard that the lady was
expected that afternoon, he went out to walk, with the
4; Dormstock " under his arm.

When the young lady arrived, an hour or so later,
she was, not at all satisfied to take out a new novel,
and was very sorry indeed not to find the " Logarithms
of the Diapason " waiting for her. Mr. Tolman told
her that he had tried to buy another copy of the work,
and for this she expressed herself gratefully. He also
found himself compelled to say that the book was in
the possession of a gentleman who had had it for some

MR. TOLMAN. 157

time — all the time it had been out, in fact — and had
not yet finished it.

At this the young lady seemed somewhat nettled.

4k Is it not against the rules for any person to keep
one book out so long? " she asked.

44 No," said Mr. Tolman. 44 I have looked into that.
Our rules are very simple, and merely say that a book
may be renewed by the payment of a certain sum."

44 Then I am never to have it? " remarked the young
lady.

"Oh, I wouldn't despair about it," said Mr. Tol
man. 4% He has not had time to reflect upon the mat
ter. He is a reasonable young man, and I believe that
he will l>e willing to give up his study of the book for
a time and let you take it."

44 No," said she, " I don't wish that. If he is
studying, as you say he is, day and night, I do not
wish to interrupt him. I should want the book at
least a month, and that, I suppose, would upset his
course of study entirely. But I do not think any one
should l>cgin in a circulating library to study a book
that will Like him a year to finish ; for, from what you
Bay, it will take this gentleman at least that time to
finish Donnstock's book." And so she went her way.

When P. Glascow heard all this in the evening, he
was very grave. He had evidently l>een reflecting.

44 It is not fair," said he. "I ought not to keep the
book so long. I now give it up for a while. You may
lei her have it when she comes." And he put the
<4 Dormstock " on the counter, and went aud sat down
by the utove.

158 MR. TOLMAN.

Mr. Tolman was grieved. He knew the night drug
gist had done right, but still he was sorry for him.
4 'What will you do?" he asked. 44 Will you stop
your studies ? ' '

4tOh, no," said Glascow, gazing solemnly into the
stove. " I will take up some other books on the dia
pason which I have, and will so keep my ideas fresh
on the subject until this lady is done with the book.
I do not really believe she will study it very long."
And then he added : u If it is all the same to you, I
will come around here and read, as I have been doing,
until you shall get a regular assistant."

Mr. Tolman would be delighted to have him come,
he said. He had entirely given up the idea of getting
an assistant ; but this he did not say.

It was some time before the lady came back, and
Mr. Tolman was afraid she was not coming at all.
But she did come, and asked for Mrs. Burney's "Eve
lina." She smiled when she named the book, and said
that she believed she would have to take a novel after
all, and she had always wanted to read that one.

44 1 wouldn't take a novel if I were you," said Mr.
Tolman ; and he triumphantly took down the 44 Dorm-
stock ' ' and laid it before her.

She was evidently much pleased, but when he told
her of Mr. Glascow's gentlemanly conduct in the mat
ter, ner countenance instantly changed.

44 Not at all/' said she, laying down the book; " J
will not break up his study. I will take the 4 Evelina,'
if you please."

And a* no persuasion from Mr. Tounan. had anjf

MR. TOLMA1T. 169

•ffect upon her, she went away with Mrs, Burney's
novel in her muff.

" Now, then," said Mr. Tolman to Glascow, in the
evening, "you may a* well take the book along with
you. She won't have it."

But Glascow would do nothing of the kind. " No,"
he remarked, a* he sat looking into the stove ; " when
I said I would let her have it, I meant it. She'll take
it when she sees that it continues to remain in the
library."

Glascow was mistaken : she did not take it, having
the idea that he would soon conclude that it woukl be
wiser for him to read it than to let it stand idly on the
shelf.

" It would serve them both right," said Mr. Tolman
to himself, k4 if somebody else would come and take
it." But there was no one else among his subscribers
who would even think of such a thing.

One day, however, the young lady came in and
asked to look at the book. " Don't think that I am
going to take it out," she said, noticing Mr. Tolumn's
look of pleasure as he handed her the volume. " I
only wish to see what he says on a certain subject
which I am studying now ; " and so she sat down by
Hie stove, on the chair which Mr. Tolman placed for
her, and opened tk Dormstock."

She sat earnestly poring over the book for half an
hour or more, and then she looked up and said, '• I
really cannot make out what this part means. Excuse
my troubling you, but I would be very glad if yoq
would explain the latter part of this passage."

160 MR. TOLMAN.

44 Mel" exclaimed Mr. Tolman ; "why, my good
mtularn — miss, I mean — I couldn't explain it to yon
if it were to save my life. But what page is it?" said
he, looking at his watch.

44 Page twenty-four," answered the young lady.

44 Oh, well, then," said he, " if you can wait ten or
fifteen minutes, the gentleman who has had the book
will be here, and I think he can explain any tiling in
the first part of the work."

The young lady seemed to hesitate whether to wait
or not ; but as she had a certain curiosity to see what
sort of a person he was who had been so absorbed in
the book, she concluded to sit a little longer and look
into some other parts of the book.

The night druggist soon came in ; and when Mr.
Tolman introduced him to the lady, he readily agreed
to explain the passage to her if he could. So Mr. Tol
man got him a chair from the inner room, and he also
sat down by the stove.

The explanation was difficult, but it was achieved at
last; and then the young lady broached the subject
of leaving the book unused. This was discussed for
some time, but came to nothing, although Mr. Tolmau
put down his afternoon paper and joined in the argu
ment, urging, among other points, that as the matter
now stood he was deprived by the dead-lock of all
income from the book. But even this strong argu
ment proved of no avail.

44 Then I'll tell you what I wish you would do," said
Mr. Tolman, as the young lady rose to go: "come
here and look at the book whenever you wish to do sc-

MR. TOLMAN. 161

I'd like to make this more of a reading-room anyway.
h would give me more company."

After this the young lady looked into " Dormstock M
when she came in ; and as her holidays had been ex
tended by the continued absence of the family in which
she taught, she had plenty of time for study, and came
quite frequently. She often met with Glascow in the
shop ; and on such occasions they generally consulted
" Dormstock," and sometimes had quite lengthy talks
on musical matters. One afternoon they came in
together, having met on their way to the library, and
entered into a conversation on diapasonic logarithms,
which continued during the lady's stay in the shop.

44 The proper thing," thought Mr. Tolman, " would
be for these two people to get married. Then they
could take the book and study it to their hearts' con
tent. And they would certainly suit each other, for
they are both greatly attached to musical mathematics
and philosophy, and neither of them either plays or
sings, as they have told me. It would be an admirable
match."

Mr. Tolman thought over this matter a good deal,
and at last determined to mention it to Glascow. When
he did so, the young man colored, and expressed the
opinion that it would be of no use to think of such a
thing. But it was evident from his manner and subse
quent discourse that he had thought of it.

Mr. Tolman gradually became quite anxious on the
subject, es|)ecially as the night druggist did not Mem
inclined to take any steps in the matter. The weather
WUB now \fflgfainfalg to bo warmer, and Mr. Tolinan

162

TOLMAN.

reflected that the little house and the little shop wen
probably much more cosey and comfortable in winter
than in summer. There were higher buildings all about
the house, and even now he began to feel that the cir
culation of air would be quite as agreeable as the circu
lation of books. He thought a good deal about his
ftiry rooms in the neighboring city.

4 Mr. Glascow," said he, one afternoon, '• I have
made up my mind to shortly sell out this business."

41 What!" exclaimed the other. "Do you mean
you will give it up and go away — leave the place alto
gether?"

41 Yes," replied Mr. Tolman, " I shall give up the
place entirely, and leave the city/'

The night druggist was shocked. He had spent
many happy hours in that shop, and his hours there
were now becoming pleasanter than ever. If Mr. Tol
man went away, all this must end. Nothing of the
kind could be expected of any new proprietor.

" And considering this," continued Mr. Tolman, "I
think it would be well for you to bring your love mat
ters to a conclusion while I am here to help you."

41 My love matters ! " exclaimed Mr. Glascow, with
a flush.

44 Yea, certainly," said Mr. Tolman. " I have eyes,
and I know all about it. Now let me tell you what I
think. When a thing is to be done, it ought to be done
the first time there is a good chance. That's the way
I do business. Now you might as well come around
here to-morrow afternoon, prepared to propose to Miss
Edwards. She is due to-morrow, for she has been two

MR. TOLMAN. 163

days away. If she don't come, we'll postpone the
matter until the next day. But you should be ready
to-morrow. I don't believe you can see her much when
you don't meet her here ; for that family is expected
back very soon, and from what I infer from her ac
count of her employers, you won't care to visit her at
their house."

The night druggist wanted to think about it.

44 There is nothing to think," said Mr. Tolman.
44 We know all about the lady." (He spoke truly,
for he had informed himself about both parties to the
affair.) "Take my advice, and be here to-morrow
afternoon — and come rather early."

The next morning Mr. Tolman went up to his parlor
on the second floor, and brought down two blue stuffed
chairs, the best he had, and put them in the little room
back of the shop. He also brought down one or two
knicknacks and put them on the mantel-piece, and he
dusted and brightened up the room as well as he could.
He even covered the table with a red cloth from the
parlor.

When the young lady arrived, he invited her to walk
into the back room to look over some new books he
had just got in. If she had known he proposed to
give up the business, she would have thought it rather
strange that he should be buying new books. Hut she
knew nothing of his intentions. When she was seated
at the table whereon the new books were spread, Mr.
Tolman stepped outside of the shop door to watch for
Glascow's approach. He soon appeared.

" Walk right in," said Mr. Tolman. 44 She's in the

164 MR. TOLMAN.

back room looking over books. I'll wait here, and
keep out customers as far as possible. It's pleasant,
and I want a little fresh air. I'll give you twenty
minutes."

Glascow was pale, but he went in without a word ;
and Mr. Tolman, with his hands under his coat-tail,
and his feet rather far apart, established a blockade on
the door-step. He stood there for some time looking
at the people outside, and wondering what the people
inside were doing. The little girl who had borrowed
the milk of him, and who had never returned it, was
about to pass the door ; but seeing him standing there,
she crossed over to the other side of the street. But
he did not notice her. He was wondering if it was
time to go in. A boy came up to the door, and wanted
to know if he kept Easter-eggs. Mr. Tolman was
happy to say he did not. When he had allowed the
night druggist a very liberal twenty minutes, he went
in. As he entered the shop door, giving the bell a
very decided ring aa he did so, P. Glascow came down
the two steps that led from the inner room. His face
showed that it was all right with him.

A few days after this, Mr. Tolman sold out his stock,
good-will, and fixtures, together with the furniture and
lease of the house. And who should he sell out to
but to Mr. Glascow ! This piece of business was one
of the happiest points in the whole affair. There was
no reason why the happy couple should not be married
very soon, and the young lady was charmed to give up
her position as teacher and governess in a family, and
•ome and take charge of that delightful little store and

MR. TOLMAN. 166

that cunning little house, with almost every thing in ft
that they wanted.

One thing in the establishment Mr. Tolman refused
to sell. That was Dormstock's great work. He made
the couple a present of the volume, and between two
of the earlier pages he placed a bank-note, which in
value was very much more than that of the ordinary
wedding-gift.

"And what are you going to do?" they asked of
him, when all these things were settled. And then he
told them how he was going back to his business in
the neighboring city, and he told them what it was,
and how he had come to manage a ciiculating library.
They did not think him crazy. People who studied
the logarithms of the diapason would not be apt to
think a man crazy for such a little thing as that

When Mr. Tolman returned to the establishment of
Pusey & Co., he found every thing going on very satis
factorily.

44 You look ten years younger, sir," said Mr. Can-
terfield. " Yon must have had a very pleasant time.

I did not think there was enough to interest you in

for so long a time."

44 Interest me 1 " exclaimed Mr. Tolman. *4 Why,
objects of interest crowded on me. I never had a
more enjoyable holiday in my life."

When he went home that evening (and he found
himself quite willing to go), he tore up the will he had
made. He now felt that there was no necessity fof
proving his sanity.

ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS.

TpORTY or fifty years ago, when the middle-aged
-L and old people of the present day were children
or young people, the parent occupied a position in the
family so entirely different from that in which we find
him to-day, that the subject of his training was not
perhaps of sufficient importance to receive attention
from those engaged in the promotion of education.
The training of the child by the parent, both as a
necessary element in the formation of its character and
as a preparation for its education in the schools, was
then considered the only branch of family instruction
and discipline to which the thought and the assistance
tf workers in social reform should be given.

But now that there has beeji such a change, espe
cially in the United States, in the constitution of the
family, when the child has taken into its own hands
that authority which was once the prerogative of the
parent, it is time that we should recognize the altered
condition of things, and give to the children of the
present day that assistance and counsel in the govern
ment and judicious training of their parents which
166

ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS. 167

once so freely offered to the latter when their offspring
held a subordinate position in the family and house'
bold.

Since this radical change in the organization of the
family a great responsibility has fallen upon the child ;
it finds iUelf in a position far more difficult than that
previously held by the parent. It has upon its hands
not a young and tender being, with mind unformed
and disposition capable, in ordinary oases, of being
easily moulded and directed, but two persons with mind*
and dispositions matured, and often set and hardened,
whose currents of thought run in such well-worn chan
nels, and whose judgments are so biased and preju
diced in favor of this or that line of conduct, that the
lalx>r and annoyance of their proper training is fre
quently evaded, and the parents are remanded to the
position of providers of necessities, without any effort
on the part of the child to assist them to adapt them
selves to their new condition.

Not only has the child of the present day the obvious
difficulties of its position to contend with, but it has
no traditions to fall back upon for counsel and support.
The condition of family affairs under consideration did
not exist to any considerable extent before the middle
of the present century, and there are no available
rwordi of the government of the parent by the child.
Neither can it look to other parts of the world for
examples of successful filial administration. Nowhere
but in our own country can this state of things be said
to prevail. It is necessary, therefore, that those who
are able to do so should step forward in aid of the

168 ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS.

child as they formerly aided the parent, and see to it,
as far as possible, that the latter receives the training
which will enable him properly to perform the duties
of the novel position which he has been called upon to
fill. It is an injustice to millions of our citizens that
the literature of the country contains nothing on thia
subject.

Whether it be done properly or improperly, the
training of which we speak generally begins about
the fifth or sixth year of parentage, although in cases
where there happens to be but one trainer it often
begins much earlier ; but in these first years of filial
rule the discipline is necessarily irregular and spas
modic, and it is not until the fourteenth or fifteenth
year of his parental life that a man is generally enabled
to understand what is expected of him by his offspring,
and what line of conduct he must pursue in order to
meet their views. It is, therefore, to the young people
who have lived beyond their first decade that the great
work of parent-training really belongs, and it is to
them that we should offer our suggestions and advice.

It should be considered that this revolution in the
government of the family was not one of force. The
father and the mother were not hurled from their posi
tion and authority by the superior power of the child,
but these positions have been willingly abdicated by
the former, and promptly and unhesitatingly accepted
by the latter. To the child then belongs none of the
rights of the conqueror. Its subjects have voluntarily
placed themselves under its rule, and by this act they
hare acquired a right to consideration and kindly syn>

ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS.

pathy which should never be forgotten by their youth
ful preceptors and directors. In his present position
the parent has not only much to learn, but much to
unlearn ; and while the child is endeavoring to indicate
to him the path in which he should walk, it should
remember that the feet of father or mother are often
entirely unaccustomed to the peculiar pedestrian ism
now imposed upon them, and that allowance shouM be
made for the frequent slips, and trips, and even falls,
which ma}' happen to them. There is but little doubt
that severity is too frequently used in the education of
parents. More is expected of them than should be
expected of any class of people whose duties and obli
gations have never been systematically defined and
codified. The parent who may be most anxious to
fulfil the wishes of his offspring, and conduct himself
in such manuer as will meet the entire approval of the
child, must often grope in the dark. It is therefore
not only necessary to the peace and tranquillity of the
family that his duties should be defined as clearly as
possible, but this assistance is due to him as a mark
of that filial affection which should not be permitted
entirely to die out, simply because the parent has vol
untarily assumed a position of inferiority and subjec
tion. It is obvious, then, that it is the duty of the
child to find out what it really wants, and then to make
these wants clear and distinct to the parents. How
many instances there are of fathers and mothers who
spend hours, days, and even longer periods, in endeav
oring to discover what it is that will satisfy the crav
ings of their child, and give them that position in iU)

170 ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS.

esteem which they are so desirous to hold. This is
asking too much of the parent, and there are few whose
mental vigor will long hold out when they are subjected,
not only to the performance of onerous duties, but to
the anxiety and vexation consequent upon the difficult
task of discovering what those duties are.

Among the most forcible reasons why the rule of
the child over the parent should be tempered by kind
consideration, is the high degree of respect and defer
ence now paid to the wants and opinions of children.
In this regard they have absolutely nothing to complain
of. The parent lives for the benefit of the child. In
many cases the prosperity and happiness of the latter
appears to be the sole reason for the existence of the
former. How neoeesary is it, then, that persons occu
pying the position of parents in the prevalent organ
ization of the family should not be left to exhaust
themselves in undirected efforts, but that the develop
ment of their ability and power to properly perform
the duties of the father and mother of the new era
should be made the subject of the earnest thought and
attention of the child.

It is difficult for those whose youth elapsed before
the revolution in the family, and who, therefore, never
enjoyed opportunities of exercising the faculties neces
sary in the government of parents, to give suitable
advice and suggestion to those now engaged in this
great work ; but the following remarks are offered in
the belief that they will receive due consideration from
those to whom they are addressed.

There can be no doubt that it is of prime importance

ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS. 171

in the training of a parent by the child that the matter
should be taken in hand as early as possible. He or
she who begins to feel, in the first years of parental
life, the restrictions of filial control, will be much leas
difficult to manage as time goes on, than one who has
not been made aware, until he has been a parent for
perhaps ten or twelve years, that he is expected to
shape his conduct in accordance with the wishes of his
offspring. In such cases, habits of self -consideration,
and even those of obtrusive self-assertion, are easily
acquired by the parent, and are very difficult to break
up. The child then encounters obstacles and discour
agements which would not have existed had the disci
pline been begun when the mind of a parent was in
a pliant and mouldable condition. Instances have oc
curred, when, on account of the intractable nature of
father or mother, the education intended by the child
has been entirely abandoned, and the parents allowed
to take matters into their own hands, and govern tha
family as it used to be done before the new system
came Jnto vogue. But it will nearly always be found
to be the oase, in such instances, that the ideas of the
parent concerning his rights and prerogatives in the
family have been allowed to grow and take root to an
extent entirely incompatible with easy removal.

The neglect of early opportunities of assuming con-
fcrol by U»e child who first enables a married couple to
call themselves parents, is not only often detrimental
to its own chances of holding the domestic reins, but
it also trammels, to a great extent, the action of suc
ceeding children. But no youngster, no matter how

172 ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS.

many brothers and sisters may have preceded it, 01
to what extent these may have allowed the parents to
have their own way, need ever despair of assuming
the control which the others have allowed to elude their
grasp. It is not at all uncommon for the youngest
child of a large family to be able to step to the front,
and show to the others how a parent may be guided
and regulated by the exercise of firm will and deter
mined action.

If, as has been asserted, parental training is begun
early enough, the child will find its task an easy one,
and little advice will be needed by it, but in the case
of delayed action there is one point which should be
kept in mind, and that is that sudden and violent
measures should, as far as possible, be avoided. In
times gone by it used to be the custom of many parents,
when offended by a child, to administer a box to the
culprit's ear. An unexpected incident of this kind
was apt to cause a sudden and tremendous change in
the mental action of the young person boxed. His
views of life ; his recollections of the past ; his aspira
tions for the future ; his ideas of nature, of art, of the
pursuit of happiness — were all merged and blended
into one overwhelming sensation. For the moment he
knew nothing on earth but the fact that he had been
boxed. From this point the comprehension of his
own status among created things ; his understanding
of surrounding circumstances, and of cosmic entities
in general, had to begin anew. Whether he continued
to be the same boy as before, or diverging one way or
the other, became a better or a worse one, was a resuJ*

ON THE TRAINING OP PARENTS. 173

not to be predetermined by any known process. Now
it is not to be supposed that any ordinary child will
undertake to box the ears of an ordinary parent, for
the result in such a case might interfere with the whole
course of training then in progress, but there is a men
tal IK>X, quite as sudden in its action, and as astound-
ing in its effect upon the boxee, as an actual physical
blow, and it is no uncommon thing for a child to
administer such a form of correction. But the prac
tice is now as dangerous as it used to be, and as un
certain of good result, and it is earnestly urged upon
the youth of the age to abolish it altogether. If a
parent cannot be turned from the error of his ways by
any other means than by a shock of this kind, it would
be better, if the thing be possible, to give him into the
charge of some children other than his own, and let
them see what they can do with him.

We do not propose to liken a human parent to an
animal so unintelligent as a horse ; but there are times
when a child would find it to his advantage, and to that
of his progenitor, to treat the latter in the same man
ner as a sensible and considerate man treats a nervous
hone. An animal of this kind, when he sees by the
roadside an obtrusive object with which he is not ac
quainted, is apt to imagine it a direful and ferocious
creature, such as used to pounce upon hi« prehistoric
ancestors ; and to refuse to approach its dangerous
vicinity. Thereupon the man in charge of the horse,
if he be a person of the character mentioned above,
does not whip or spur the frightened animal until he
rushes madly past the terrifying illusion, but quit'tiug

174 ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS.

him by gentle word and action, leads him up to the ob
ject, and shows him that it is not a savage beast, eager
for horseflesh, but an empty barrel, and that the fierce
eye that he believed to be glaring upon him is nothing
but the handle of a shovel protruding above the top.
Then the horse, if there is any good in him, will be
content to walk by that barrel ; and the next time he
Bees it will be likely to pass it with perhaps but a hasty
glance or two to see that its nature has not changed ;
and, in time, he will learn that barrels, and other tilings
that he may not have noticed before, are not ravenous,
and so become a better, because a wiser, horse. We
know well that there are parents who, plodding along
as quietly as any son or daughter could desire, will sud
denly stop short at the sight of something thoroughly
understood, and not at all disapproved of by his off
spring, but which to him appears as objectionable and
dangerous as the empty barrel to the high-strung horse.
Now let not the youngster apply the mental lash, and
urge that startled and reluctant parent forward. Bet
ter far if it take him figuratively by the bridle, and
make him understand that that which appeared to him
a vision of mental or physical ruin to a young person,
or a frightful obstacle in the way of rational progress,
is nothing but a pleasant form of intellectual recrea
tion, which all persons ought to like ver}r much, or to
which, at least, they should have no objections. How
many such phantasms will arise before a parent, and
bow necessary is it for a child, if it wish to carry on
without disturbance its work of training, to get that
parent into the habit of thinking that these things are
nothing bv*

Oy THE TRAINING OP PABXMTB. 175

When ft become* neccwAry to punish a parent, no
child should forgat the importance of tempering sever
ity with mercy. The methods in use in the by-gone
times when the present condition of things was re
versed, were generally of a physical nature, such as
eastigation, partial starvation, and restrictions in the
pursuit of happiness, bet those now inflicted by the
«tilklren, acting upon the mental nature of the parents,
are so severe and hard to bear that they should be used
but sparingly. Not only is there danger that by undue
severity an immediate progenitor may be permanently
injured, and rendered of little value to himself and
others, but there is sometimes a re-action, violent and
sudden, and a family is forced to gaze upon the fear
ful spectacle of a parent at bay !

The tendency of a great portion of the youth, who
have taken the governing power into their own hands,
is to make but little use of it, and to allow their parents
to go their own way, while they go upon theirs. Such
neglect, however, cannot but be prejudicial to the
permanency and force of the child-power. While the
young person is pursuing a course entirely satisfactory
to himself, doing what he likes, and leaving undone
what he does not like, the unnoticed parent may be
concocting schemes of domestic management entirely
incompatible with the desires and plans of his offspring,
and quietly building up obstacles which will be very
difficult to overthrow when the latter shall have ob
served their existence. Eternal vigilance is not only
the price of liberty, but it is also the price of suprem
acy. To keep one's self above another it i* necessary

176 ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS.

to be careful to keep that other down. The practice
of some fathers and mothers of coming frequently to
the front, when their presence there is least expected
or desired, must have been noticed by many children
who had supposed their parents so thoroughly trained
that they would not think of such a thing as causing
trouble and annoyance to those above them. A parent
is human, and cannot be depended upon to preserve
always the same line of action ; and the children who
are accustomed to see their fathers and mothers per
fectly obedient, docile, and inoffensive, must not ex
pect that satisfactory conduct to continue if they are
allowed to discover that a guiding and controlling hand
is not always upon them. There are parents, of course,
who never desire to rise, even temporarily, from the
inferior positions which, at the earliest possible period,
they have assumed in their families. Such persons are
perfectly safe ; and when a child perceives by careful
observation that a parent belongs to this class, it may,
without fear, relax much of the watchfulness and dis
cipline necessary in most families, and content itself
with merely indicating the path that it is desirable the
elder person should pursue. Such parents are invalu
able boons to an ambitious, energetic, and masterful
child ; and if there were more of them the anxieties,
the perplexities, and the difficulties of the child-power
among us would be greatly ameliorated.

Even when parents may be considered to be con
ducting themselves properly, and to need no increase
of vigilant control, it is often well for the child to
enter into their pursuits ; to see what they are doing,

ON THE TRAINING OF PARENTS. 177

and, if it should seem best, to help them do it. Of
course, the parents are expected to promote and main
tain the material interests of the family ; and as their
.abor, beyond that necessary for present necessities, is
sjenerally undertaken for the future benefit of the child,
it is but fair that the latter should have something to
say about this labor. In the majority of cases, how
ever, the parent may, in this respect, safely be let
alone. The more he gives himself up to the amassing
of a competency, or a fortune, the less will he be likely
to interfere with the purposes and actions of his chil
dren.

One of the most important results in the training
under consideration is its influence upon the trainer.
When a child has reduced its parents to a condition of
docile obedience, and sees them day by day, and year
by year, pursuing a path of cheerful subservience, it
can scarcely fail to appreciate what will be expected
of it when it shall itself have become a parent. Such
observation, if accompanied by accordant reflection,
cannot fail to make easier the rule of the coming
child ; and, in conclusion, we would say to the children
of the present day : Traiu up a parent in the way ho
should eo, and when you are old you will know how tu
go that way yourself.

OUR FIRE-SCREEN.

IT was a fire-screen, — that is, it was a frame for
one, — and it was made of ash. My wife had
worked a very pretty square of silk, with flowers and
other colored objects upon it ; and when it was finished
she thought she would use it for a fire-screen, and
asked me to have a frame made for it. I ordered the
frame of ash, because the cabinet-maker said that that
was the fashionable wood at present ; and when it came
home my wife and I l>oth liked it very much, although
we could not help thinking that it ought to be painted.
It was well made, — you could see the construction
everywhere. One part ran through another part, and
the ends were fastened with pegs. It was modelled, so
the cabinet-maker informed me, in the regular Eastlake
style.

It was a pretty frame, but the wood was of too light
a color. It stared out at us from the midst of the
other furniture. Of course it might be stained, and so
made to harmonize with the rest of our sitting-room;
but what would be the good of having it of ash if it
were painted over? It might as well be of pine.
178

OUR FIRE-SCREEN. 179

However, at joy wife's suggestion, I got a couple of
Eastlake chairs, also ash ; and with these at each side
of the fire-place, the screen looked much better. The
chairs were very well made, and would last a long time,
especially, my wife said, as no one would care to sit
down in them. They were, certainly, rather stiff and
uncomfortable, but that was owing to the Eastlake
pattern ; and as we did not need to use them, this was
of no importance to us. Our boose was furnished very
comfortably. JWe made a point of having easy-chairs
for our visitors as well as ourselves, and in fact, every
thing about our house was easy, warm and bright. We
believed that home should be a place of rest ; and we
bought chairs and sofas and lounges which took you in
their arms like a mother, and made you forget the toils
of the world.

But we really did not enjoy the screen as much as we
expected we should, and as much as we had enjoyed
almost every thing that we had before bought for our
house. Even with the companionship of the chairs, it
did not seem to fit into the room. And every thing else
fitted. I think I may honestly say that we were people
of taste, and that there were few incongruities in our
house-furnishing.

Hut the two chairs and the screen did not look like
any thing else we had. They made our cosey sitting-
room uncomfortable. We bore it as long as we could,
and then we determined to take a bold step. We had
always been consistent and thorough ; we would be SO
now. So we had all Uie furniture of the room removed,
excepting the fire-screen and the two chairs, and re-

180 OUR FIRE-SCREEN.

placed it with articles of the Eastlake style, in ash and
oak. Of course our bright Wilton carpet did not suit
these things, and we took it up, and had the floor
puttied and stained and bought a Turko-Persian carpet
that was only partly large enough for the room. The
walls we re-papered, so as to tone them down to the
general stiffness, and we had the ceiling colored sage-
green, which would be in admirable keeping, the deco
rating man said.

We didn't like this room, but we thought we would
try and learn to like it. The fault was in ourselves
perhaps. High art in furniture was something we
ought to understand and ought to like. We would do
both if we could.

But we soon saw that one reason why we did not like
our sitting-room was the great dissimilarity between it
and the rest of the house. To come from our comfort
able bedroom, or our handsome, bright and softly
furnished parlor, or our cheerful dining-room, into tfiis
severe and middle-aged sitting-room was too great a
rise (or fall) for our perceptions. The strain or the
shock was injurious to us. So we determined to strike
another blow in the cause of consistency. We would
furnish our whole house in the Eastlake style.

Fortunately, my wife's brother had recently married,
and had bought a house about a quarter of a mile from
our place. He had, so far, purchased but little fur
niture, and when we refurnished our sitting-room, he
took the old furniture at a moderate price, for which
I was very glad, for I had no place to put it. I call
It " old " furniture to distinguish it from the new ; but

OUR FIRE-SCREEN. 181

in reality, it had not been used very long, and waa in
admirable condition. After buying these things from
us, Tom — my brother-in-law — seemed to come to a
stop in his house-furnishing. He and his wife lived
in one or two rooms of their house, and appeared to
be in no hurry to get themselves fixed and settled.
Tom often came over and made remarks about our
sitting-room, and the curious appearance it presented
in the midst of a house furnished luxuriously in the
most modern style ; and this helped us to come to the
determination to Eastlake our houee, thoroughly and
completely.

Of course, as most of our new furniture had to be
made to order, we could make our changes but slowly,
and §o refurnished one room at a time. Whenever a
load of new furniture was brought to the house Tom
was on hand to buy the things we had been using. I
must say that he was very honorable about the price,
for he always brought a second -hand- furniture man
from the city, and made him value the things, and he
then paid me according to this valuation. I was fre
quently very much surprised at the low estimates placed
on articles for which I had paid a good deal of money,
but of course I could not expect more than the regular
second-hand-market price. He brought a different
man every time ; and their estimates were all low, in
about the same proportion, so I could not complain.
I do not think he used the men well, however, for 1
found out afterward that they thought that he wanted
to HO 11 the goods to them.

Tom waa a nice fellow, of course, because ho wan

182 OUR FIRE-SCREEN.

my wife's brother, but there were some things about
him I did not like. He annoyed me a good deal by
coming around to our house, after it was newly fur
nished, and making remarks about the tilings.

44 1 can't see the sense," he said, one day, " in imi
tating furniture that was made in the days when people
didn't know how to make furniture."

4k Didn't know how ! " I exclaimed. 'l Why, those
were just the days when they did know how. Look at
that bedstead ! Did you ever see any thing more solid
and stanch and thoroughly honest than that? It will
last for centuries and always be what you see it now,
a strong, good, ash bedstead."

" That's the mischief of it," Tom answered. "It
will always be what it is now. If there was any chance
of its improving I'd like it better. I don't know ex'
actly what you mean by an honest bedstead, but if it's
one that a fellow wouldn't wish to lie in, perhaps you're
right. And what do you want with furniture that will
last for centuries? You won't last for centuries, s<?
what difference can it make to you ? "

" Difference enough," I answered. " I want none
of your flimsy modern furniture. I want well-made
things, in which the construction is first-class and evi
dent. Look at that chair, for instance ; you can see
just how it is put together."

4 'Exactly so," replied Tom, "but what's the good
of having one part of a chair run through another part
and fastened with a peg, so that its construction may
be evident? If those old fellows in the Middle Agea
had known how to put chairs together a* neatly and

OUR FlRE-SChEEN. 183

Strongly as some of our modern furniture, — such as
mine, for instance, which you know well enough is just
as strong as any furniture need be, — don't you sup
pose they would have done it? Of course they would.
The trouble about the construction of a chair like that is
that it makes your own construction too evident. When
I sit in one of them I think I know exactly where my
joints are put together, especially those in my back."

Tom seemed particularly to dislike the tiles that
were set in many articles of my new furniture. He
could not see what was the good of inserting crockery
into bedsteads and writing-desks ; and as to the old
pictures on the tiles, he utterly despised them.

44 If the old buffers who made the originals of those
pictures," he said, "had known that free and enlight
ened citizens of the nineteenth century were going to
copy them they'd have learned to draw."

However, we didn't mind this talk very much, and
we even managed to smile when he made fun and puns
and said :

44 Well, I suppose people in your station arc bound
to do this tiling, as it certainly is stylish." But there
was one thing he said tli.it did trouble us. He came
into the house one morning, and remarked :

44 1 don't want to make you dissatisfied with your
new furniture, but it seems to me — and to other peo
ple, too, for I've heard them talking about it — that
auch furniture never can look as it ought to in such a
bouae. In old times, when the people didn't know
how to make any better furniture than this, they didn't
know how to build decent houses either. They had no

184 OUR FIRE-SCREEN.

plate-glass windows, or high ceilings, or hot and cold
water in every room, or stationary wash-tubs, or any
of that sort of thing. They had small windows with
little panes of glass set in lead, and they had low
rooms with often no ceiling at all, so that you could
see the construction of the floor overhead, and they
had all the old inconveniences that we have cast aside.
If you want your furniture to look like what it makes
believe to be you ought to have it in a regular Middle-
Age house, — Elizabethan or Mary Annean, or what
ever they call that sort of architecture. You could
easily build such a house — something like that incon
venient edifice put up by the English commissioners at
the Centennial Exhibition ; and if you want to sell this
house "

14 Which I don't," I replied quickly. "If I do any
thing, I'll alter this place. I'm not going to build
another. ' '

As 1 said, this speech of Tom's disturbed us ; and
after talking about the matter for some days we deter
mined to be consistent, and we had our house altered
so that Tom declared it was a regu'ar Eastlake house
and no mistake. We had a doleful time while the
alterations were going on ; and when all was dooe and
we had settled down to quiet again, we missed very
many of the comforts and conveniences to which we
had been accustomed. But we were getting used to
missing comfort ; and so we sat and looked out of our
little square window-panes, and tried to think the land-
scape as lovely and the sky as spacious and blue as
when we viewed it through our high aud wide French-
plate windows.

OUR FIRE-SCREEN. 185

But the landscape did not look very well, for it was
not the right kind of a landscape. We altered our
garden and lawn, and made 4k pleached alleys" and
formal garden-rows and other old-time arrangements.

And so, in time, we had an establishment which was
consistent, — it all matched the fire-screen, or rather
the frame for a fire-screen.

It might now be supposed that Tom would let us
rest a while. But he did nothing of the kind.

44 1 tell you what it is," said he. " There's just one
thing more that you need. You ought to wear clothed
to suit the house and furniture. If you'd get an East-
lake coat, with a tile set in the back "

This was too much ; I interrupted him.

That evening I took our fire-screen and I turned it
around. There was a blank expanse on the back of
it, and on this I painted, with a brush and some black
paint, — with which my wife had been painting storks
on some odd-shaped red clay pottery, — the following
lines from Dante's 4t Inferno : "

"Soltaro finicbezza poldu viner

Glabo icce suzza sil
Valuchicho mazza churl
Provenza succi — y gli."

This is intended to mean :

" Why, oh, why have I taken
And thrown away my comfort on earth,
And descended into an old-fashioned hell I"

But as I do not understand Italian it is not likely that
any of the words I wrote are correct ; but it makes DO
difference, as so few persons understand the lauguagt

186 OUR FIRE-SCREEN.

and I can always tell them what I meant the inscription
to mean. The " y " and the " gli " are real Italian
and I will not attempt to translate them — but they
look well and give an air of proper construction to the
whole. I might have written the thing in Old English,
but that is harder for me than Italian. The transla
tion, which is my own, I tried to make, as nearly as
possible, consistent with Dante's poem.

A few days after this I went over to Tom's house.
A brighter, cosier house you never saw. I threw
myself into one of my ex-ann-chairs. I lay back ; I
stretched out my legs under a table, — I could never
stretch out my legs under one of my own tables because
they had heavy Eastlake bars under them, and }'ou had
to sit up and keep your legs at an Eastlake angle. I
drew a long sigh of satisfaction. Around me were all
the pretty, tasteful, unsuitable things that Tom had
bought from us — at eighty-seven per cent off. Our
own old spirit of home comfort soemod to be here. I
sprang from my chair.

" Tom," I cried, "what will you take for this houee,
this furniture — every thing just as it stands?"

Tom named a sum. I closed the bargain.

We live in Tom's house now, and two happier people
tire not easily found. Tom wanted me to sell him my
re-modelled house, but I wouldn't do it. He would
alter things. I rent it to him ; and he has to live there,
for he can get no other house in the neighborhood.
He is not the cheerful fellow he used to be, but his wife
comes over to see us very often.

A PIECE OF RED CALICO

MR. EDITOR: If the following true experience
shall prove of any advantage to any of your
readers, I shall be glad.

I was going into town the other morning, when m^f
wife handed me a little piece of red calico, and asked
me if I would have time, during the day, to buy her
two yards and a half of calico like that. I assured
her that it would be no trouble at all ; and putting
the piece of calico in my pocket, I took the train for the
city.

At lunch-time I stopped in at a large dry-goods
store to attend to my wife's commission. I saw a well-
•In-ssrd iiKin walking th«- tl<">r between tin- counters,
where long lines of girls were waiting on much longer
lines of customers, and asked him where I could see
some red calico.

44 This way, sir," and he led me up the store. J •• Miss
Stone," said he to a young lady, " show this gentle
man some red calico."

44 What shade do you want? " asked Miss Stone.

I showed her the little piece of calico that my wif%

188 A PIECE OF RED CALICO.

had given me. She looked at i ind handed it back to
me. Then she took down a great roll of red calico
and spread it out on the counter.

44 Why, that isn't the shade ! " said I.

44 No, not exactly," said she; u but it is prettier
than your sample."

44 That may be," said I ; " but, you see, 1 want to
match this piece. There is something already made of
this kind of calico, which needs to be made larger, or
mended, or something. I want some calico of the
same shade."

The girl made no answer, but took down another
roll.

44 That's the shade," said she.

44 Yes," I replied, 44 but it's striped.

44 Stripes are more worn than any thing else in cali
coes," said she.

44 Yes ; but this isn't to be worn. It's for furniture,
I think. At an}' rate, I want perfectly plain stuff, to
match something already in use."

44 Well, I don't think you can find it perfectly plain,
unless you get Turkey red."

" What is Turkey red? " I asked.

*' Turkey red is perfectly plain in calicoes," she
answered.

44 Well, let me see some."

44 We haven't any Turkey red calico left," she said,
44 but we have some very nice plain calicoes in other
colors."

44 1 don't want any other color. I want stuff to
match this."

A PIECE OF RED CALICO. 189

" It's hard to match cheap calico like that," she
said, and so I left her.

I next went into a store a few doors farther up
Broadway. When I entered I approached the " floor
walker," and handing him my sample, said:

4* Have you any calico like this? "

44 Yes, sir," said he. 4* Third counter to the right."

I went to the third counter to the right, and showed
my sample to the salesman in attendance there. He
looked at it on both sides. Then he said :

44 We haven't any of this."

44 That gentleman said you had," said I.

kk We had it, but we're out of it now. You'll get
that goods at an upholsterer's."

I went across the street to an upholsterer's.

44 Have you any stuff like this? " I asked.

44 No," said the salesman. 44 We haven't. Is it
for furniture? "

"Yes," I replied.

44 Then Turkey red is what you want? "

44 Is Turkey red just like this? " I asked.

44 No," said he ; 4l but it's much better."

44 That makes no difference to me," I replied. " I
want something just like this."

** But they don't use that for furniture," he said.

4t I should think people could use any thing they
wanted for furniture," I remarked, somewhat sharply.

44 They can, but they don't," he said quite calmly.
44 They don't use red like that. They use Turkey red."

I said no more, but left. The next place I visited
was a very large dry -goods store. Of the first sales*

190 A PIECE OF RED CALICO

p

man I saw I inquired if they kept red calico like my
sample.

44 You'll find that on the second story," said he.

I went up-stairs. There I asked a man :

44 Where will I find red calico? "

44 In the far room to the left. Right over there."
And he pointed to a distant corner.

I walked through the crowds of purchasers and
salespeople, and around the counters and tables filled
with goods, to the far room to the left. When I got
there I asked for red calico.

"The second counter down this side," said the
man."

I went there and produced my sample. " Calicoes
down-stairs," said the man.

44 They told me they were up here," I said.

44 Not these plain goods. You'll find 'em down
stairs at the back of the store, over on that side.

I went down-stairs to the back of the store.

44 Where will I find red calico like this? T Tasked.

44 Next counter but one," said the man addressed,
walking with me in the direction pointed out.

44 Dunn, show red calicoes."

Mr. Dunn took my sample and looked at it.

44 We haven't this shade in that quality of goods,"
he said.

44 Well, have you it in any quality of goods?" I
asked.

44 Yes; we've got it finer." And he took down a
piece of calico, and unrolled a yard or two of it on the
counter.

A PIECE OF RED CALICO. 191

44 That's not this shade," I said.

44 No," said he. "The goods is finer and the col
or's better."

*• I want it to match this," I said.

k* I thought you weren't particular about the match/'
eaiil the salesman. 44 You said you didn't care for the
quality of the goods, and you know you can't match
goods without you take into consideration quality and
color both. If you want that quality of goods in red,
you ought to get Turkey red."

I did not think it necessary to answer this remark,
but said :

44 Then you've got nothing to match this? "

44 No, sir. But j>erhap8 they may have it in the
upholstery department, in the sixth story."

So I got in the elevator and went up to the top of
the house.

"Have you any red stuff like this?" I said to a
young man.

44 Red stuff? Upholstery department, — other end
of this floor."

I went to the other end of the floor.

** I want some red calico," I said to a man.

44 Furniture goods? " be asked.

44 Yes," said I.

44 Fourth counter to the left."

I went to the fourth counter to the left, and showed
my sample to a salesman. He looked at it, and said :

44 You'll get this down on the first floor — calico
department."

I turned on my heel, descended in the elevator, and

192 A PIECE OF RED CALICO.

went out on Broadway. I was thoroughly sick of red
calico. But I determined to make one more trial. My
wife had bought her red calico not long beforehand
there must be some to be had somewhere. I ought to
have asked her where she bought it, but I thought a
simple little thing like that could be bought anywhere.

I went into another large dry-goods store. As I
entered the door a sudden tremor seized me. I could
not bear to take out that piece of red calico. If I had
had any other kind of a rag about me — a pen-wiper
or any thing of the sort — 1 think I would have asked
them if they could match that.

But I stepped up to a young woman and presented
my sample, with the usual question.

" Back room, counter on the left,*' she said.

I went there.

41 Have you any red calico like this?" I asked of the
lady behind the counter.

44 No, sir," she said, " but we have it in Turkey
red."

Turkey red again ! I surrendered.

41 All right," I said, " give me Turkey red."

44 How much, sir? " she asked.

44 1 don't know — say five yards."

The lady looked at me rather strangely, but meas
ured off five yards of Turkey red calico. Then she
rapped on the counter and called out44 cash!" A
little girl, with yellow hair in two long plaits, came
slowly up. The lady wrote the number of yards, the
name of the goods, her own number, the price, the
amount of the bank-note I handed her, and some other

A PIECE OF RBD CALICO. 193

matters, probably the color of my eyes, and the direc
tion and velocity of the wind, on a slip of paper. She
then copied all this in a little book which she kept by
her. Then she handed the slip of paper, the money,
and the Turkey red to the yellow-haired girl. This
young girl copied the slip in a little book she carried,
and then she went away with the calico, the paper slip,
and the money.

After a very long time, — during which the little
girl probably took the goods, the money, and the slip
to some central desk, where the note was received, its
amount and number entered in a l>ook, change given
to the girl, a copy of the slip made and entered, girl's
entry examined and approved, goods wrapped up, girl
registered, plaits counted and entered on a slip of
paper and copied by the girl in her book, girl taken to
a hydrant and washed, number of towel entered on a
paper slip and copied by the girl in her book, value of
my note and amount of change branded somewhere on
the child, and said process noted on a slip of paper and
copied in her book, — the girl came to me, bringing
my change and the package of Turkey red calico.

I had time for but very little work at the office that
afternoon, and when I reached home, I handed the
package of calico to my wife. She unrolled it and
exclaimed :

44 Why, this don't match the piece I gave you ! "

44 Match it ! " I cried. " Oh, no ! it don't match it.
You didn't want that matched. You were mistaken.
What you wanted was Turkey red — third counter to
the left. I mean, Turkey red in what they use."

194 A PIECE OF RED CALICO.

My wife looked at me in amazement, and then 1
detailed to her my troubles.

44 Well," said she, " this Turkey red is a great deal
prettier than what I had, and you've got so much of
it that I needn't use the other at all. I wish I had
thought of Turkey red before."

44 1 wish from my heart you had," said I.

ANDREW SCOGGIN

EVERY MAN HIS OWN LETTER-WRITER,

[MB, EDITOR: I find, In looking over the various " Complete
Letter-writers," where so many persons of limited opportu
nities find models for their epistolary correspondence, that there
are many contingencies incident to our social and domestic life
which have not been provided for in any of these books. I
therefore send you a few models of letters suitable to various
occasions, which I think may be found useful. I have endeav
ored, as nearly as possible, to preserve the style and diction in
use In the ordinary " Letter-writers."

Yours, etc., F. R. S.]

No. 1.

From a little girl living with an unmarrtod aunt, to her
mother, the widow of a Unitarian clergyman, who is
engaged as matron of an Institution for Deaf Mutes,
in Wyoming Territory.

NEW BRUNSWICK. N J., Aug. 12th, 1877.

RETIRED PARENT : As the morning sun rose, this
day, upon the sixth anniversary, both of my birth and
of my introduction to one who, though separated from
me by vast and apparently limitless expanses of terri
tory, is not only my maternal parent but my most
trustworthy coadjutor in all point* of duty, propriety
and social responsibility, I Uke this opportunity of

It*

196 EVERY MAN HI£ OWN LETTER-WRITER.

assuring you of the tender and sympathetic affection \
feel for you, and of the earnest solicitude with which
I ever regard you. I take pleasure in communicating
the intelligence of my admirable physical condition, and
hoping that you will continue to preserve the highest
degree of health compatible with your age and arduous
duties, I am,

Your affectionate and dutiful daughter,

MARIA STANLEY.

No. 2.

From a young gentleman, who having injured the mus
cles of the back of his neck by striking them whilo
swimming, on a pane of glass, shaken from the win
dow of a fore-and-aft schooner, by a severe collision
with a wagon loaded with stone, which had been upset
in a creek, in reply to a cousin by marriage who in
vites him to invest his savings in a patent machine
for the disintegration of mutton suet.

BBLLBVILLK HOSPITAL, CENTER Co., O.,
Jan. 12, 1877.

MY RESPECTED COUSIN: The incoherency of your
request with my condition [here state tJie condition] is
so forcibly impressed upon my sentient faculties [enu
merate and define the faculties] that I cannot refrain
from endeavoring to avoid any hesitancy in making an
effort to produce the same or a similar impression upon
your perceptive capabilities. With kindest regards for
the several members of your household [indicate tfie
members], I am ever,

Your attached relative,

MAKT1N JORDAN.

EVERT MAN HTS OWN LETTER-WRITER. 197
No. 3.

Prom 'i *>i{" nV» /*</•/,' of an fron-Jbundiry, to
who refuted ki$ hand in her youth, and who has since
married an inspector of customs in one of the south
ern states, requesting her, in case of her fiusband's
decease, to give him permission to address her, with
a view to a matrimonial alliance.

BRIER IRON MILLS, Socaaqua, 111., July 7, '77.

DEAR MADAM : Although I am fully aware of tho
robust condition of your respected husband's health,
and of your tender affection for him and your little
ones, I am impelled by a sense of the propriety of pro
viding in time for the casualties and fortuities of the
future, to ask of you permission, in case of your
(at present unexpected) widowhood, to renew the ad-
dresses which were broken off by your marriage to
your present estimable consort.

An early answer will oblige,

Yours respectfully,

JOHN PICKETT.

No. 4.

From a cook-maid in the family of a dealer in silver-
plated casters, to the principal of a boarding-school,
enclosing the miniature of her suitor.

1317 EAST 17-ru ST., N.Y., July 90, TT.

VENERATED MADAM : The uuintermittent interest you
have perpetually indicated in the direction of my well-
being stimulates me to announce my approaching coo*

198 EVERY MAN IIIS OWN LETTER-WRITER.

jugal association with a gentleman fully ray peer in all
that regards social position or mental aspiration, and,
at the same time, to desire of you, in case of the abrupt
dissolution of the connection between myself and my
present employers, that you will permit me to perform,
for a suitable remuneration, the lavatory processes
necessary for the habiliments of your pupils.
Your respectful well-wisher,

SUSAN MAGUIRE.

No. 5.

From a father to his son at school, in answer to a letter
asking for an increase of pocket-money.

MY DEAR JOSEPH : Your letter asking for an aug
mentation of your pecuniary stipend has been received,
together with a communication from your preceptor,
relative to your demeanor at the seminary. Permit
me to say, that should I ever again peruse an epistle
similar to either of these, you may confidently antici
pate, on your return to my domicile, an excoriation of
the cuticle which will adhere to your memory for a
term of years.

Your affectionate father,

HENRY BATJLEY.

No. 6.

From the author of a treatise on molecular subdivision,
who has been rejected by the daughter of a cascarilla-
bark-refiner, whose uncle has recently been paid sixty-
three dollars for repairing a culvert in Indianapolis,
to the tailor of a converted Jew on the eastern shore

EVERY- MAN HIS OWN LETTER-WRITER. 199

of Maryland, who has requested the loan of a hypo
dermic syringe.

WIST ORANGE, Jan. 2, 1877.

DEAR SIR: Were it not for unexpected obstacles,
which have most unfortuitously arisen, to a connec
tion which I hoped, at an early date, to announce, but
which, now, may be considered, by the most sanguine
observer, as highly improbable, I might have been able
to obtain a pecuniar}- loan from a connection of the
parties with whom I had hoped to be connected, which
would have enabled me to redeem, from the hands of
an hypothecater the instrument you desire, but which
now is as unattainable to you as it is to

Yours most truly,

THOMAS FINLEY.

No. 7.

From an embassador to Tunis, who has become deaf in
his left ear, to the widow of a manufacturer of per
forated under-clothing, whose second son has never
been vaccinated.

TUNIS, AFRICA, Aug. 3, *77.

MOST HONORED MADAM: Permit me, I most ear
nestly implore of you, from the burning sands of this
only too fur distant foreign clime to call to the notice
of your reflective and judicial faculties the fact that
there are actions which may be deferred until too
recent a period.

With the narnort assurance of my most distinguished
regard, I am, most honored and exemplary madam,
your obedient servant to command,

L. GKANV1LLK TlBBii,

200 EVERY MAN HIS OWN LETTER-WRITER.

No. 8.

From a hog-and-cattle reporter on a morning paper^
who has just had his hair cut by a barber whose father
fell off a wire-bridge in the early part of 1867, to a
gardener, who has written to him that a tortoise-shell
cat, belonging to the widow of a stage-manager, has
dug up a bed of calceolarias, the seed of which had
been sent him by the cashier of a monkey-wrench
factory, which had been set on fire by a one-armed
tramp, whose mother had been a sempstress in the
family of a Hicksite Quaker.

NEW YORK, Jan. 2, '77.

DEAR SIR: In an immense metropolis like this,
where scenes of woe and sorrow meet my pitying
eye at every glance, and where the living creatures,
the observation and consideration of which give me
the means of maintenance, are, always, if deemed in a
proper physical condition, destined to an early grave,
I can only afford a few minutes to condole with you
on the loss you so feelingly announce. These minutes
I now have given.

Very truly yours,

HENRY DAWSON.
No. 9.

From the wife of a farmer, who, having sewed rags
enough to make a carpet, is in doubt whether to
sell the rags, and with the money buy a mince-meat
chopper and two cochin-china hens of an old lady,
who, having been afflicted with varicose veiny, has
determined to send her nepheiv, who has been working
for a pump-maker in the neighboring village, but who

EVERY MAN HIS OWN LETTER-WRITER. 201

comes home at night ' ' sleep, to a school kept by a
divinity student whose father has been educated by the
clergyman who had married her father and mother,
and to give up her little farm and go to East Dur
ham, N.Y., to live with a cousin of her mother,
named Amos Murdock, or to have the carpet made
up by a weaver who had bought oats from her hus
band, for a horse which had been lent to him for his
foep — being a little tender in his fore-feet — by a city
doctor, but who would still owe two or three dollars
after the carpet was woven, and keep it until her
daugtUer, who was married to a dealer in second
hand blowing-engines for agitating oil, should come
to make her a visit, and then put it down in her
second-story front chamber, with a small piece of
another rag -carpet, which had been under a bed, and
was not worn at all, in a recess which it would be a
pity to cut a new carpet to fit, to an unmarried sister
who keeps house for an importer of Limoges faience.

OREBKVILLE, July 30, TT.

DKM: MAKIV: Nnw that my wintei Iflbon, M un
avoidably continued through the vernal season until
now, are happily concluded, I cannot determine, by
any mental process with which I am familiar, what
final disposition of the proceeds of my toil would be
most conducive to my general well-being. If, there
fore, you will bend the energies of your intellect upon
the solution of this problem, you will confer a most
highly appreciated favor upon

Your perplexed sister,

AMANDA DANIELS,

RETURN TO the circulation desk of any
University of California Library
or to the

NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY
Bldg. 400, Richmond Field Station
University of California
Richmond, CA 94804-4698

ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS
2-month loans may be renewed by calling

(510) 642-6753
1-year loans may be recharged by bringing books

to NRLF
Renewals and recharges may be made 4 days

prior to due date

DUE AS STAMPED BELOW

OCT 0 6 1903

GENERAL LIBRARY U.C. BERKELEY

M94505

THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY

(T;